Shoeshine

From where I sat I had a view of the street through the pane, and seeing the flow of people and cars and far off the occasional flight of birds added a special condiment to my cappuccino.

But the blank stare that the coffee and the view had induced in me ended when a middle-aged man came into sight carrying a shoeshine box. He had the unkempt look of the homeless, which, however, did not detract from his good physical condition. In fact, he walked so fast that in no time he made it past the guard and into the coffee shop to ask its patrons if they wanted their shoes buffed. But nobody took him on. And I could see his heart sinking lower with every refusal, mine last of all, because I had not thought of having anything of mine polished, least of all my shoes.

He left and sat on one of the chairs outside the shop.  Most probably he did not take his lunch yet, and would not have any at all today, having no dealings so far.  Ever the thoughtful one, the wife urged me to engage him, by way of charity.

I went to him and asked for the price of a shoeshine, and when we had an agreement he made me take over his seat. He removed my shoes and replaced them with slippers. He poured water into a shallow dish, in which he soaked a sponge, which he used to clean my shoes of dirt, invisible until I saw proof of it on the absorbent. Wiped dry, the shoes underwent a thorough buffing with black shoe polish.

All throughout I witnessed his skillfulness, how masterly and artfully he accomplished his task.

Nonetheless, shoeshining did not seem a correct job for a man of his age and strength. A boy might spend his boyhood and adolescence doing it, but in adulthood should move on to more manly trades, such as carpentry and the like.

I surmised that the man must have discovered his expertise in shoeshining, and decided to keep at it, having tried other occupations and found himself ever short of proficiency. He stuck to his chosen craft in the same way that other people stick to writing poems, an endeavor less useful and often producing less shine than polishing shoes.

And in this vein, did not Jesus advise that our light must shine in the sight of men?

In his Gospel, Matthew quotes him: “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill-top cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp to put it under a tub; they put it on the lamp-stand where it shines for everyone in the house. In the same way your light must shine in the sight of men, so that, seeing your good works, they may give the praise to your Father in heaven.”

What could I do if the man in front of me found in shoes the area of his shining? We hardly ever spoke, he had monosyllabic answers to my meager questions, a sign for me to leave things well enough alone. Seeing as he had tattoos on his arms, suggesting nonconformism, I did not think that he particularly felt spiritual when he applied himself to the task, although in the silence anything could happen. But in the end, when he had accomplished his task and the tips of my shoes glowed like Christmas lights, I burst into praise and gave thanks to the Father in heaven.