Their Feet

I used to wash the feet of women living on the streets.

Every Wednesday, for a few years, a group of volunteers would go to the shelter I worked at and we would do the three "c"'s -- coffee, cookies and conversation -- in a small back room. It was my job to share the Word, so each week, I shared a message, often telling of my own trauma and how God had, and continued to, redeem it. I shared hope. And you know what they did? They let me wash their feet. And what an amazing gift it was, for them to be vulnerable enough to actually let me bend down to wash and massage their feet.

Their feet that walked all day long, shuffling from one place to the next. Their feet that in the winter suffered from the chilly wind and rain that froze them. Their feet, hard and cracked. Their feet that had to carry them when they ran for safety. Their feet that bore so much weight, from the bags that held all their belongings and the weight of all their troubles. Those Wednesday nights were a chance for their feet to have at least a few moments of being tenderly cared for. And, so I wonder, how often do we bend down to touch others in the hard and cracked places? And, similarly, how often do we let others touch the places that carry so much weight within us?

I cry thinking about it. About the relationships formed. About the intimacy we shared. In a back room of a homeless shelter, a group of unlikely people broke "cookies", drank "coffee" and heard the Word of the Lord. That is by far one of the greatest pictures of the Kingdom of Heaven I have ever witnessed. All thanks, to their feet.