Saturday, November 27, 2010


The following was published as a guest blog post on

In the Pacific NW we wear the same clothes most of the year but in more layers or less. Friday night was half-heartedly scattering rain on the roads. The temperature reflected November rather than August. I slipped out of my sandals, dug to the back of my closet and retrieved dressy flats with the “trouser” socks stuffed in the toes from the last time I wore them, probably last March. I pulled the stockings up to my knees, slipped on my shoes and rushed out the door.

In the car as I drove to the Interstate I felt an odd tickling sensation creeping down my legs.  I couldn’t reach down until I was parked at the church for my meeting. My socks had slipped from my knees to my ankles and as I moved my feet to unload my briefcase and water bottle, they kept sliding. I could feel my heels naked in my shoes, my socks bunched under my instep.

I experienced a change that brought back memories from fifth grade. I remember spending the day hopping on one foot while pulling up the other sock. Within minutes the adjustment needed to be repeated.

Friday night I did not respect the unwritten rules of transition when I changed my shoes. I did not examine my wardrobe making sure each article of clothing covered what they needed to cover before appearing in public. I made an assumption and now I would stand cowering behind a podium dreading the moment of exit with my socks pooling around my feet.

As we transition, we examine our situation, needs, abilities, assumptions. Honesty assists us in gracefully modulating the passage from one position to the next. If we don’t try them on, we won’t know that the socks don’t fit. Worse, we won’t change.

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