I sat in the pedicure chair as the woman knelt and scrubbed my feet, sloughing off the dead skin that had calloused my heels, massaging my ankles and calves as the rollers in the massage chair worked their way up and down the knotted muscules in my neck and back. As my body relaxed, I became aware that there were tears rolling down my cheeks.
This wasn’t my thing. I was in my late twenties and had three children. At that point I had endured homelessness and miscarriage and anxiety attacks and dropping out of school and all manner of other things that I wouldn’t recognize for years to come. And I had never had a pedicure. That was something for “girly” girls, for girls who are spoiled and pampered and privileged. It wasn’t for girls like me, girls who work hard and serve others and save their money for things that mattered. Pedicures were frivolous expenses and did not fit into my envelope system. Until a friend invited me because she had a groupon, and I didn’t feel like I could say no. I had no idea that it would bring me to tears.
I wept for all the moments I longed to be cared for, but instead had cared for others. I wept for the guilt I felt because I hadn’t paid for this small pleasure. I wept because I had walked on these callouses and carried these knots for so long that I had stopped noticing they were even there, and being relieved of them was almost painful, like I was tearing off a piece of myself. I wept for this gift of friendship that I didn’t know I needed.
Peter wasn’t prepared for Jesus to wash his feet. He watched, one by one as his brothers submitted to having the Master serve them, figuring they were the kind of people who would let themselves be served instead of serving. They were the kind of men whose feet needed to be washed. He would rather go on with dirty feet than let Jesus kneel down in front of him and wash the dust from his toes. He had hung on the Teacher’s every word for three years, since that day his brother Andrew had come to him excitedly and said, “We have found the Messiah!” He’d nearly drowned trying to walk on the water to Jesus. Peter would go to the ends of the earth for Jesus, and there was no way he was going to let him stoop down like a servant and wash his feet.
“But Peter,” Jesus said. “I have to wash your feet, or you can’t be my disciple.”
As he placed his feet in Jesus hands, he felt the warm water pour over his toes. Jesus took his time, his calloused carpenter’s hands holding Peter’s dirty feet. His eyes began to well up as he realized there were no more preparations to make, no crowds to feed, no fish to catch, no one to hide from in this moment. In this moment, there was only him and his Lord, who had commanded him to sit still and allow himself to be cared for just a few minutes longer. All of his efforts, all of his hard work and deep devotion was useless in this moment. All that mattered was that he allow Jesus to take care of him.
Do you understand?
Do you understand that Jesus wants to wash your feet? Sit with him in the quiet moment before the meal, and allow Jesus to break through the need to keep going and keep doing and be okay with all of the stuff that has accumulated between your toes. Let Jesus gently take hold of your weary feet and wash them.
Let the sweet tears of relief roll down your cheeks as you give thanks to the God who would kneel down and wash the dirty feet of those who serve him, and who commands us to go and do likewise.
theostoria 