Little Brown Boots with Pink Stitching

I hate shopping. And no--that's not too strong a term. Don't get me wrong, I'm abundantly thankful to be able, but the process vexes me.

I hate grocery shopping, car shopping, house hunting, and book browsing. But more than any of these I hate clothes shopping.

Maybe it's because I'm not the svelte size 6/8 that I was when I was 17, and I just can't get past that--even 22 years and 3 children later. Or perhaps the green florescent lights in the dressing rooms add to my disdain. Or maybe it's because for so many seasons, the clothes--for children, juniors, and adults alike--have been so...how to say it gracefully?...ugly. (There. No superfluous adjectives. See me be graceful?)

But it's most likely because I'm suffering a yet-to-be-discovered mental infirmity that manifests in an entree of chronic confusion with a dollop of panic attack. It seems to be brought on by too many choices.

In one word: Walmart.

Or Target. Or Burlington Coat Factory. Or J.C. Penney's. Or Kohl's. Or...

See what I mean?

And all this is even more fun when you take along 3 girls who, inexplicably, do like to shop. A lot. Love it, love it, love it!

I haven't decided whose flesh is thorned in this dilemma, but it hurts me pretty bad. And I avoid the chore like my life depends on it. I've been known to wear my summer skirts and shoes through the winter, shivering in the closet every morning, telling myself all the while that this is San Antonio after all.

"Mittens? Mittens?! We don't need no stinkin' mittens!"

Or socks, as the case may be.

But sometimes a Mama looks in the closet and sees last spring's thrift store goods becoming useless through wear and the hand-me-downs drying up because of babies who just. won't. stop. getting taller than all the benevolent families who had thus blessed us with their tween girls' rejects.

And so yesterday, Fifi and I went shopping. Along with every other person on the planet.

It's all so ridiculous I could laugh until I cackle...but for the tears of despair.

No, really--it wasn't as bad as I was sure it would be. Fifi and I each found some shoes we would need to get us through the winter at a buy one, half off the 2nd sale. We each found a long skirt or two, a couple of sweater sets on clearance, and a coat at a reasonable price for her. Baby blue. Because sometimes you just have to let a 12-year-old pick out a coat that she likes, and let her be saddled with practicality later--when she's the Mom.

As long as we were out, we figured we'd act as personal shoppers (sans the salary) for her sisters: picking out sweaters, choosing shoes to bring home for sizing, and the like. For Cuddlebug, we came across a pair of little brown boots with pink stitching and knew she would swoon.

But just in case, I called her and asked because she has a pretty strong opinion about things when I least expect it. And because I needed her Daddy to tell me the shoe size on her latest pair of shoes--the little black ballet slipper style that we bought a couple of months ago for Sundays. It says 12.

Fifi and I looked and looked and looked once more to find the perfect size 12 1/2 or 13 for little Cuddlebug. But there was none. What there was, was multiple pairs of size 12, which we knew would be too tight right out of the box. So we did what anyone exercising impulse at the expense of discretion would do--we decided to bring them home and take our chances.

It was 8:30--well after dinner and way past their bedtime when we hobbled in with our loot. But, of course, they were awake and waiting for us, chirping like lively little birds at our arrival.

The good news is that the little brown boots with pink stitching fit Cuddlebug just fine--until she put on a pair of socks, that is. I was so proud of her when she cautiously admitted to me that, "...now they are a little tight..." because I remember the feeling of being a child without all the control and holding tight to a good thing for fear of losing it forever if you let it go.

But she did let them go, trusting that Mommy would take them back to the store, and not come back empty-handed.

So, in the cold, misty drizzle that fell at 9 p.m., I headed back to the store. This time, I went to the one nearest my home where I was promptly cautioned that it might be that they don't carry this style--I could go and check.

And they were right the first time. So, I took my little brown boots with pink stitching to the store further from my home, found a parking space and--for the joy that was set before me--set out to endure the dreaded task yet again.

And as I approached the shoe department, it hit me. I remembered.

For reasons I can only attribute to God's providence, I completely forgot how thorough Fifi and I had been in our pursuit of a bigger size, to no avail, only hours before.

What in the world was I doing?

But I did it anyway. Maybe there had been a new shipment in? Maybe a return? Maybe someone put their pair back on the shelf? Surely, this time it would be different and there would be a size 12 1/2 or even a 13.

So I looked and looked and looked again. At every box. And at the tag on every pair inside every box. And at the bottom of every boot with a tag inside every box.

And it was. not. there. Anywhere. And I caught myself praying a little prayer.

Not a prayer of faith that presumes to know God's will in such a matter. Not even a bold prayer unashamed of the nature of the matter.

A little prayer. The quiet prayer of a little girl to her Daddy about a desire of her heart. One after which she simply and contentedly waits for His "yes" or His "no."

And it would seem He said, "No."

So, I moved on.

I really just wanted Cuddlebug to have a pair of brown shoes. Closed-toe and closed-heel without spikes or wedges or other sure E.R. accomplices. And as I moved down the row, amongst the Mary Janes in sizes 3 times too small...

There it was.

A big pink box out of place, and in it--little brown boots with pink stitching.

And when I turned them around to check the size, I heard a chorus of angels sing as my eyes rested upon the magic number: 13!

I mumbled my praise over and over, and just could not believe what I had in my hands.

And then I felt silly. Silly because it was just a pair of boots; an extra set of footwear for a little girl who isn't lacking for provision like some around the world, and surely won't remember the little brown boots with pink stitching when she's grown.

And I continued to speak with my Lord.

"Lord? Why did You do that? Why did You answer my prayer like that? Why do You care about such a silly little thing as my daughter's boots?"

And I unmistakably heard His inaudible voice testify to my spirit, "Why do you?"

And I recognized myself: shopping all day, chasing these little brown boots from one end of my neighborhood to the other in the bitter cold drizzle when I could have been home with my lovelies, set before the fire with wet heads, freshly showered, readying ourselves for worship tomorrow.

And I answered Him simply, "Because I love her. And I want to bless her."

And so does He.

But it isn't the boots that bless in the end. It's the evidence of His love, His care, His kindness--His presence, not His presents, that I will take with me forever from this day.

Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!

Matthew 7:9-11