by Tim Patterson
I had to have been very young but the memory is still quite vivid and clear today. I was probably three or four years old when my father and I were walking down the streets of Kermit, Texas. I still recall the wooden sidewalks that lined the storefronts and the sounds they emitted as we shuffled along.
The spaces between the boards revealed the eerie darkness that lay below and I was sure it contained marauding monsters just waiting for me to slip through one of the cracks or to reach up and pull me under. For a three year old this seemed a real and dangerous certainty. The only security I had was my chubby little hand wrapped around my fathers mammoth index finger.
I can still feel and see with my mind’s eye, the size and sense of that one digit. As I look at my own hands and fingers just now, I can only imagine how small they must have been as they clung to this singular security.
The general store that we entered was portaled by an old screen door that was braced across the middle with a metal screen guard that advertised Bairds Bread. I had no idea how to read the words that were displayed but I recognized the smiling little girl with a slice of the soft white stuff in her hand.
A long spongy spring slammed the door behind us as we entered this marvel of modern merchandise. A long counter sat just to our left and on top and within was contained the very necessities of life.
Clothing, sundries, threads, pocketknives, pots and pans, tools and food all lined the shelves and hung from the walls. And the strange odor of things old and new hung in the air as well. Sacks of animal feed and planting seed added to the cacophony of scents.
One of my favorites sights was the mammoth block of cheese that sat waiting to be cut in perfect proportions by the mechanical slicer that pivoted from side to side. My eyes would stay fixated on that golden block until the owner would remove a small sliver and hand it to me on a piece of white butcher paper. My mouth waters even now at the thought of that moist morsel being laid on my lips.
Yet the vision that is most reticent in my memory is that of a shelf, that must have been from my perspective, over one hundred feet tall. Perched at the very top of that shelf was a row of the most beautiful and colorful western boots ever seen this side of the Pecos. All of them hand crafted by artisans from Mexico of the finest leathers available to man.
The ones I longed to be able to wear were composed of a black foot with the upper part of the boot being a deep red and white in color. Stitched within those colors was the most beautiful eagle I had ever seen. It seemed as though it was ready to take flight at any moment. I told my father that those were the ones that I wanted and that one day I would be big enough to wear them and all he needed to do was to purchase them now. I was sure it would not be many days before they would fit perfectly.
He did purchase them and all that time I thought they were for me. As far as I was concerned my dad was just taking care of them until I was able to put them on.
There are photographs of me as a little boy wearing those boots with the tops going all the way up to my hip and some of the fondest memories of my dad have within them the vision of him in those same boots.
I thought they were my boots to fill. I know it was childish but that was the way I felt. Those boots were far too big for me, yet periodically I would slip into them and pretend.
By the time I could wear those beauties they were well worn and my desire for that style had diminished. It was not until many years later did I realize I would never be able to fill my fathers boots and that my heavenly Father has given me my own boots to fill.
Watching my dad and listening to my Heavenly Father have taught me that one’s boots are something that you grow into and by the time they really fit, you and they are usually worn out. It is then we realize that we could never fill anyone else’s boots and no one can fill ours.
God has given each of us our own life to live. We can learn from the experiences of others and they can have an enormous impact on us but we are still responsible for our own actions.
You may be an employee at the North American Mission Board, a missionary on the field, a state leader, a pastor, a staff member or a layman in a local church, yet to long for the place and position that another holds is ludicrous and frustrating. Those are not your boots and they will never fit.
To be satisfied and secure in the place that you occupy is a wonderful expression of faith and trust in the pleasure of a Sovereign God. If we are to reach North America for Christ we must become comfortable in our own boots, knowing that God is in control. Trust Him! He knows what size you wear and what style is most appealing. The nature of boots is that when they are new they tend to pinch and bind. Wear them. Walk in them. When you finally break them in, you will want nothing else on your feet.
You have your own boots. Fill ‘em up.
Proverbs 3:5-6 — Trust in the Lord with all your heart, And lean not on your own understanding; In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He shall direct your paths.
Tim Patterson is Chairman of the Board of Trustees of the North American Mission Board and senior pastor of Hillcrest Baptist Church in Jacksonville, Florida.
Filed under: Uncategorized on May 4th, 2009 |
No Comments »