By 10:00, my day took a positive turn. We were busy trying to get the ladies to come into the meeting room for group when I saw a few ladies putting towels on the backs of chairs. Another woman was standing next to a cart that had three buckets full of suds and a few mismatched bottles of lotion they grabbed from the donation room. I completely forgot today was Holy Thursday. Apparently, it's a tradition at Mary's Place to have a foot-washing on Holy Thursday.
Now, for those of you that don't know, I was born with a slight birth defect in my feet that caused my toes to develop differently from most people's (see cutie-patootie picture below). I don't know the technical name for it, nor have I ever really cared to find out. I've always been pretty proud of my toes, having inherited them from my grandma. I still wear flip-flops, and I don't mind people asking questions about them, making up different stories for the kids at work about how they got that way - the most recent being that a shark bit them off before I beat the shark up. The moral of the story is always that you should listen to me because I beat up a shark once.
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But while I'm perfectly comfortable having people see my feet (which I've come to think are pretty adorable), I've never been that comfortable with having people touch them. I'm always worried about what they'll think; if they'll be grossed out, if they won't want to touch them, if they'll have all these different thoughts about how they got that way or if there's something wrong with me. So instead of enjoying the opening prayer and worship song for the service, I was taking that time to comfort myself with thoughts about how this was really just for the guests, and the staff wouldn't be expected or allowed to participate. Those thoughts both comforted and disappointed me. Because while I was nervous, there was still a part of me that wanted to participate. Then I looked down and saw that my coworkers were barefoot. So, I guess the whole, "I'm staff and this is for the clients" thing wasn't gonna work.
For all my worrying, I ended up being the first person whose feet were washed. A kind older woman whose name I still don't know half-knelt and half-fell down in front of me, placed my feet in the bucket and began to lovingly massage my feet in the soapy water. It was then I felt that still small voice we sometimes find very easy to ignore nudge its way into my internal monologue. And I was reminded that Jesus did this for all of his disciples, even Judas. The creator of the universe, the Son of God knelt down in front of the men he loved, knowing all of their flaws, and took the time to wash their feet. I have to imagine he didn't just half-heartedly splash a little water on their feet, but that he took time to wash each one in a loving, personal way. I was also reminded that God gave me my feet. He gave me my little tiny toes, and he loved them. He loved me. And it was in that moment that I saw Christ in the middle-aged woman kneeling before me. I don't know if she knew that her hands were God's hands, but as she gently toweled them off, and took the time to rub lotion into my sore heels and tired calf muscles, I could feel the presence of God.
I guess the big take-away from this is that God really loves us, flaws and all. And I'm not just talking about the physical flaws. I'm talking about all those things you try to hide from Him. All those things you try to hide from yourself. I don't care what anyone says; I don't believe there's anything you can do to make God stop loving you. There was a long time in my life where I thought God wouldn't forgive me for the things I'd done. I felt like I had asked for forgiveness for the same things too many times, and that one of those times I would ask Him to forgive me and He'd just get fed up with me. "This? Again?!" I was afraid of running out of chances. But I honestly think God looks at our sins more like wounds that need healing than bad behavior that needs punishing. And yeah, sometimes the healing hurts. I remember all too clearly getting a big splinter in my hand while playing at Camp Aldersgate as a little kid. It was so deep, my dad had to dig it out with tweezers. It hurt so bad to get it out, but it couldn't stay in my hand. It would just get infected, and I'd be worse of in the long run. My dad didn't yell at me for getting hurt. He patiently cradled my tiny hand in his big one and painstakingly worked at it until he got it out. I could see how much he hated to cause me any pain, but he knew leaving me like that would just hurt me more later. Just like that, God heals our wounds, but sometimes the healing hurts. But He's willing to go through that pain with us; to gently cradle us in His arms and love us through it. Sometimes, that means the pain getting worse before it gets better. Sometimes that means God getting down on your level and helping you to dig what's hurting you out of your life.
And sometimes that means God becoming man, putting on the flesh of a humble servant, not coming alongside you, but coming as a servant before you to wash your feet.
