The Torch and The Shine

Years ago, my father taught me something I’ve never forgotten.

Dad believed in taking care of a good pair of shoes.

You didn’t replace them every time the styles changed or the soles wore thin. You polished them. You had them re-soled. If you took care of them, they’d take care of you.

That lesson has stayed with me.

Whenever my travels take me through Charlotte Douglas Airport, I usually stop at a little shoe shine stand. For years, the craftsmen there have cared for one particular pair of black shoes now over 10 years old. These well-worn shoes have seen a lot of life. They’ve carried me through camp meetings, conventions, hospitals, board meetings, weddings, funerals, and countless ordinary days in between. They’ve been re-soled, polished, and carefully maintained. They’re no longer new, but they’re still doing exactly what they were made to do.

Recently, I noticed something I’d somehow overlooked all these years. About midway through the shine, the craftsman lit a small torch and gently passed the flame across the leather.

For just a moment, I wondered, “Why would you put fire on a perfectly good pair of shoes?”

Then I watched.

Not enough heat to damage them—just enough to warm the polish so it settled more deeply into the leather.

Then the process continued.
More brushing.
More buffing.
Only later did the shine begin to appear.

I smiled and thought, “There’s a sermon in that.”

Maybe that’s why the flame spoke to me.

Anyone who has served the Lord for very long eventually encounters the fire. Not because God has forgotten us, and not because we’ve failed Him. There are simply some things He accomplishes only through experiences we would never choose for ourselves.

None of us ask for pressure, disappointment, criticism, anxiety, grief, or the weight of responsibility. Yet those very seasons often become the workshop of God’s grace.

Pressure strips away self-sufficiency.
Disappointment enlarges compassion.
Uncertainty teaches trust.
Need drives us to prayer.

Just as the craftsman patiently worked the polish deeper into the leather, God patiently works His grace deeper into our lives. He isn’t in a hurry. Some things can only be formed through time, care, and yes—even a little heat.

The flame isn’t punishment.
It’s part of the process.

Then another thought occurred to me.

The shine didn’t appear while the flame touched the shoe. The craftsman wasn’t finished. There was still more brushing, more buffing, and more patient attention. Only then did the shine emerge.

That’s often the way God works.

The fire is not the end of the story. It’s one part of His work.

One final detail stayed with me.

The craftsman never held the flame in one place very long. Too much heat would have damaged the leather.

God knows exactly how much pressure His children can bear.

He never wastes the fire.
He never leaves us there forever.
The flame moves on.
His work continues.
The shine remains.

When I walked away from the shoe shine stand that day, I couldn’t help but admire those old shoes.

Then another thought crossed my mind.

They aren’t valuable because they’re expensive.
They’re valuable because they’ve been cared for.
They’ve been repaired.
They’ve been maintained.
They’ve even been through a little fire.
And they’re still useful.

I suppose people aren’t all that different.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that God’s greatest work is not keeping us from the fire, but bringing us through it. He patiently restores what has been worn, strengthens what has weakened, and shapes what we could never become on our own.

Maybe that’s what God is looking for in all of us.

Not lives that have never known the flame.
But lives that, by His grace, have been cared for by the Master Craftsman…

Repaired when necessary…
Strengthened through the heat…
And still reflecting His light.

Yes, I really do think there’s a sermon in that.