I am in the shoes of someone who has walked for twenty years.
Not always forward.
Not always knowing why.
Just walking.
These shoes have opened drawers.
Made calls.
Placed apologies on the ground.
They know how to walk into rain now.
But this rain is different.
This rain has no door to open.
No number to call.
No drawer to reach into.
This rain is just about three questions.
Did I do enough?
Was I supposed to do more?
Will I look back one day and see a road I was too quiet to take?
These shoes don’t know.
And for the first time, the mission is not to walk toward something.
The mission is to stand in the not knowing.
Without an umbrella.
Without a forecast.
Without deciding what it means.
In the rain that has no answer yet.
Letting it fall.
Trusting that shoes
who have honestly walked this long
are exactly
where they are supposed to be.
Even when they don’t know where that is.
Especially then.