So I’d go and I’d pray.
“This man with the shoes has no pride.
They’re dusty, worn, and scratched.
I thought, Glancing toward the floor.
The shoe man’s voice from the sky.
And his hair was truly a mess.
But he had a large, wide grin.
I swallowed to hide my tears.
I spoke from my heart, not my head.
That his shoe touched my soul.