All during our school years, my mother worked in the rectory. She would bring home stories of the priests' larder filled with steaks and chops and roasts. Their vacations were to exotic, faraway places, and they had a weekly poker game where the kitty was sometimes higher than the little salary they paid Mom, a widow with two small children.
The message put forth from the pulpit, however, was clear: "No one should have an abundance when there are those in need." They called it justice and said giving from your abundance, even to the point of creating your own need, was a work of mercy. This was not an easy way to live, so the lessons had to start early by having kids give up their candy money to help the poor. The mission can would be passed up and down the aisle each Friday for us to contribute what we had saved by doing "without" during the week. I participated in this practice. My mother, however, lived the message.
Brandt's Shoe Store — what a wonderful place. The experience of getting new shoes was better than Christmas. The almost-best part was outside, where Mom and I would stand and window-shop. At this point, everything was a possibility. I looked at the very high heels but knew it would be years before they could ever be mine. For now, I would have to be content with "flats." That was just fine with me because there were some that made me drool: patent leather ones with bows covering almost the entire front, semi-grown up ones that actually had a sling strap in the back, suede ones that changed color if you brushed them, and regular leather shoes in an assortment of splendid colors.
After peering through the window (faces pressed against the glass to see past our reflection), pointing and talking about this one or maybe that one, we were ready to go inside. A tinkling little bell announced our visit. Come, come, Mr. Brandt, we have arrived and wish to purchase one of your finest pairs of shoes. Hurry, please hurry.
Once through the preliminary ritual of taking off my right shoe and having me stand on the metal ruler with the stationary heel and sliding toe, Mr. Brandt would announce my size then ask what he could show me today. Sometimes there was disappointment when I learned that the shoe I had my heart set on did not come in my size, but then Mr. Brandt would suggest others he "just got in" that might be exactly what I was looking for.
He would disappear through the curtains into the back room and return carrying a stack of boxes. I felt like running to him and tearing those boxes out of his hands, but I forced myself to sit — even if only on the edge of my seat — and let him come to me. The next procedures were always the same: the shoe horn easing the shoe onto the right foot, the prominade in front of the mirror, the sitting down and deciding whether I liked it well enough to try on the other shoe and give it the full walk around the store. I could never say "yes" right away because then the experience would be over. So I would ask to see maybe just one more pair.
It was always difficult to decide, but usually there was one pair that made me feel special. Usually. But one time there were two pairs I could not live without. I wanted them both. Had to have them both! I begged and pleaded until my mother finally gave in. What a magnificent moment that was, walking out of Brandt's with two pairs of shoes.
Suddenly I felt an ache in my heart. On the walk over, Mom said this time we were both getting new shoes. Now I owned two pairs, and my mother, none. The boxes turned to lead in my hands. I said nothing for I was too horrified to speak. There was nothing that words could fix. She would have denied her need and said she would come back later, when there was more "time." I recalled the sound of my voice begging and pleading to "please, oh, please, please, please let me have both pairs." I wondered what had become of my awareness, just minutes earlier, of her need.
At birth we are totally dependent, knowing only our own needs. Survival requires we cry from those needs to get them satisfied. When survival is not the issue, we no longer need to cry; we can just ask — or whine and plead and beg: "Please Mom, please, please, please. I promise I won't ask for another thing ever if you'll just let me, give me, take me, buy me." Me, me, me.
Nothing was said about the shoes. My sadness was deep, the lesson permanent. I saw what happens when you forget about other people — kind other people, poor other people, generous other people, and any kind of other people. Sometimes you accidentally get what was meant for them...and sometimes it happens on purpose. In either case, you stand apart from the well-being of all and make your life the most important.
I hated myself and those shoes, but I never said anything. I wore them as if they were jeweled slippers, for I did not want to spoil the joy of her sacrifice.
Something happened to me as I walked out of Mr. Brandt's store. In that instant I realized: Life must be kept simple so it can be shared. One pair of shoes for everyone.