How Beautiful Are The Feet

(Note: Names and personal details in this essay have been changed.)

How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news — Isaiah 52:7

I am sitting on the cold brick-red tiles of the mudroom floor, putting on Helen’s shoes. I’ve

gotten one of her indoor slippers off — velcro straps unpeeled, foot extracted. I cradle this

foot in its pink woolly sock, ankle twisted at a slight angle, cramped, curled-up toes inside. I

feel the squish of the foam toe-separator that helps prevent blisters. Helen beams at me,

rocking slightly back and forth, glasses slipping down to the end of her nose. Sometimes she

twiddles her fingers against her lips or taps them on her jacket collar, smiling at the swishing

sound they make.

I drag over one winter boot — stout gray leather with cloth laces, an inch-thick sole for

stability. I pull out the shoe tongue, open the mouth as wide as I can, wrestle Helen’s foot

inside, trying to make sure her heel hits the bottom. I pull the laces tight, like a corset,

crisscrossing and hooking them through the metal hooks on each side. Tie a firm knot. Now

the other.

I spend a lot of time putting on shoes, and taking them off. Here in Switzerland, changing

shoes indoors is customary, and not a bad idea. It helps keep floors clean, distinguishing

inside from outside. It saves on time spent mopping or vacuuming, but adds to time spent on shoe-changing.

My job in a residential home for adults with developmental challenges means I spend even

more time putting on shoes than I normally would. It’s a little ritual we do one or two or

several times a day, depending on how often we go in and out. Each person’s shoes are

different, and each person’s abilities are different. Some can put shoes on all alone, without

even a verbal reminder. Some are capable but need cuing or supervision to make sure they

don’t put shoes on the wrong feet, or slippers away on the wrong shelf. Some just need laces

tied, or re-tied when a sloppy knot would otherwise undo itself. And some shoes must be

fetched, put on, and fastened. Then it all has to be done in reverse when we enter another

building, or come home again.

The biblical prophet Isaiah praised the “beautiful feet” of those who bring good news. It’s the message that makes them beautiful, raising up a part of the body we might otherwise overlook, or even disdain. Close to the earth, bearing our weight, silent servants of upright humanity — what messages are these feet bringing to me?

When the shoes are on, it’s time to go for a walk. We straggle outside in a loose group. As

with the shoes, everyone’s walking style is different. One may charge ahead, another lag

behind. One needs to be watched because if he starts to let his feet get ahead of him, it may

presage a seizure. Another has to be kept in view, or else she may stop and stand still in the

middle of the road as everyone else recedes into the distance. Some people bounce up and

down, some rock side to side. Some toes point out, some in. We all have our own way of walking.

The route we walk is always the same, along the quiet back roads that connect outlying farms and houses in our corner of the Swiss Jura mountains. None of the roads we walk on carry high speed traffic, but inevitably some cars will pass us. Then it’s time to call everyone, fast or slow, to wait on the side of the road till danger has passed. And start to walk again.

The route is always the same, but every day’s walk is different. Sometimes sheep cluster in

one meadow, long-fleeced ones with black faces and curly horns. Sometimes cows the color

of café-au-lait stand in another, turning their heads to watch us. In the spring calves run and

jump; even their mothers sometimes join in, trotting heavily for a few paces before settling

down again. A goat escaped from its pen might appear, munching on forbidden vegetation.

Along the roadside, as winter melts into spring, we can see how some things are always

growing and unfolding, while others are dying away. Withered scarlet berries stand next to

the soft buds of pussywillows. Snowdrops pop out beside the gray spikes of last year’s

lavender.

The human-built world, too, goes through gradual changes. One summer we watched a

farmhouse roof being redone, soiled, cracked tiles replaced with clean new salmon-colored

ones. This winter, on the other side of the road, a young couple has been making a tiny house out of an old supermarket trailer. One by one, week by week, new features appear: a

stovepipe, a solar panel, a pirate flag.

Such transformations are slow; what can change more quickly is the weather. In this mountain micro-climate, forecasts are unreliable, and it’s possible to be caught unaware by

storms. One day I was alone with a group, walking our usual route toward a serene blue sky,

while dark clouds piled up behind my back. When I felt the first drops began to fall, I turned

and gasped at the threat I hadn’t thought to look for. We hurried home, chastened by a

soaking. I resolved to be more watchful next time, not so confident that the obvious view was the only thing that mattered.

So long as I maintain a baseline of vigilance, as we walk along our familiar way I can let my

thoughts wander. I think of how it took me a while to slow my steps to such a leisurely pace,

to become comfortable with gradual transformation. I used to be in a hurry, rocketing from

high school to college to graduate school, choosing a profession before I got to know myself, then feeling trapped and lost. Clutching at love to save me, and facing a terrifying void at the threat of abandonment.

That’s how I ended up here, walking slowly along the road. I found better teachers, who are

showing me another way to to live. A humble way, one that keeps me connected to solid

ground by honoring the basic human need for caring bonds with others. It’s when that need is are not honored that we find ourselves frantically racing to fill the void with something else.

“Slow down” is one lesson I am learning daily, from my walk with Helen and the rest. Pause

to look at where you are, to see what your companions need. Check in with yourself,

ruminating over the day. Let boredom be replaced by the beauty of paying attention. Take

care.

When we’ve been going for about twenty minutes, we turn around and retrace our steps.

Everything is different again, viewed from another angle. What was the way up is now the

way down. The sun is behind us instead of in front of us, the wind blowing on our backs

instead of our faces. We know where we’ve been, and now we have the satisfaction of

coming home.

Our group advances, spreading and regrouping, stopping occasionally to let someome catch up, or calling another person to join the others. We arrive at our destination, the workshop building that stands just a few meters away from where we started. Here we will work with wood and fiber, with plants harvested from the garden, transforming substance with attention and care. The work is slow, but the results are sure. They anchor us to the earth and to each other.

Helen is holding onto my arm, needing a steadying touch for her uncertain steps. I maneuver

her over to a bench and she drops down onto it, waiting. I undo her laces, pull open her boot, remove the foot I last saw less than an hour ago. It’s the same, and yet not the same. Every step changes us, brings us forward, makes us different than we were before.

Slow down. Pay attention. Take care. In a world racing ever faster and faster, the beautiful

message can still grow inside us. And when this word reaches down to our feet, we can begin to spread the news.

Lory Widmer Hess grew up near Seattle and now lives in Switzerland, where she works with adults with developmental challenges and practices spiritual direction. Her essays have been published in magazines and journals including Parabola, Handwoven, Pensive, Vita Poetica, and Motherwell, and she is the author of When Fragments Make a Whole: A Personal Journey Through Healing Stories in the Bible (Floris Books, 2024). Find her online at enterenchanted.com.