Flip Flops Have Flopped My Flip

There's a fairly good chunk of my life where I've asked, "Show me Yourself, God!", when all the while He's shown all around. But what I'm really asking for are signs, you know, the kind Jonah wanted? I never really believe He's going to do it, at least not in the ways that I expect. But then again, there's hope, right?, - that word sandwiched right in the middle of the great Pauline love letter (I Corinthians 13), "faith, hope, and love...".

Last summer my family and I travelled to see Austin and Meagan in Denver. Life's never been quite the same around here with the distance between us, so we all make an effort to catch a glimpse of completeness by reuniting as frequently as possible. At this visit we took several day trips together, and at one of them ended up at the mouth of a lake in the Rockies. Never ceasing to take advantage of a possible fishing opportunity, always prepared, Austin grabbed fly rod and reel and waded out to just the perfect spot. I sat on the shore and watched with eager eyes and an envious heart. He called out to me and, without hesitation, I waded to where he was. While I wasn't nearly as prepared with the gear and all, I figured a swim suit and pair of flip flops would suffice. But half way out to Austin I found my ill-equipped feet sinking deeper and deeper into the muddy lake bottom, with my flip flops acting as suction cups that required an awful lot of energy to release with each passing step. Suddenly, one of my cherished flip flops snapped, right at the rubber prong between my big and index toes on the right foot. I loved those flip flops because they were "seasoned", you know, worn in. It would take me at least a year or two to buy another pair and get them broken in to just the perfect comfort level.

With disappointed heart, I wasn't about to let a piece of cheap rubber ruin an opportunity to fish, so Austin said he was sorry my sandal broke, but... "Here's the pole, Dad, fish away!" No sooner had I grabbed the pole and begin to re-enact the lost art of fly fishing grace, did I see a small object come floating down the river, directly toward me. It bobbed along, riding the current with ease. It moved in my direction, as if a magnet were pulling it toward me. Eventually I could astonishingly make out it what it was, so I waited to see if it would get close enough for me to bend down and pick it up without losing my balance and embarrassingly submerge in the cold waters. Sure enough, it floated within my reach, so I gingerly leaned over and grabbed it. Wouldn't you know? Another flip flop, right footed too. I pulled my right foot out of the mud and slipped the thong on. Like Cinderella and the glass shoe, it fit like a glove, a perfect Size 9, and seasoned to boot. Black, matching my other surviving flip flop, but with blue accents, just to make it distinctive from the other. I showed it to Austin, and we both snickered in disbelief. I continued to fish, only now with an even bigger grin on my face. What more could I ask for? Fishing in Colorado, with my son, and a completely restored pair of seasoned flip flops.

Some may think I'm silly, but I'm convinced God sent me that flip flop, answering my long-time prayer for a miracle. And although miracles happen all around me all day long, and sadly I fail to see them, this summer I wear my flip flops and am reminded every time I look down at my feet that God really is with me.

Flip flops have flopped my flip,