Worn Soles. Full Life.

I grabbed my pair of five‑year‑old low‑top Converse when I headed out to train this past weekend. I brought them into the bathroom and set them beside the clothes I had chosen to wear.

I sat there and stared at them for a minute.

They have holes in the bottom, I thought to myself.

I grabbed my weather app.
Phew… no rain was forecast. I do not like wet feet!

Ah, the holes in the bottom.

They’re so dirty that no amount of scrubbing will ever make them clean again—and somehow, I love them more because of that. Those marks aren’t dirt; they’re proof of miles walked and life lived.

I wear them often when I train my dogs. They’re black and white, reliable, and go with most of my clothes. They aren’t nearly as comfortable as they once were, but I can still last all day in them.

They show up.
So do I.

When I think about the last five years of my life, there has been… well, a lot.

Some good.
Some bad.
And some smack dab in the middle.

These shoes have walked hard, lonely roads with me—roads I never expected to travel. Roads where the silence felt heavy and grief pressed in. And yet, even on those roads, I wasn’t walking alone. God was holding my hand every step of the way—steady, faithful, unseen but unmistakably present.

In these shoes, I had the distinct privilege of spending precious time with my grandson. Moments I didn’t realize at the time would root themselves so deeply in my heart.

I hugged friends who were going through unimaginable seasons—cancer, lost loves, wayward children, aging parents, addiction.

I fought with my husband in these shoes.
I walked through addiction with him.
I watched him struggle to stay the course.
I watched him learn to walk with the Lord.
I prayed from afar.
And I watched.

I attended countless therapy dog visits in these shoes—many with Mabel, and later with Bruce. They have stood on university floors, elementary school floors, hospital floors, library carpets, and quiet hallways filled with both sorrow and hope. These shoes were present as comfort crossed species lines and love was offered without words.

Brucie and I have trained everywhere in these shoes. We’ve walked stores, parks, and parking lots. We’ve stood in the obedience ring together, focus sharp, trusting the work we put in side by side.

I have received horrible news while wearing these shoes. News that dropped me to my knees. I cried in them until I had nothing left to give. Later, I learned how to grow numb in them too—a necessary survival skill when moving forward feels impossible.

I also learned who I am in these shoes.

Steady.
Resilient.
Loving.
Trustworthy.
Loyal.
Disciplined.
Ambitious.

I learned that my value isn’t determined by what others think of me. It only matters what Jesus thinks of me—and what I am doing for Him in this life.

There has been a lot of walking.
A lot of living.

Now there are holes in both shoes, worn all the way through—evidence of miles traveled and a life fully lived, even when it hurt. Even when I wanted to pull the covers over my head at 3 pm in the afternoon.

I’m grateful for every step.
Every adventure.
Every moment.

It may soon be time to retire these shoes.

But I don’t want to stop walking.
I don’t want to stop moving.
And I certainly don’t want to stop living.

Because there is still trust to be earned, hope to be shared, and purpose to be lived. Some of it happens at the ringside. Some of it happens at the bedside. All of it happens with Jesus—and just maybe… a four‑legged friend walking faithfully alongside.

And if these shoes have taught me anything, it’s this:

Even when worn thin, even when broken in places, we are still meant to keep going.

Sandy

“And how can anyone preach unless they are sent? As it is written:
‘How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!’”
— Romans 10:15