A faith introspection – Lent
©ESR 2026

The fisherman came in just before dusk, carrying his sandals in one hand and a string of fish in the other.

The bell above the shop door gave a tired ring.

“Evening,” the cobbler said, looking up from his bench.

“Evening. Think you can do something with these?”

He set the sandals down. The straps were cracked. The bottoms nearly smooth.

The cobbler turned one over in his hand, thumb tracing the worn leather.

“You’ve walked them thin.”

“I’ve walked them honest,” the fisherman replied.

The cobbler smiled at that.

“Been catching anything worth the trouble?”

“Some sole,” the fisherman said. “Not many. Enough.”

The cobbler chuckled softly. “Funny thing about sole.”

“What’s that?”

“Whether it’s fish or leather, it’s what bears the weight.”

The fisherman leaned against the counter.

“Fish bear weight?”

“They bear hunger,” the cobbler said. “They fill it.”

He tapped the bottom of the sandal.

“And this bears the ground. Every stone. Every nail. Every misstep. Without the sole, you don’t go far.”

The fisherman picked up one sandal, studied its thinning underside.

“Never thought much about it. Just something that wears out.”

“That’s the way of it,” the cobbler said, threading his needle. “The part that serves the most is the part that wears the fastest.”

The fisherman was quiet for a moment.

“Suppose that’s true of most things.”

The cobbler stitched. Slow. Steady.

“You ever notice,” he said, “it’s always the sole that touches the earth first?”

“Can’t say I’ve considered it.”

“It carries the whole body. Keeps you upright. No one sees it much. But without it…” He shrugged. “You’re barefoot on gravel.”

The fisherman gave a half-smile.

“And what about the soul?” he asked, testing the word on his tongue.

The cobbler didn’t look up.

“Same place, I reckon.”

“Where’s that?”

“In the part that bears the weight for someone else.”

Silence settled between them, thick as sawdust.

After a moment, the fisherman asked, “Where’d you learn your trade?”

The cobbler paused, tying off the thread.

“From my father.”

“Was he a cobbler too?”

The cobbler’s smile deepened, but it was softer now.

“No,” he said. “My father was a carpenter.”

The fisherman didn’t answer right away.

Outside, the tide shifted.

The cobbler handed the sandals back across the counter.

“Give them time,” he said. “They’ll hold.”

The fisherman stepped out into the evening, leather meeting cobblestone.

The sole touched first.

And somewhere beneath the weight of him,

something holy bore it.