Barefoot

In partial response to the TOMS shoe movement, we were asked to donate our shoes to a local Atlanta charity during 722 (a single adult’s venue at Northpoint Community Church). As a greeter at 722 I knew about the shoe-giving opportunity before the evening started.

I had my mind settled: “I wasn’t giving away my shoes; I hate being barefoot in public places,” I recall nonchalantly telling another greeter.

The night began and I didn’t give much more thought to my shoes…in any capacity. However, as the end of the interview about TOMS rolled around, I knew the call to action was nearing and I became anxious. I sat in my seat with a clear verdict; yet, I was becoming uneasy as my spirit contended to wrap my heart around the idea.

I still wasn’t going to give up my shoes.

The appeal for our shoes concluded and the band began playing our closing songs. I was in the clear. My exit plan was underway. I had the rosiest of ruses. I was greeting that night…I had a job to do. I quickly picked up my offering bucket and headed to man my assigned door.

I stood at the door and watched as hundreds of single adults scurried to the steps of the stage to donate their shoes. I was no longer uneasy…I was completely uncomfortably unsettled.

I began frantically wiping the tears from my cheeks as if to wipe away the struggle at hand. My mind was flooded with declarations, praises, and accusations of my history. And my conviction was loud; yet, the voice of the enemy seemed to scream even louder.

“These are your favorite shoes.”

“Shoes are a luxury many people don’t have and you have plenty of pairs.”

“These shoes are impractical for someone who doesn’t have a pair of shoes.”

“You’re materialistic.”

“You already tithe and have given to numerous charities and people in need.”

“What if someone gets them who really already has a pair of shoes.”

The battle continued and the images started to accompany the debate.

I could even recall the exact experience of buying those shoes. I romanticized about that experience recalling who I was with, searching for the right size, and walking around the store in my new favorite shoes.

I was definitely in a spiritual tug-of-war with the enemy. And then it dawned on me, Satan is only in one place at one time. It was not Satan’s voice in the opposing argument. The sad reality is that the opposing argument was my inherent selfish nature that has already been etched with the enemy’s destructive plan.

And then a vivid image was clearly painted in my mind. It was of my mom giving a little girl, who probably only owned the shirt she was wearing, the shirt she was wearing simply because the little girl expressed an interest in it.

My conviction began drowning out my flesh.

And then this defining declaration spurred my feet into action: “Allison, are you saying that your God is not big enough to give you another pair of fifteen dollar favorite shoes?”

I continued weeping knowing that I had made the right decision.

After the service, I strolled along the steps to see all of the shoes that were surrendered (387 pairs to be exact.). I was right; my shoes were in that ½ % of the shoes that were on the impractical side. But so what! So what if they were more stylish than functional. So what if someone was getting a second pair of shoes. So what if no one even received my shoes!

I wish I could say that I gave my shoes out of compassion. Or that I gave them out of gratitude for God’s generosity in my life. But, I can’t.

The conquest that night was not for my shoes: it was for my obedience.