Although it’s been a while since I’ve posted on this blog forum, and this feels a bit random, I felt God asking me to write and share this story now. So in humility, hilarity and obedience… here is a story of the humility, hilarity and leadership of God.
I don’t like people touching my feet. It’s not a hygiene thing or an embarrassment thing as much as it sends a feeling of nausea through my stomach and a woozy dizziness through my head when the sole of my foot is touched with human hands. Gross. Barf. Even the thought of it makes me shudder.
I tried to put it behind me a couple of times since realizing this wasn’t particularly normal and those two pedicures each resulted in claw marks in the arm rests and generous tips for the poor woman holding my twitching and tense leg in place.
So, after a particularly confusing weekend with my team in Swaziland, my reaction to a foot washing ceremony announcement was a polite, severe, hard pass. Two beautiful, creative and loving woman of God were hosting a woman’s day for us fellow racers in the bush of Africa. Three of our men decided they wanted to serve, not only by setting up and tearing down the day’s activities but they wanted to be the ones to wash our feet.
It was Month two and I was still getting to know these people, so I wasn’t anxious for them to see the panic on my face or the ugly, clawing, stubborn, dont-f-with-me attitude those at home knew well, but I did my best. I told them that I loved the sentiment and thought it was an amazing idea and I would be happy to watch. Or pray! It didn’t have any deeper meaning, I explained. It was nothing personal, definitely nothing spiritual, I just don’t like people touching my feet. I didn’t want to kick anyone in the face or barf all over them. I offered to just get a big hug from everyone instead.
See Below.
Yeah.
I put it behind me as a mysterious and sweet day that I had somehow survived and tried not to think much more about it.
It’s the end of Month 5 and my dear friend and alumni squad leader pulls me aside to tell me that God has asked her to go around and wash the feet of every person on my team that night. She’s the purple shirt at my shoulder in the above picture helping me keep it together. She’s telling me ahead of time partially to pre-apologize for my discomfort, partially so that I can collect myself and mostly so that I will pray for her. Strength and peace and a feeling of complete surrender to the ‘rightness’ of this act fills us.
That evening she explains to the team that after serving our squad for the past 5 months, God has put it on her heart that her final act in leadership will be this, washing our dirty feet. She explains that Jesus served in authority and servanthood, that’s how she has tried to lead and that how she hopes we will all lead when she’s gone. Singing worship songs as she works, my physical discomfort is overwhelmed with the mental, emotional and spiritual beauty of that moment. I may have also held my breath the entire time and she knowingly worked rapidly.
Less than a week later I am asked to squad lead and knowing that it is God’s plan and purpose, I accept with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. At the final night of debrief before the leadership team goes home, these sweet humans announce that part of passing the gauntlet from alumni leaders to raised-up leaders is going to be them washing our feet. Without preparation and with 45 pairs of eyes on me, I close my eyes and smile.
Two months later, my mom is in India. The last night of the Parent Vision Trip we have set up a worship night that includes communion, prayer and yup you guessed it, foot washing. The night was powerful in many ways and the act children and parents washing each other’s feet added a depth to the experience of love and service.
But seriously, how have I gone 26 years of life without this weird Christian ritual only to have it occur 5 times in the past 7 months?!? (Oh yes, in Mozambique we held a woman’s event for the woman who served at the ministry we had called home. We told testimonies, served drinks, ate cookies, played with kids and gave manicures and pedicures that included washing feet. These strong woman deserved to have someone take care of them for a few minutes and the intimate act of washing feet and painting nails felt like an appropriate display of love, gratitude and appreciation for all that they were and all that they do. Also, it was Month One of this crazy trip and we were constantly hyped-up and looking for ways to serve everyone around us.)
I mean, I knew that Jesus performed this task for his disciples just hours before his own death. I knew that this symbol of service and love was powerful for those dusty old men 2,000 years ago. I knew that we are called to be like Jesus in that we are supposed to wash the feet of others. We are called to get down on our knees and scrub away the dirt and pain of their day or life. I was comfortable down there doing the washing – I can identify with that position of humility. Honestly, I even saw my willingness to sit down and ride the rollercoaster of revulsion as a generosity for each person who then experienced the humility and service of Jesus. I had silently participated in what God asked them to do and not taken it away in my own discomfort.
