Big Shoes, Bigger God

Finding a moment to be alone at my father's funeral visitation was not impossible, but it certainly was difficult. Funeral visitations are a funny thing, are they not? Friends, family, and all manner of distant relations gather to comfort the grieving family; and yet, how often the very opposite tends to occur. How often do the grieving families, in an effort to look joyful and composed, seem more put together than the tearful guests offering their condolences?

From the moment a loved one passes into the hands of the Lord to the moment the funeral is over, there exists an entire spectrum of emotions that the loved one's family must navigate. However, just as grief itself can take many forms, so too can responses to grief. Individuals can choose to lose themselves adrift the sea of grief and sorrow, they can remain reserved yet hopeful, or they can distance themselves entirely from all emotions, sorrowful or otherwise. Though, I'd suspect it's often a combination of all these emotions, or lack thereof, that most often occurs - we are human after all, and we tend to be terribly inconsistent creatures. Justly so, for grief is a terribly inconsistent foe.

On the evening of my own father's visitation, I was far more composed than I ever thought possible. I am more reserved by nature, but this posture of mine can only go so far - indeed, though it takes a good deal to make me cry, I often find it hard to cease once I've begun. And so, in light of this reality, I took great pains during my father's visitation and funeral to set aside my own emotions in an effort to ensure I could properly interact with guests and, more importantly, be a source of comfort and solidarity for my mother and younger sisters. Nonetheless, I valued - and needed - the moment or two of solace that came my way during the evening, as fleeting as these may have been.

As the last few guests were filing out of the funeral home, a man from my church came along beside me during one of these quiet moments. After the routine back-and-forth that accompanies such conversations, filled with all manner of warm words and sturdy encouragements, he said something that has never quite left me.

"You were his only son, right?" the man asked, though I suspect he knew the answer. After a moment he continued, "That makes you the man of the house now - those are some big shoes to fill."

I nodded slowly in affirmation, saying only a word or two in response, and then the man made his way out along with the others. As he left, my gaze trickled down to my shoes - newly purchased for this very occasion, clean and shiny, and beginning to feel a little too big for my feet.

In my opinion, my father was above average in many things. He had a strong mind, a strong faith, a big smile, and an even bigger heart - yet, his feet were very small, well below average for a man. This fact notwithstanding, he always stole my shoes. I say 'stole' because he knew very well which shoes were his and which were mine. Even if our styles were the same - which they were not - he should have deduced which shoes were mine the very moment he slipped them on, for he would have been swimming in them.

Growing up, there were several Sunday mornings that had my family rushing out the door for church, quite late as it was, only to be held up by me as I scoured our front closet for my dress shoes. With the rest of our family waiting in the car, my father would stroll back inside and patiently ask, "What's keeping you, Josh?"

"I'm sorry, I just can't find my shoes!" I'd say with my head deep in the bowels of our shoe closet. "Have you seen them?" I'd ask as I rose from my hands and knees, only to look down at the floor and see none other than the very shoes I was looking for saddled upon my father's feet.

To avoid further shoe-related escapades - and further reprimands from my mother as we drove to church late, again - I came up with a sure solution: I would buy my father new shoes for his birthday. He was notoriously difficult to buy gifts for, as he claimed he already had everything (I suppose by everything, he included my shoes as well). Given this life-long game of musical shoes he and I were engaged in, I suspected the sheer practicality of this gift, new dress shoes, would be warmly welcomed. Indeed, in a way, it was a gift to myself as well.

And so, when his 56th birthday arrived a few weeks later, he was well-pleased to see that I bought him, seemingly, the one thing in the world he actually needed. "Just make sure you don't wear these, Josh - these are my shoes", he said with a smile as he hugged and thanked me for the gift.

Though, he never did get the chance to wear those shoes.

His cancer was spreading aggressively by the turn of the new year, worsening more and more by the day. By mid-January, his birthday, he was the weakest he had been since his diagnosis. I suppose I bought those new shoes for him in hopes that he would not only live long enough to wear them, but that he would live long enough to wear them out.

