Our youngest daughter hated shoes, not much different than her mother. Most of the time our girls were growing up we lived in Nashville, Tennessee and even in the winter we went without shoes. But it was when we moved to Florida my daughter took on the “no shoes attitude” with a vengeance. It was only when leaving the house that shoes were in her hand as we were heading out the door.
We were running late as happened so frequently when I ran by her room proclaiming, “We’re getting in the car. You need to get going. We’re gonna be late!” My husband already had the car running, I threw my things in the front passenger seat when I heard her bounding down the stairs jumping into the seat behind me. She was a young teen, still putting on her makeup and jewelry while in transit.
We were heading out to church and upon arrival we emptied the front seats making our way to the door along with other stragglers. I realized half way through the parking lot we were missing a daughter. Turning around I looked back into the car only to observe this child crawling all over the back looking for something.
Telling my husband to go ahead I returned to the car to see what the hold up was. No shoes mom; can’t find my shoes. We scoured every inch of the cars backseat, only to discover there weren’t any. She had failed to grab them when heading out the door.
I’m not a traditional mom but shoes in church seem like something you want to wear. Not a modesty thing, maybe simply hygienic. But that day I was faced with what to do. Get my husband and turn the car back home knowing we couldn’t make it back in time. We had a 35 drive one-way to make it in the first place. Or we could head into the building with a barefoot daughter.
I chose the latter. You see as a mother I had committed to getting my girls places I thought they should be, influenced by the influences I thought important. I had determined that what other people thought wouldn’t guide my conduct. I had also determined I would never be embarrassed by anything my child did. It was probably me with my lack of propriety that embarrassed my daughters.
So march into church we did. Don’t remember much after that, my daughter thought I was a bit crazy. But she did realize that what I thought was important I would stand by no matter how it looked when we did. Upon arrival in the building, seated beside my husband he looked over, then looked down and merely shook his head. Bare feet on his daughter was just part of being the only male in a three female Brock family and long before this day he had gotten used to us.