Carlos Fentanes

Tuesday, December 25

Did you know there are more than a thousand ways of tying your shoes? Most people never give it a thought—until the laces hang loose, dragging through the dirt, or worse, until they trip. The shoelace is a small thing, but it betrays so much. A missed hole, a sloppy knot, and suddenly even the finest shoes look shabby. People notice. They might not say anything, but they notice, and they wonder: If you cannot take care of your laces, how will you take care of the road ahead?

It’s the same with that green cilantro leaf stuck to your front tooth after a meal. You could be speaking the most brilliant words of your life, but your listener will remember the leaf, not the speech. Small neglects carry great weight. They trip you when you least expect it, they pull attention away from the whole.

Your thoughts are like those laces. If they are left loose, dragging, or knotted in disorder, they collect dirt along the way. Resentment, envy, bitterness—like that cilantro leaf stuck to your teeth, no one will remember your cleverest ideas if they’re threaded through judgment or cruelty. And just as you would bend down to fix a lace before stepping onto a slippery street, you must tend to your thoughts. Retie them, straighten them, thread them with care. Give your mind and your heart the same patience and attention you would give the smallest, most ordinary things—because those are the things that reveal who you truly are.

You are here to shine. Tend the shoelaces of your soul, brush your teeth and your thoughts alike. The more care you take, the more your light reaches those who walk beside you.

Is there any task you want me to do? You always finished your messages with a task, now I feel empty if there’s no chore to do.

My examples enter directly into your heart that’s why a new task wasn’t necessary but you crave a task, as if structure were the knot that holds faith in place. Very well—here is your lace to retie:

Tomorrow, when you take your dog for a walk, leave the Birkenstocks behind. Wear shoes with laces, tie them neat and tight. Halfway through, one will come loose. Bend down, retie it—that’s my task, my messenger.

“I like that one — ‘Retie the laces of my soul.’ Exotic. Easy to hold in the mind. Same with the cilantro leaf — that image stuck.” I smiled, fingers worrying the rim of my coffee cup. “Where do you get these examples? They’re… original.”

Jorge folded his hands around a thin notebook. “I didn’t invent them. That wasn’t me. It was Her — Virgin Mary. These words don’t come from me. I’m only the instrument. What you’re reading is Her voice.”

“How can you be so sure?” I leaned forward, skeptical and curious at the same time. “Have you seen Her?”

His eyes drifted to the window, the light catching the thin line of his notebook, as if the sky might answer. “I can’t make you believe. I showed you the manuscripts because She insisted I give them to you. You were chosen by Her, the same as I was chosen to write them. That’s all I can say.”

“I’m writing a memoir about our encounters,” I said. “I want to describe where those manuscripts came from. Or”—I let the edge show—“I can tell the world you’re a curious man with a touch of madness who likes supernatural stories.” I shrugged and let out a small, brittle laugh. It’s my call.

Jorge’s jaw tightened. “Say whatever you want. But it wasn’t my decision to share these writings — it was Hers.”

“Fine.” I held up my hands. “I need a little more about you so my readers can decide whether to take this seriously.” I flipped open my notebook, heart quickening as I jabbed at a scribbled note. “Look — August 6th: ‘He was healing souls when he was dismissed and forced to retire.’ I wrote that down. You’ve carried that preacher’s tone for a long time. Maybe these manuscripts are your revenge, or just your way of staging a comeback.”

He snorted. “You tergiversate everything. I told you I’m a chemical engineer. I worked with tires — rubber — for a while, then I was hired by the shoe industry and helped develop a method for vulcanizing soles, not souls. I was curing soles—not healing souls. Vulcanizing is the word.” He paused, then added with a faint pride, “I spent thirty years making soles grip the earth better than most men’s prayers.”

I stared at him, the word ‘vulcanizing’ echoing like a riddle I couldn’t solve. Soles, not souls—and yet the distinction felt like a trick. I shifted, my frustration spilling out.

His smile returned, a little sheepish. “See? That’s the point. Language carries ideas in crooked ways. You won’t understand the whole idea until you live it. That’s why She gives these exercises.”

I sipped my coffee, disbelief bitter on my tongue, “How is cleaning the house or tying my shoes supposed to cure something as cruel as my mother’s Parkinson’s?”

He met my eyes. “Your mother’s hands shake, yes? Tying laces won’t stop that. But noticing the knot—really seeing it—changes how you carry the weight. You’ll understand sooner or later.”

The silence stretched, and only then did I notice the small tremor in his hands as he lifted his cup.

I let out a breath and watched a drop of coffee creep down the inside of my cup. “Exercises, huh? And the cilantro leaf is…?”

Jorge tapped the page as if the ink could explain itself. “An image. A doorway.”

I was defeated… by my own judgment and lack of words. For the first time I allowed myself to wonder whether I’d been invited through the door, or pushed. I wondered too whether writing him into my story was a theft—or a duty. Later, I would try to follow the thread, but for now my next assignment is to tie my shoes.

As I gathered my things, Jorge murmured, “Next week we need to review our plan to save democracy—I haven’t forgotten.

Jorge’s words lingered like a loose lace—democracy, he said, as if my mother’s trembling hands and a nation’s fraying threads were tied by the same knot. What was he really inviting me to mend?