Everything I saw was either too white or too beige, the heel was too high or too low, the fit too narrow or too wide — or I simply didn’t like the style. And so, the exhausting search went on. And on.

Finally, finally, after I’d spent an illegal number of hours perusing the shelves, when I was sure I’d seen every last piece of footwear ever crafted by mankind and was just about ready to give up, I found that elusive pair. The shoes were just right. Right shade, right height, right fit, right look. Perfection in a box.

The wedding day arrived, the kallah looked dreamy, and the early hours of the day went off without a hitch. We were all set for a beautiful night.

Until, an hour in, the heel on my right shoe snapped clear off. One second I was blissfully strolling the hall, the next I was struggling to regain my balance after my foot unexpectedly dropped two inches.

Startled bewilderment gave way to utter horror as reality sank in. There I was, at my sister’s wedding, perfect gown, perfect makeup, minutes to the chuppah… and no shoes.

I hobbled around the hall, frantically calling anybody and everybody who could possibly own a light-colored pair of shoes in my size. But dead end followed dead end. The chuppah loomed, and my desperation mounted. Then, finally, a family friend came through, rushing over with a pair of shoes. Weak with relief, I took the treasure from her hands.

The color was a few shades off. The heel was too low. The style was unlike anything I would have chosen.

The fit was perfect.

In my immense relief at having found shoes — whole, wearable, serviceable shoes — the fit was all that mattered. I dubiously studied my reflection for a minute, and then, as the music heralded the chassan’s arrival, promptly forgot all about my footwear.

I laughed and cried and danced the night away, utterly oblivious to the shoes on my feet. It was only at the very end, when I changed into blessed, blessed flats, that I noticed the shoes again. Solid, functional, wonderful shoes that had saved the day. In the wrong color, style, and height. Which, I realized, hadn’t mattered all that much.

And then I learned that the petty little details really don’t matter, and I quit stressing about shoes and the like.

Nope, I didn’t.

I don’t even want to.

I want to be able to stress about shoes. And overbaked cookies and endless cloudy days and slow computers and tissues in the laundry. I want the petty little details to matter. Because when they don’t, it’s usually because something is broken.

So I bemoan the cookies and sigh about the weather and grumble about the computer and shake my head in exasperation over the laundry.

But maybe, here and there, I’ll remember a broken heel, a time when the details ceased to matter. And I’ll celebrate the fact that I can bemoan, sigh, and grumble about the petty little details. Because that only happens when the shoe is whole.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 816)