Sole Survivors

A step in the right direction: This woman is changing lives, one pair of shoes at a time.

It was one of those moments; a simple question that changed my life. “When are you coming back?”

I was getting over a divorce, raising my kids Morgan, Hannah, and Christopher, who were all under five. I made a decent living as a hairstylist, had a nice home but I felt guilty about the family breaking up—so I spoiled them. I took them on exotic vacations, shopping sprees for name-brand shoes, whatever they wanted. I overcompensated a bit. It was my way of showing them what I thought love was. But what kind of example was I setting?

In the spring of 1999, I went to Peten, Guatemala, to run a half-marathon. As I was running, I spotted a group of kids dipping their feet in sticky black goo. “What’s that?” I asked a fellow runner.

“They put tar on the soles of their feet since they have no shoes,” he said. “Barefoot, they’re susceptible to lacerations and dangerous bacteria from the soil. They think the tar protects them.” I stared down at my hundred-dollar running shoes. Do people really live like this? I hated to stub my toe. These kids walked miles barefoot on gravelly hot roads.

During the flight home I couldn’t shake the image. How could these kids play like kids are supposed to? I thought of my own kids and how much they had. All because I felt guilty. Now another kind of guilt tore through me. Lord, maybe my priorities haven’t been right. Tell me how I can help these kids. The answer came suddenly. What did Americans do with shoes? Threw them away—usually in good shape. And kids? They outgrew shoes—and fashion—almost as fast as you could buy them. I knew what to do—collect lots of shoes and take them to Guatemala. I told my idea to friends, neighbors, my kids—anyone who’d listen. I got some funny looks but I also got shoes. “Here, Mom, I’m almost too big for these,” said my seven-year-old daughter Hannah, handing over her favorite black Mary Jane shoes. I was so proud of her! Before long my garage overflowed with all kinds of shoes—till eventually they spilled onto tarps on the lawn.

Around Christmas time I flew back to an orphanage outside of Guatemala City. I trudged up to the entrance where a nun stood in the doorway. “I have boxes of free shoes for you,” I said.