When Your Sock Gets Holier Than You

When Your Sock Gets Holier Than You

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Some mornings in New Orleans feel like the Lord Himself brewed the air with a little sweet tea, jazz, and humidity. I woke up one such morning feeling sanctified. Not Sunday-service sanctified more like “let’s walk gentle and smile at strangers” kind of sanctified.

I brewed my tea (extra sweet, like any self-respecting New Orleanian), sat on the porch, and looked across the street at the park. The breeze flirted with the Spanish moss like it knew a secret. I whispered to the wind, “I’m gonna let the Lord use me today.”

But the Lord, and maybe the city, had jokes.

I got dressed, only to discover one sock had a hole big enough to qualify for its own zip code. But it was either that or my Mardi Gras socks, and I wasn't trying to look like a parade. So I wore the holey one figured maybe it matched my spirit.

First stop: corner market. A lady bumped me while reaching for hot sauce and didn’t say a word. I smiled and said, “Bless your heart,” which in New Orleans is both prayer and warning.

Next stop: the park across the street. Thought I’d sit on a bench and reflect. But before I could meditate on mercy, a pigeon dive-bombed my sweet tea and kept flying like it was on a mission from the Popeye’s drive-thru. I didn’t even get mad. I just stared at the sky and said, “Really, Lord? You sent the feathered usher?”

Back home, I burned the rice. The pot hissed like a baptist deacon who just got cut off in traffic. I opened the windows, let the smoke out, and laughed.

That’s when the lesson hit me: being spiritual ain’t about perfect socks or peaceful tea. It’s about finding joy in the mess, smiling when pigeons act possessed, and blessing folks who bump you like they’re playing bumper carts with no brakes.

Holiness sometimes comes with holes. But if your soul’s intact, the socks don’t matter.

---