Feet

One of the more interesting conversations these past couple months happened under a metal roof in Yirol, South Sudan with a young Muslim guy named Mohammed. He had recently been displaced from his home in Darfur and had made his way south to start again.

We found ourselves next to each other while seeking shelter during a rare rainstorm.

As we sat there eyeing each other, he gathered up the courage to ask me if where I lived, the United States, was different from his country here in Sudan.

I mean, where do you even start on a question like that?

In South Sudan, most people make $100/year, have never seen television, live in a mud hut, and usually (hopefully) have enough food, water and clothing for the day.

I come from the land of asphalt highways, grocery stores, and closets full of clothes.

In my shame, I looked down. I saw my feet. I saw his feet. I told him that where I come most everyone has shoes and socks and their feet and toes are protected. Most of my friends have many pairs of shoes to match the events and outfits of each day.

Most of the trip I asked my friend Dave to photograph the feet of those we visited. One picture he took I framed and hung it on the wall in my office this past week. It is a close up of an elderly lady whose black feet have never been covered by a shoe. Never. Her feet are worn and calloused and mangled.

As I write this thought, I look down again and see that my feet are smooth and soft and manicured. For me, it is sort of embarrassing to admit I wore comfortable sandals today and some nice Asics running shoes when I went to the gym.

What I have seen I want to remember. Every day it seems easier to forget.

Tomorrow I will see the picture in my office and know how fortunate I am to have the shoes I wear. I will wonder where her feet have taken her these past hours and days and I will ask God to be with my friends until we see each other again.