It had been a long day and it was our last evening church service of the month. Dusk engulfed us as each woman on my team began to feel the frustration. We were supposed be home by dark. This same situation had just happened the previous night; we arrived well after dinner was supposed to be served.
The dry smell of the dirt floor filled my nostrils as I exhaled deeply from frustration. The pastor of the church began to speak and all my flesh wanted to do was roll my eyes. 'Come one man. Just let us go home. It's been a long day,' ran through my head over and over as he continued talking in a choppy English I barely understood.
Then it hit me.
A woman was standing behind him holding some chapati and some coke.
The pastor then said, "I want to wash your feet and send you on the rest of your race. I also want to take communion together."
Tears welled in my eyes as I was humbled. He lifted each of my red stained feet out of my Tevas and into a bucket of water. I was humbled to be a nagging brat and then a man want to bless me in such a way. I was floored. If only he knew what I had just been thinking. If only he knew how stubborn I am.
I was the one who was supposed to be serving these people not the other way around. I came to wash people's feet. Yet I realize more and more that in serving is when we are served the most.
And I prayed to God that I never take for granted what He is doing right in front of me. That I might always stay present and not start hoping for what is next.
