Joyless or Joyful

I was about six or seven years old (sixxxx sevvennn—I had to throw that in there). Sunday shoes and outfits used to be a BIG deal here in the South. Everything had to be matchy-matchy, and you dare not wear pants on Sunday mornings.

I always had the prettiest dresses. My mom was a single parent, and we lived in an old cement-block fish camp turned house. She made sure I was dressed well, though—using layaway programs at various stores and shopping off-season to get the best deals.

One particular Easter, I had a mint green dress with a matching shrug—but no shoes that fit. And let’s not forget the white bobby socks with the lace detail. Those were a must.

My paternal Maw Maw took me shoe shopping, and there they were, calling my name: The White Shoes. I had only ever worn black patent leather, so these felt special. Maw Maw bought the white, unholy shoes, and I was thrilled—mostly because they weren’t black.

She dropped me off at home, and when my mama opened the box, it turned into a full-blown Joan Crawford moment—you know, the one with the wire hanger. Mama was fuming, to say the least.

At six years old, I had never witnessed a Linda Blair experience, but there it was. Her head whipped around so fast, and she said, “White shoes are tacky. You don’t wear white shoes!”

I truly did not understand the issue.

She called my Maw Maw, and while I don’t remember the exact conversation, I do remember the outcome. The shoes went back to the store, and I ended up with black patent leather after all.

Now, here I am in my 50s, and I still cringe at the sight of white shoes on Sunday—or any other day of the week. I have bought myself a pair of white Adidas with colored stripes, but I’m still somewhat self-conscious about wearing white shoes of any kind.

I told my mama I was going to write about the white shoes, and we still laugh about it from time to time.

Over the years, I’ve noticed how “come as you are” church has truly defined itself. I see mini-skirts, belly shirts, flip-flops, and more skin than I ever grew up accustomed to seeing.

I’m an old-school Southern Baptist and truly believe in modesty and decency. First Peter 3:3–4 and First Timothy 2:9 speak to that. But I’ve also learned, as I’ve grown as a Christian, that come as you are really does mean just that.

Bring yourself before God in whatever you have. He loves us and doesn’t care about white, black, yellow, or green shoes.

He simply wants us.