When the Sandal Slipped: Sacred Inconvenience as a Signpost

Story · Reflection · Scripture · Contact

There’s a moment in the Book of Exodus when God speaks to Moses from a burning bush and says:

“Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.”

It’s one of those lines that’s been quoted so often it almost loses texture.

It gets embroidered on church banners.

Printed on devotionals.

Turned into metaphor.

Holy ground.

Reverence.

Respect.

But recently, I understood it differently.

Not from a sanctuary.

Not from a sermon.

Not from someone else explaining what it meant.

From my own driveway.

From a stumble.

From a sandal that simply… slipped off.

It was an ordinary day.

No thunderclap.

No cosmic music swelling in the background.

No mystical trance.

Just me and Bear walking the bend — that curve in the land where the trees grow thicker and the air always feels a little quieter. A little thinner. Like something unseen is listening.

I wasn’t praying.

I wasn’t seeking a sign.

I wasn’t trying to be spiritual.

I was just walking.

And without warning, my sandal caught the gravel and slid off my heel.

Not graceful.

Not symbolic.

Not cinematic.

Just annoying.

The kind of tiny inconvenience you barely register.

I bent down, brushed the dust from my foot, slipped it back on, and kept moving.

But something in me didn’t move on.

My body paused before my mind did.

Because for a brief second — just one breath —

my bare foot had touched the earth directly.

Skin to soil.

No rubber.

No sole.

No separation.

And something in me recognized it.

Not as a thought.

As a feeling.

Like my nervous system whispered:

Here.

This is it.

Pay attention.

That’s when the Exodus line surfaced.

Not as theology.

As memory.

Take off your sandals.

And suddenly it didn’t sound like obedience.

It sounded like contact.

Like removal of insulation.

Like the sacred saying:

“Stop buffering yourself from this moment.”

Because sandals — metaphorically and literally — are barriers.

They protect us.

They cushion us.

They keep us from feeling every rock, every temperature shift, every texture of the ground.

Useful? Yes.

But also distancing.

And I started to wonder:

What if Moses wasn’t being asked to show respect?

What if he was being asked to feel directly?

To stop filtering the encounter.

To stop standing one layer removed.

To meet the holy without protection.

Bare.

The more I sat with it, the more I saw how rarely the sacred arrives the way we expect.

We’re taught to look for spectacle.

Burning bushes.

Angels.

Lightning.

Big moments.

But most of my life-changing moments haven’t looked like that.

They’ve looked like:

A phone call that didn’t go through.

A plan that fell apart.

A door that wouldn’t open.

A delay.

A detour.

A slipped sandal.

Small things.

Inconveniences.

Interruptions.

Things I almost brushed off.

And yet — looking back — those were the exact places where my life quietly turned.

Not because something dramatic happened.

But because something subtle made me stop long enough to feel.

I think we misunderstand holy ground.

We imagine it as somewhere you travel to.

A temple.

A mountain.

A retreat center.

A pilgrimage site.

But what if holy ground isn’t a location?

What if it’s any place where you’re asked to be fully present?

Any place where the illusion drops.

Any place where your body says:

“Don’t rush past this.”

Because I’ve stood in cathedrals and felt nothing.

And I’ve stood barefoot in my own messy yard and felt everything.

The Divine doesn’t seem particularly concerned with aesthetics.

It shows up in gravel and weeds and dog hair and dust.

It shows up mid-thought.

Mid-step.

Mid-life.

It doesn’t wait until we’re prepared.

Sometimes it just slips the shoe off and says:

“You’re already here.”

There’s a kind of sacredness that doesn’t announce itself.

It doesn’t glow.

It doesn’t explain.

It just interrupts your autopilot.

And if you’re willing to pause — really pause — you realize:

The interruption was the invitation.

The stumble was the doorway.

The inconvenience was the anointing.

So now, when small things derail my day, I don’t rush to fix them quite as fast.

I ask a quieter question first:

Did the sandal just slip?

Is this moment trying to slow me down?

Is something asking for direct contact?

Is there holy ground here I’m about to walk past because it doesn’t look impressive enough?

Because more often than not, the sacred isn’t out there somewhere waiting for perfect conditions.

It’s right here.

Under your feet.

In the middle of your regular Tuesday.

In the pause you almost skipped.

Maybe holy ground isn’t where the bush burns.

Maybe it’s wherever you finally stop long enough to feel the dirt.

Bare.

Unfiltered.

Present.

And maybe the next time something small disrupts your pace —a missed call,

a canceled plan,

a shoe slipping off —

instead of cursing it…

you smile a little and think:

Oh.

I might be standing on something sacred.