What I Never Knew

Renae Brumbaugh Green

At a recent family dinner, my sister-in-law handed me a baby shoe. My baby shoe, to be exact. She’d found it in a box of stuff that had been in storage for who-knows-how-long. The other one is probably still out there somewhere, wondering where its buddy is.

 

I knew it was my shoe—we all knew it was my shoe—by the holes in the bottom. Though I don’t have clear memories of that time in my life, I have pictures and stories to fill in the blanks. I have eye-witness testimony from family members, to paint a complete picture.

 

When I was born, both my legs were turned sideways instead of forward. I had to wear these shoes with a metal rod attached to the soles. The rod turned my feet forward and held them in place. I’m not sure how long I wore them, but I know my poor mother endured countless bruises from carrying me around with that contraption on. I kicked and flailed like all babies, only my kicks packed a baby-of-steel punch.

 

Now that shoe sits on my dresser, a reminder of what I was. Of how far I’ve come. It’s a reminder of the beautiful fact that, although I was less-than-perfect, I was wanted. I was loved. And in spite of the difficulties for everyone else, I never lacked for cuddles or snuggles or hugs.

 

It’s also a great excuse for my chronic clumsiness. It’s not really my fault, you see. I really was born with two left feet.

 

I love that I can’t remember any of it. I’m sure to my parents, it was frightening. Devastating, even, to see their child born with a deformity that, at the time, they didn’t know for certain would ever be fully corrected. But they cared for me and loved me and endured the pain and injury of hauling me around with that big metal rod. They took some serious punishment, all so I wouldn’t end up crippled and misshapen. When I was old enough, they put me in ballet lessons—not to teach me to dance, but to help me walk without tripping over stuff.

 

But the beauty of the whole story, in my opinion, is that I never knew. I never knew! The only memories I have are memories of being loved and adored and wanted. I have vague recollections of knowing I wasn’t doing the steps the same as everyone else in my ballet class . . . but in my mind, they were out of step. Not me.

 

All these years later, it seems I’m still marching through life in different shoes, dancing out-of-step with the rest of the world. But that’s not the greatest thing about this story.

 

The greatest thing, in my opinion, is the fact that I don’t remember any of it. I’ve enjoyed a lifetime of love and acceptance from my family, in blissful ignorance of what I was, what my life could have been, and what they went through for me.

 

The same could be said for our spiritual state. We weren’t there when God created the universe. We don’t remember when the first man and woman chose to turn away from God. We weren’t there when God saw what an outrageous mess mankind had made, and decided to rescue us. We weren’t there when God sent His Son, the King of Kings, to be born a peasant’s birth in a cave with farm animals all around. We weren’t there when that child grew to manhood and taught us how to live.

 

We can’t remember when that same man was stripped and beaten and nailed to a cross to die, taking the punishment we deserved. After all, the wages of sin is death, and since we’ve all sinned, somebody had to die.

 

Christ did that for us. That’s why He came. That’s why we celebrate Christmas.

 

We don’t remember, because we weren’t there. But we have the stories to remind us. And better yet, for those of us who’ve chosen to have a relationship with Him, we have the Holy Spirit, who gives testimony to the fact that He is real. He did what He did because He loves us. He wants us. And He longs for us to live full and abundant lives.

 

“I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly,” John 10:10.