I was a great squad mate.
It is Month 11 and I am knocking at the door of Heaven. (I may never be able to fully explain this but I’ll share my experience and you can make of it what you will.)
I am there, in every prayer, worship and quiet time I can see this most ornate doorway and feel the courts of Heaven right there – tangible yet distance. I know, deep in my spirit I know, that God has called me in. And yet for far too long I feel myself in that same position. I can hear the music and sense the nearness of the full presence God but after some time, I being to doubt. Maybe He doesn’t want me in there after all? Maybe access into God’s heart is reserved for the few…. the special? Maybe God doesn’t even see me out here knocking?
I didn’t tell anyone about this. Near the end of our last month in El Salvador, Gabby prayes for each team member and gives me this prophetic word:
“‘yet who knows whether you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this…’ All I see is a woman breaking through a door to enter the Presence of a King.”
and the notes said other incredibly encouraging and amazing things from God and his beautiful daughter Gabby but they don’t need to be shared right now.
So I go upstairs to the empty church sanctuary that evening with a sense of determination. Everyone else has gone to bed as I blast worship music into my headphones.
“Okay God,” I tell Him, “Let’s get real. You want me here. You have invited me here and you told Gabby to tell me to keep on knocking so here I am – and I will stay here as long as it takes. You don’t get to bring me this close, tell me to continue and then NOT answer. That’s not in your character, that’s not who you are, that’s not going to happen. I’m staying right here. I’ll wait.” I tell God as I pace and leap and sing and stand and praise in worship and expectation. I feel myself embody Psalm 84:10 “I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked” as I decide I’d rather wait here then go anywhere else.
In a vision, I am there. I can again see the doorway, now open at my left hand side and the golden light pouring out, filling up the space in front of me. I want to go in but instead I stand there watching and waiting, holding my breath as my heart thumps wildly in my chest. And Jesus walks up, wearing a iridescent white tunic and He looks at me with a smile.
Without a word, He kneels. My hand stretches out to stop him but I’m suddenly uncertain of which direction I want it to move in. I am determined to not stop Jesus Himself from doing whatever He wants with me. I am certain that there is no piece of me, my life, my heart or my feet that I want to pull away from Christ. And with water and love and tenderness that pours out of his very being, He picks up and begins to wash each of my feet. He dries them on his own clothing and it is here in this space outside of time that I realize it.
We can’t fully enter the courts of Heaven unless we first accept Jesus’ service for us and in us. Deeper than the humility required to get down on our knees is the humility required to watch the Lord and Creator of the Universe get down on his in front of you. To feel every fiber of your bones scream out at the injustice and to ride the wave of panic in your stomach because you know you don’t deserve a second of His time or attention let alone, this. To accept that His banner over you is pure love and that there is nothing He will not do to have you in his presence forever. To accept that sometimes, all we need to do, all we can do, is sit still and let Him work.
There may be parts of your life that you are holding back from God’s hands. For a multitude of reasons, perhaps you think that particular item you can handle yourself, or you are embarrassed it exists in the first place, or you have an inexplicable discomfort with anyone’s hands on that part of your heart. God died for that part. That particular piece of you that you don’t want to acknowledge or deal with or hand over – He went to the cross with that territory on his mind, determined to see it justified, purified, brought to life and put on display before his Father in Heaven. He washed it with his blood and he wants to show it off!
With eyes that radiate pure love and the unfathomable recognition that He is somehow proud of me, Jesus then stands tall, holding my hand he turns and escorts me in.
So thank you foot washers and extended World Race family. For letting me serve you all but also for serving me. For demonstrating time and again that true authority is found in humility, that leadership is always the first to kneel, and that there are no pieces of my heart or life that God is satisfied with leaving untouched. (And that Sneaky Jesus will walk up at the end of every story to reveal that He was actively orchestrating the entire thing all along). 6 months out, I have nothing but gratitude for the ways you loved and the ways your stories bumped up against and became entangled with mine. But please don’t take this as an open invitation to touch my feet.
“But I, by your great love, can come into your house” psalm 5:7
