A couple of years ago I bought some dark blue slippers to put on in chapel (a fair amount of rich soil, to say nothing of a variety of natural fertilizers, follows us everywhere we go). Lined in fleece, easy to slip on, soles able to withstand being worn outdoors for the days I forgot I had them on when I returned to work—when I finally had them “broken in” I grew to love them.
Needless to say it wasn’t long before they had molded so comfortably to my feet I began to wear them everywhere on purpose, especially in winter.
Now they are faded and falling seriously to ruin. But they have become my friends and the quintessential example of “comfortable as an old pair of slippers”. I plan to wear them till they fall off my feet. Literally. And that day will definitely been sooner rather than later.
I dread the idea of slipper-shopping, and the inevitable sticker-shock that accompanies the task. New slippers will look ever so much better, but that will just be the outside. No, I’m not looking forward to the day these old friends can’t make it one more step.
Holy One, let me be like these dear slippers: let me not fret over my outer cracks and wrinkles and fading skin, and may I become immensely soft, well-molded, supportive and forgiving where it counts.