Worth

Worth.

Christ saw past the gnarls of my heart and saw I had worth. Worth? Worth is something I have struggled with in the past.

It was 1975, my kindergarten year. My Korean mom, oblivious to the social norms of 5-year-olds in suburban American, bought me red rubber rain boots for school. I remember being delightfully giddy and couldn't wait until the first rain of fall to wear those boots to school.

In came the first fall rain. 

Out came those boots.

Skipping my Cream of Wheat meant more time to jump in puddles at the bus stop. The gray tiled school halls provided ample opportunities for me to twist my heels and relish in the squeaks of my new accessory.

I was so deliriously happy. 

Once in my classroom, I began tracing my letters for the day.

Then I heard the first giggle. Followed by a chorus of several snickers.

I felt the crimson of my boots travel up to my cheeks as I whipped around and saw the boys in the next table pointing and giggling at my footwear.

I looked down and my boots weren't beautiful and shiny anymore. They were ugly. And I hated them. And then the hot tears came rolling down.

I never wore those boots again. That was the beginning of me listening to the lies that my worth was based on what others thought of me. People pleaser is a label with less rough edges and an identity I adopted.

But one day as I had more years under my belt and a relationship with Jesus, I came across some old family pictures. And there were those red, rubber boots. This time they were on my younger brother. Poor guy. Remember...Korean mother.

And we laughed about it. Perspective is everything and by now, I knew my worth is not wrapped up in those discount store boots. Or the words spewed from 5-year-old boys.

Fast forward  and those red rubber boots made an appearance again.

This time as neon lime tennis shoes.

"Mom, they have to be neon. Lime would be great. But neon for sure."

This was my end-the-summer conversation with one of my children regarding new fall attire.

For the love of Doritos, I lived through the 90's. I thought I said goodbye to the era of neon. So I went shopping and found a pair at a discount store. He was thrilled and thanked me profusely. He laid them out and couldn't wait to wear them to co-op.

Within a few weeks in the semester, I noticed he started wearing his old tennis shoes again.
I forgot to say something to him, but then I noticed his neon shoes were not on his feet.

Like, never.

And I suspected something was up.

An one-on-one ride to Sonic Happy Hour revealed the answer to this puzzle. And the familiar knot I felt in the pit of my 5-year-old stomach started welling up again.

 Same story, different child, different shoes.

This time it was because they weren't name-brand. But those details really didn't matter. In essence, it was my Kindergarten story being played out with my child,

Sigh.

When I was younger, the choice was name brand shoes or food. No brainer. Now with my family, we are blessed to not have to make that choice. But I really want my children to learn to see the person, not the label.

So we talked about it.

And talked about it.

We talked about a little five-year-old with red rubber boots and tears down her cheeks.

We talked about being loved by Christ and being loved by family.

And we got honest because I was that five-year-old and asked if he wanted me to go buy those expensive shoes.

My child shook his head and gave me a hug and nothing was mentioned again.

And then I noticed one day that he wore those lime shoes to school.

And then the next day.

But here is the post note, because my Father cares about details. Before his birthday, Dale and I found those name brand shoes for 80% off and we went ahead and bought them as a gift. Now some of you may say, 'tsk, tsk.' But I think there is another layer of lesson to be learned here.

When my son opened his gift, his eyes shone and he hugged those shoes. And I asked him are those the shoes he wanted and he nodded. Beaming. And I reminded him about a God that even cares about the little details.

He knew his worth were not tied up in those shoes.

But maybe, just maybe, he learned something about grace, too.

And just this week I noticed he was wearing his discount neon shoes with his name brand shoes interchangeably.

I smiled.

He got it.

I think one day, this son will have his own story to tell about his neon lime shoes and maybe about his mother's red boots.

There is some comfort in that.

Nothing is wasted by our Father.