Every Sunday evening, about 100 Christians from the neighboring area would gather to worship.  They met under a tin-roof lean-to that was set at the edge of a cornfield.  They sat, when they did sit, on rough wood benches.  The floor was dirt.  The instruments were old.  Some of the guitars didn't have all the strings.  But they could worship!  They made hell run for shelter when they got loose.

One Sunday evening, the pastor asked if anyone had anything to share.  A tall, willowy woman came to the front.  She was plain-featured, but she was beautiful.  “Oh, brothers and sisters, I love Jesus so much,” she started.

“Tell us, sister!  Tell us!” the worshippers shouted back.

“Oh,” she said, “he is so good to me.  I praise him all the time for how good he is to me.  For three months, I prayed to the Lord for shoes.  And look!”  And at that the woman cocked up her leg so that we could see one foot.  One very ordinary shoe covered it.  “He gave me shoes.  Hallelujah, he is so good.”  And the Ugandans clapped and yelled and shouted back, Hallelujah!

I didn't.  I was devastated.  I sat there hollowed out, hammered down.  In all my life I had not once prayed for shoes.  And in all my life I had not once thanked God for the many, many shoes I had.