Diaries of a Motorcycle Bride

Last year I started writing a short story and midway through it, I started stalling. All throughout the year I sat through the story and only half-heartedly attempted to pick up my pen.

Until I was back in Singapore and was again jolted by the reason why I needed to finish the story. Having met the reason face-to-face, I am now “publishing” this little story of mine sans illustrations.

The Shoemaker

My father is a shoemaker.

I see his hands at work as they pick up odd pieces of leather, deftly stitching them together. Hands always busy, now measuring the length of the leather strips. Stretching them until they become soft as a second skin.

These are hands that tell a story. Hands that have known wisdom. Hands that know what they are doing. For when the leather strips become shoes, the shoes speak for themselves.

Shoes lined with tanned upper leather, so soft you could walk for miles and not feel it. And sturdy enough to have let you come this far. Shoes that keep the rain off and the feet dry.

Yet my father makes such nondescript shoes.

Shoes so commonplace , unspectacular that you pass your eyes over them over to other fancier pairs. They are shoes you wouldn’t recognize until you have slipped your feet into one. For there are few who know the goodness to these shoes, just as there are few who are truly acquainted with the shoemaker.

Shoes in their own right speak of their maker but these shoes are silent to those blissfully unaware of its maker.

My father is a shoemaker. Have you seen the shoes that my father makes?

One day I too shall be a shoemaker, just like my father.

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My brother, he washes feet.

He bathes the feet of all who come to him, whose feet has been shod by my father.

My brother washes feet in any sort of condition. He sees feet that have walked thousands of miles without rest. Feet that stand for hours, feet that have had to brave the scorching sun. Cracked & dusty feet, with peeling skin or torn soles.

And still others misshaped by calluses & bunions, or heavily lined with veins, swollen & purplish. And then there are those with broken toenails blackened by years of abuse and neglect, diseased skin turned scaly and pink.

All of these feet my brother has washed; he has never once turned away a single pair of feet. For in my brother’s eyes, there’s no foot too bruised, too rough or too ugly for him.

In this quiet way, he’s continuing my father’s legacy, continuing his love to those who would own him.

My brother accepts at any one point in time, everyone has squeezed their feet into the wrong shoe sizes or worn shoes that were not made for them. And to those who have come to recognize the condition of their feet and come to him, he is able to help.

For here my brother’s work shows itself beyond his washing of the feet. The mere touch of his hands is able to melt away the aches and pains of a lifetime. Much akin to the same feeling one gets from my father’s shoes.

Have you met my brother? A man so ordinary and unassuming you wouldn’t think twice about him. Or that he’s even my father’s son.

Except that his hands tell the same story as my father’s.

One day I too shall be washing feet, just like my brother.

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Me? I have beautiful feet.

One day I too will take to the hills and carry the good news with me. For this is how I can carry on my father’s legacy.

And the good news I carry is simply that you too can meet the shoemaker and his son.

Have you met my father and my brother? One day I hope that you can meet them.

“How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the gospel of peace, who bring glad tidings of good things!” Romans 10:15