Metaphors

Last winter I made a huge stride forward in my adjustment to life as a displaced person. I bought myself rain boots.

Years ago when we were living in Kyiv, I found an adorable pair of rain boots. They were perfect for keeping my feet dry in a city where everyone dresses up to leave home. They were short, just covering my ankles, so they didn’t make me look like a farmer or a small child getting ready to go puddle jumping. They were made from transparent rubber and lined with delicate pink, floral lace. They complimented all my outfits—easily pairing with jeans, but also super cute with a skirt.

When my six children and I evacuated from Kyiv in February 2022, I took my rain boots with me, because late winter can mean rain and slush and mud. We relocated to the city of Ternopil in Western Ukraine, where we stayed in guest rooms at a YWAM facility. Russia invaded Ukraine four days later. On the second day of the war, when I hurriedly packed our bags to flee the country, I forgot my adorable rain boots.

In Ukraine, everyone removes their shoes when they enter a home. In keeping with this tradition, the building where we were staying had shoe shelves on the ground floor, and everyone removed their footwear before ascending to the guest rooms on the higher floors. The morning we fled was chilly and dry, so I didn’t even think about my rain boots. Instead, I automatically donned my warm winter boots just before we left the building. Amid the confusion of seven people grabbing their shoes, I never noticed my rain boots sitting quietly on a bottom shelf.

I didn’t realize my loss until the first rainy day in Budapest, over three weeks later. I was sad, but at least I knew where they were. It didn’t even occur to me to replace them. People were going in and out of Ukraine on missions of mercy, and each time someone I knew traveled from Budapest to Ternopil, I’d ask them to go to the YWAM building to look for my boots. No one ever found them. Eventually, I realized they were gone for good.

I admit, it was a minor loss. The boots didn’t even have sentimental value. But every time I had to go out in the rain without proper footwear, I experienced real grief. My soggy feet became a symbol of all that had been stolen from us, of every wrong we had endured because of this war. I used to love walking in the rain. Now I dreaded it.

But no matter how many times I soaked my feet to the skin, I couldn’t bring myself to replace my rain boots. First of all, the only shops I frequented were grocery stores, so I didn’t know where to find rain boots. Secondly, I was sure I’d never find boots as cute as those I’d lost. I was honest enough with myself to know these “reasons” were just excuses not to move forward with my life because I didn’t want to cut ties with my past, but that didn’t give me the strength to do what was needed.

But after writing an entire book to process my grief and pain, I finally found the emotional resources to log into Amazon’s German store and choose a new pair of rain boots to be delivered to me in Hungary. As I suspected, I couldn’t find anything as cute as the boots I lost, but surprisingly, I like my new ones just as much. They are low-rise and the perfect shade of plum to match my coat. They have become a symbol of learning to thrive in this new life. Many things will never be the same as before the war, but that doesn’t mean our life can’t be just as good.

Now the weather has changed from the baking heat of summer to the crisp and sometimes wet days of autumn. Instead of dreading walking in the rain, I’m looking forward to it again.