When he died only a few days into February, I found myself without a father and without proper shoes to wear to my father's funeral. Though it seemed like an irreverent exchange at the time, I was left with little else to do and went back to the shoe store I had visited only a few weeks before and exchanged his newly purchased shoes for a pair of dress shoes that would fit me. After all, I had no need for his shoes - they were too small and did not fit me.

"I suppose I bought those new shoes for him in hopes that he would not only live long enough to wear them, but that he would live long enough to wear them out."

The game of musical shoes that my father and I had engaged in all my adult life continued after he passed into the arms of his Heavenly Father. Indeed, he and I were to exchange shoes but once more. When he died, my father took off his earthly shoes, mired by sin, sickness, and sorrow, and stepped onto holier ground than shoes of any kind could endure - "take your sandals off your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground" (Exodus 3:5).

I, on the other hand, had a long road ahead of myself. One journey had ended, another was just beginning. As the man had informed me during my father's visitation, I was in many ways the man of the house now; those were some big shoes to fill. My sisters were without a father, my mother was without a husband, and the family was without a leader, protector, and provider - was it now my task to take up these roles? In the beginning, I thought it was. My father may have had small feet, but he left big shoes to fill.

I've come to realize two things since my father passed away. Firstly, though I was 'the man of the house' now, it was wrong to think I could - or should - take my father's place. My sisters didn't need their older brother to take on a role that was never meant to be his, to pretend to be their dad; they needed their older brother to be himself, just as my mother needed her son to be just that, her son. We were all grieving the loss of Tata; better to recognize the loss than attempt to fill those shoes with feet that were far, far too small.

"My father may have had small feet, but he left big shoes to fill."

The second and chief thing that I've come to realize since his passing is quite simply this: though our Tata passed away, we were at no point without a leader, protector, and provider. Our Lord was ever faithful and by our side: "I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you" (John 14:18). There is a special degree of intimacy reserved by the Lord for those who are fatherless and widows. Anyone who has passed through these dark waters can surely attest to this reality.

 In his sermon on Psalm 121, Dr. Rick Reed draws an important distinction between hurt and harm. Even the darkest of trials, though they hurt immensely, will only serve to multiply our eternal good and God's eternal glory. The Lord may bring hurt and heartache into our lives, but He never allows His children to be harmed. Hurt, not harm; therein lies the crucial difference. He leads in and through these dark waters of hurt and heartache to a greater weight of glory on the opposite shore, and often that glorious relief is none other than Himself.

In light of such vast and overwhelming circumstances, shoes of which our small feet find themselves swimming in, presides a living and loving God. A BIG God that overwhelms our trials with infinitely greater strength than the strength with which those same trials overwhelm us. We may, each and every one of us, be tasked with filling shoes that are far too big for us - but the bigger the shoes, the bigger our God shows Himself to actually be.

"The Lord may bring hurt and heartache into our lives, but He never allows His children to be harmed. Hurt, not harm; therein lies the crucial difference. He leads in and through these dark waters of hurt and heartache to a greater weight of glory on the opposite shore, and often that glorious relief is none other than Himself."

If I could go back to that conversation with the man at my father's visitation, knowing what I now know, I would speak differently. I would say that though my father left big shoes to fill, those shoes were never mine to occupy. In fact, they weren't ultimately my father's shoes either. My dad loved, led, provided for, and protected our family, but only insofar as he was strengthened by Christ to do so. He led our family to be sure, but it was Christ who led him. My father may have left big shoes to fill, but it was Christ who wore them to begin with.

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Photo by Jia Ye, Unsplash

Author’s Note: In an effort to write with integrity and as unto the Lord, it is important to stress that, though these events are in fact true, I do not always recall the exact words used in specific conversations. As much as I’m able, I strive to remain faithful to the event in question, capturing the ‘intent’ of the conversation when my memory fails with respect to exact words.