Angi Aymond

Beginning in sixth grade, I believed my toes were ugly. It was then, during a tumbling day of PE, that a school custodian, along with my PE teacher, told me that my toes looked like the head of a turtle. And then they laughed. Both of these men were kind. They just had no idea how fragile my little 11 year old heart might be.

I withdrew my toes from public that day, just like a turtle pulls his head inside his shell. I was almost 30 years old before I could wear opened-toe shoes again.

Sigh. (You can roll your eyes if you need to.)

It seems as though my turtle toes would have been better off hidden.

WARNING: Graphic details follow.  

I’ve had my left big toenail pulled from its bed 3 times. Yikes. I know.

The results were a damaged nail bed that would not allow my nails to grow correctly. The doctor called it toe trauma; I called it hideous.

Okay, enough of that.

This past February, after again, hiding my toes for 4 years, I had a procedure to surgically remove both nails and prevent the nails from growing back. Ever.

Because I had lost the one toenail 3 times, I thought I knew what to expect. I could not have been more mistaken!

Both the procedure and the healing were far worse than anticipated. During the seven weeks of healing, I learned a thing or two about the importance of toes. Especially the big toe.

First of all, our big toes give us balance. But funny enough, it’s a job that mostly goes unnoticed and unappreciated until there’s a problem.

But try sitting on the floor, or better yet, getting up from the floor without being able to use your big toe for balance. It’s not easy. And it’s not pretty. You might just roll around helplessly until someone finds you and lends you a hand.  That’s what I heard, anyway.

Secondly, our big toes propell us forward when we’re walking. Not only do we use the toe to push off, but it also carries the burden of about 40% of our body weight. Right?

But when the toe is injured and unable to bear the weight, our gait is thrown off, and we hobble. Some of us might wobble. Other parts of the body try to compensate, but that overcompensation results in pain.

And lastly, sometimes a big toe just wants to be a part. To look cute alongside it’s 4 other friends. Peeking through a pair of sandals or nestled in the sand.

Big toes are kind of a big deal.

And here’s where my mind began doing what it does; making comparisons.

In Protestant churches, we often refer to ourselves – the group of believers – the body of Christ. That’s both the local churches and the universal church, all believers.

In his first letter to the Corinthian church, Paul went into much detail regarding spititual gifts within the body of Christ, as well as the roles each part of the body might play. And the importance of each.

(You can read that here.)               1 Corinthians 12:22-31

I have served in the local church since I was twelve. (Yes. That’s a very long time.) As soon as anyone trusted me to do anything, I did that. 

Beginning in my late teens and early twenties, I’d found a well-suited place. In various roles through the next 30 years, my gift and my service changed only slightly, though my capacity grew in each season. I was a doer. Then, a leader, but always a doer. Much of the time, I doer-ed out loud. To no one’s surprise, my body part might have been considered a mouth. And I was happy being a mouth. (Still. No one is surprised.)

But now things are different. It’s been a strange decade plus 3 years, letting go. Finding a place. Rediscovering my place in the body.

And what I think I’ve discovered is that, though my gifts haven’t changed, my role has. I can no longer be the mouth.

I look around at my local church and see a place for me. I resist it because change is hard. But here and now, I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’m a big toe. Yes, it’s hard to be a toe when you’re used to being a mouth. But let me tell you what that looks like.

As a healthy big toe, I give balance. And the church needs balance. My experience and my insight offer an unnoticed balance. Unnoticed until it’s missing. So, my quiet presence is necessary.

As an encourager, I can propell others forward. From my vantage point, I can encourage many through experiences I’ve already walked. I can help steady others’ faith gait.

Sure, I could leave it for others to do, but then the Body might hobble. Or wobble. And suffer needless pain.

Thirdly, sometimes, I just might want to pull a few others together and hang out. Look cute. Find some common ground and create community.

I’m not going to lie. It’s hard becoming a big toe when you’ve always been a mouth. But it seems that perhaps the church needs a few healthy big toes, too.