Shoe Repair Place

At this point in my life I've had the pleasure of living in quite a few different houses, in many different cities and several states. While there are vast differences in all of them, there are logically some similarities, too. I stumbled upon one this week somewhat unanticipated as I'd never really noticed it until now.

It could be said that I'm a "shoe" guy. I don't even really know exactly how many pairs of shoes I own (but I'm certainly no Imelda Marcos -- she owned 1060 pairs of shoes) but if all the specialty pairs were counted (softball, golf, cycling, motorcycling, hiking, running, cross-training, flip-flops, etc.) in addition to the usual dress and casual shoes, the number would total somewhere near 35 (I'm guessing).

One of the reasons I have so many shoes is that I'm easy on shoe wear and I tend to have them repaired rather than simply replace them (one good pair of Italian shoes can potentially last a lifetime (with repair) and if the style is "classic" enough, it is more affordable than frequently buying new shoes). Anyway... it was time this week to replace the heals on one of my favorite Italian pairs.

I noticed a shoe repair place not far from my office and took them in Tuesday. As I entered the shop I had what was close to an "out of body" experience. It seemed as if I was in a dozen places at once. Opening the door, the aroma of leather, rubber, glue and polish struck me with overwhelmingly familiarity. There was dust on every display surface; dozens of pairs dotted the front of the shop featuring tied tags with white string. A wall of wooden cubby holes hid dozens more shoes waiting to be picked up by their rightful owners. 15 or 20 year old, florescent light faded framed advertisements hung on the wall pitching shoe technology of generations gone by. A hand painted sign boasted "Elegant Shoe Repair -- since 1982." A yellowed cardboard sign warned, "Shoes left over 90 days will be sold for charges." A whining "bing-bong" sounded as I broke the electric light beam just inside the front door. For more than a brief moment, I was in the same shoe shop of a dozen times before in at least three different states... every one different... yet, every one the same! It was flat out weird, I'm telling you!

Almost predictably, as I walked to the counter for a few moments no one appeared. It seems that in every shoe repair shop I've ever patronized, no one is in the front of the store. Then, eventually a slightly hunched over shoe cobbler steps from between the split of dirty fabric drapes concealing the mysteries of the sole repair operations in the rear. This shop was clearly no exception!

Emerging from the back, a (literally) dusty old gentleman with an extremely thick accent asked "vat cun ah do fa you?" he inquired without the slightest of eye contact. "New heels, I believe," came my reply. "Nut like b'fore. No! No cut heal! Replace vit all rubba," was what I heard from the man with the gray tinged hair and completely ashen gray mustache. "Ven you vant dem?" was his final question. "How about Thursday?" I asked. "Good. $19.87" his economy of language insisted. And with that I paid the man.

On my way out the door he asked, "How much you pay for that bike?" (My sportbike was sitting just outside the front door). I hesitantly told him, though now uncomfortable at the thought that he might believe he should have charged even more for the new heels! "Too fast... (chuckle, chuckle)," was his commentary. I smiled. "Yeah... some think so," was all I could find to say.

Picking up the shoes today, it was the same "parallel universe" experience. Entering, the man was nowhere to be found. The whining "bing bong" sounded and eventually the old man emerged from behind the curtain again (I'm beginning to think shoe repair is top secret stuff). I would be fairly confident he was wearing the very same clothes as before, but I wouldn't hold him to it.

Handing him my claim ticket, he didn't even speak. Reaching into the third down from the far right cubby hole, he carefully pulled out my shoes. Placing them on the counter, he precisely unwrapped the tissue paper in which they were folded... as if they were brand new... and they looked it. "Good?" he simply inquired. "Perfect," came my response. A simple nod and slight closing of his eyes spoke volumes to me. "Another customer satisfied with his sole repair," surely must have been his thought.

If I've been in one shoe repair shop, I've been in what seems to be a thousand of them before. There is something pleasantly familiar about them all. I've concluded that fixing shoes must be a humble trade. All the shops look the same -- likely because they don't need to look any different. Each cobbler presents themselves with a quiet disposition, few spoken words and a little hunch in the back likely from years of leaning over the soles of thousands of people. Some soles are smelly, some mistreated, some cherished like a great pair of well worn jeans.

I learned from the shoe repair place that in many ways churches need to be somewhat similar. Though located all over the world, wearing different denominational names, established at different dates and though staffed with different titles... there should always be something reassuringly familiar about them. They are places where souls get fixed. Maybe, as "repair people," ministers don't even need to say much. Maybe ministers just need to do their work, not charge more than they should, be sure to wrap things up with care as if they were new (because they are in the mercy of God) and then simply be satisfied with a job well done.

I've got more shoes that need repair... I think I know where I'll be taking them, again. You see, I've been there before, lots of times, in lots of different places.