My Sore Toe

2004-07-15T21:30:00.000-07:00

I have a sore toe. How profound. But profound things are put together using mundane building blocks. So let's see what can be said about a sore toe.

Well, here's how it happened. I was barefootedly busy in the kitchen and I ran the back door over the front end of my foot. Ouch. My three-year-old, Katie, was the only other person present at the time, and she was vastly intrigued that Daddy had an owie. It's possible she also learned a couple of new words. She promptly took possession of my lap and we sat there, my Katie and I, and watched the blood ooze. My wife put a band-aid on it and darkly predicted that I might lose the nail.

Here's another thing: My sore toe limits me. It's a humble little object, really, kind of lumpy and repulsive, and it's not very clever. Not like, say, a thumb. Generally, the only time I notice its existence is when I ruefully acknowledge that it stinks.

But poke a hole in it and how the balance see-saws! Suddenly, I'll go to extravagant and undignified lengths to protect my throbbing little member. Kneeling to clean the cat-box is now an exercise in contortion, and walking down the sidewalk is no longer an excuse to day-dream. Shoes are out of the question. My retiring little toe is now running the show. The rest of my body is at its service.

Uh oh. Don't look now but I smell the smell of profundity. Paul uses the metaphor of the parts of the human body to describe what it means to belong to the body of Christ. It's not quite the same thing; I'm talking about a sore toe and he's talking about useful toes. But the same set of principles applies.

So here's the deal: My toe is important to my body, whether i know that and understand it or not. My self-important brain can look down my patrician nose at my plebian toe, but if it does it only demonstrates that I have rocks in my head. The toe goes right on being pivotal.

And when that toe gets ouched my whole body feels the pain of it. And when that toe can't do its job properly my whole body limps. And my brain discovers quite suddenly how desperately it depends on that toe. "Oh toe," it cries, "I've done you wrong. I had my head in the clouds and I allowed you to get hurt. I'm sorry, sorry. Can you forgive me..." And the toe says, "Huh?"

Well, then. When a piece of me bleeds, the rest of me winces and goes to bat on its behalf, and in the process learns a lesson. And when my toe gets all better, it's likely I'll find that my brain, et al, will be less likely to act like the center of the unverse.

And thus will my body be strengthened. And, with patience and kindness, my toe will begin to learn to say more than "Huh".

letters from the crow's nest

My Sore Toe