The Miracle Shoes

I was walking in New York City somewhere in the Upper West Side. My wife had ducked into a store and the ‘shopping mode’ switch had been fully flipped so I knew I had plenty of time to roam. With my mind wandering faster than my feet, I headed in one direction and counted with the cross-street signs as I walked…86^th… 87^th…88^th. Although it felt refreshing to be out of the Florida summer humidity, I occasionally had to dab perspiration from my forehead from the hot midday June sun.

I could see a homeless man asleep on the concrete sidewalk just ahead. As I approached without breaking my pace, I gazed down at him. His grizzled white beard was a stark contrast to his dark black skin. Lying on the hard concrete and using his arm as a pillow, his head was nestled comfortably in his hand. His slightly opened mouth revealed two missing teeth. With his back to the brick wall of the building, he had his bag of belongings secured behind his legs. His tattered clothes were for year-round use. Although it was hot, he had full length pants and a shirt with long sleeves. There was one thing that drew my attention more than anything else. His bare feet. This man had no shoes. I was expecting to see the kind of worn shoes that tell the story of a broken life, but instead there were his bare feet. I fixated on his feet as I walked by. They looked tired, worn, aged, and dirty. When we don’t have a car to take us places we use a bike. When we don’t have a bike to take us places we have our shoes. This man did not even have shoes to take him places. And yet his feet were every bit as travelled as a homeless man’s shoes would be.

From the time I got near enough to observe him closely to the time I passed by him took about six seconds. More than half that time, my eyes were focused on his feet. After I passed by him I immediately looked up and within two strides I saw two men engaged in heavy conversation walking toward me heading in the opposite direction, one of them carrying three boxes of brand new shoes. I instantly got the message. I felt it. The feet, the shoe boxes, the pairing of these two things, and my intent focus on both of them in rapid succession was telling me something.

Over the past few years I have taught myself to pay very close attention to where my focus falls and to take notice of any slight accompanying feelings. I believe there is meaning in what we focus on. It can signal an opportunity for us, reveal a hidden belief or fear, help someone else, or serve as a stepping stone to a new life path. Sometimes our intuition whispers to us. This time mine was screaming.

The dialogue in my head went something like this, “Okay, I need to buy this man a new pair of shoes. I trust my intuition but I’ll give it one more test. If I see a shoe store in the next few blocks, I’ll buy him some shoes, if not then it wasn’t meant to be.”

Within four blocks I spotted a shoe store across the street. Gulp. Like most people, I try to help others whenever I can – and mostly when it’s convenient - but this was a bit out of my comfort zone. Was I really going to buy a brand new pair of shoes for a complete stranger? Yes. I had made the decision to follow my intuition.

It was a small boutique shoe store offering mostly athletic shoes for men and women. The doors were wide open and the temperature inside the store was the same as the outside air. My eyes were searching for some kind of prominent “Sale 50% Off” sign, which I did not initially find. There were two foreign men with heavy accents working the store. The younger man approached me.

“Can I help you find something?”

I honestly did not know how to answer him. Feeling very uncomfortable in my own skin, all I could think of was, “who goes into a shoe store wanting to buy shoes without the slightest idea of what kind of shoes they want to buy?” 

So I fumbled a bit but told him in the most vague way possible, “I’m buying a pair of shoes for someone else, do you have anything on sale?”

He turned my attention to a rack that had a small handwritten “30% Off” sign taped to it. It was the misfit rack. There were various sizes and styles that customers had picked-over and deemed unsatisfactory.

“What size are you looking for?” said the young foreign man.

“Great, another question I don’t know the answer to,” I thought. Without answering, I grabbed a pair of Nike basketball high tops. Trying to put myself in the homeless man’s … well, if I were a homeless man, I would want something I could wear in the winter, comfortable, that lasts a really long time. That would be high tops. In fact, I was holding the only pair of high tops in the store. I inspected the shoe: size 11. That should work. I looked at the price, $130 with a 30% discount which came to $91. Another gulp. It was clear that I was holding the only pair of shoes in the store that I thought were suitable. So I boldly asked the man for a further discount and he directed me to the store owner, the other foreign looking man, who was sitting on a stool behind the cash register.

I explained to the expressionless store owner that I was buying these shoes for a man down the street and I would like a further discount. I could tell this was going to be a tough sell.

He responded, “It’s hot outside, why don’t you get him a pair of lower cut shoes?”

I reacted in a very calm and non-guilt-provoking way and said, “He may be wearing this pair of shoes for the next 10 years and I wanted to get him something that would last.”

The store owner was pretty intent on protecting his profit margin. He asked, “Why don’t you just get him something cheaper?” There were unspoken words that came across loud and clear: A homeless man does not deserve to have shoes this nice. Nonetheless, I maintained a very non-judgmental tone and replied, “If you had one pair of shoes, what would you want?”

With a slight twinge of guilt, the man said “Okay, how much do you want to pay?”

I told him $70. I thought that was still a high price but fair for the store owner.

“I can give them to you for $80”.

I agreed and reached for the credit card. As he was pushing buttons on the cash register, I could see the guilt on his face and hear it in his voice when he muttered under his breath, “I can give them to you for seventy.”

I thanked him, paid, and walked out with the box.

Then I crossed the street, turned back, and headed with a rapid pace to deliver the shoes. As I approached, the homeless man seemed groggy like he was just waking up.

I felt conflicted. Should I stop, spend time and learn more about this man? Or should I simply leave the gift and walk away. Still feeling out of my comfort zone, I chose to keep the encounter short. I said “Hey brother, I have a gift for you.” And I laid the box down in front of him. I saw his face slightly illuminate with a puzzled surprise and the grogginess instantly disappear. As I turned away, I could hear his response “God bless”.

On the long walk back to find my beloved shopper, I watched the cross street numbers decrease.. 88^th.. 87^th.. 86^th and I reflected on the entire episode. I had a clear moment of recognized intuition and I followed through with it. I chose to believe that we all deserve to have a new pair of shoes. I chose to listen to my intuition. I chose to believe in the gift of giving without getting anything in return. I ignored a tendency to save every penny no matter what. I chose to fight through my own discomfort in the store.

I thought about the different perspectives. To me, it was just another credit card charge. But for this man, to suddenly and unexpectedly receive a new pair of shoes, perhaps the first new pair of shoes he’s ever owned in his entire life, and after walking barefoot on the streets for years, it was certainly a miracle. Had I just made a miracle? And if so, did I just stumble onto the recipe for making miracles?