Love Measured in Shoe Leather

By 1944, the Weihsien internment camp near Weifang, China, had stripped its prisoners down to almost nothing. Among the roughly 1,800 Allied civilians held by the Japanese was Eric Liddell — the Scottish sprinter whose refusal to run on Sunday and stunning 400-meter gold at the 1924 Paris Olympics had made him a household name. Twenty years removed from that triumph, Liddell was a missionary with a failing body and dwindling possessions.

When Liddell noticed a barefoot Chinese boy, he unlaced his own running shoes — perhaps the last tangible link to his Olympic glory — and gave them away. A man who had once run for gold now walked on bare ground so a child could walk in comfort.

Liddell died in that camp on February 21, 1945, just months before liberation. Fellow internees remembered not his speed but his staggering generosity — giving away food rations, organizing games for children, tutoring students, surrendering whatever he had to those in greater need.

The apostle John asks a piercing question: "If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person?" (1 John 3:17). Liddell answered that question with shoe leather. He saw need, and he gave what he had.

The challenge for us is not matching an Olympian's sacrifice. It is whether we will notice the person standing right in front of us — and open our hands, even when we have little left to give.