I woke up one Thursday morning to a fair amount of commotion outside my window. I was late for breakfast at this point, (which happened more often than I’d like to admit) so I opened the curtains to see where all this noise was coming from.
Outside were five picnic tables, each with flowers arranged on them. The girls of the squad sat at these tables as Danny and Eric, dressed like waiters, served pancakes with strawberries on top (side note: I really, really love strawberries). Frank Sinatra played from a speaker and people were swing dancing in the space between the tables. What in the world?
A little dumbstruck, I took an open seat and Eric brought me a cup of coffee. From talking with some of the other girls, I figured out that the nine guys had planned an entire day for the girls – they had gotten up at some ridiculous hour to start making breakfast, and there was more to come.
At dinner, they pulled out all the stops. The space outside the kitchen turned into a five-star restaurant, and everyone dressed up. The guys were committed to the waiter act, and at one point Zach appeared as the “manager.” After dessert, I assumed that the festivities were over, and hung out on a rock with one of my squadmates. We were there for a while, and as our conversation was wrapping up, I noticed that all-squad worship had started. I discreetly found a spot to stand, and that’s when I saw something else going on. The guys were taking the girls into the dining room one by one and washing their feet.
I internally panicked, and contemplated sneaking away to hide in my room until this was over. I wasn’t sure what caused such a knee-jerk reaction – maybe I was stick of being “served” all day, or I felt it unnecessary, or maybe I just don’t like people touching my feet, but for whatever reason, I didn’t want to be part of it. I sat there dreading the moment I would have to go.
Jace approached me, and I was still freaking out a little bit. I didn’t think before opening my mouth, and I refused to let him take me in. “I appreciate you guys so much, know that I do, but please don’t make me do this.” He reached out to touch my shoulder, but I pulled away. He handled the situation tactfully, which is a natural part of Jace’s character – I value him so much as a brother and he’s an overall awesome guy. He didn’t press me any further, I hugged him, and that was the end of it. Or so I thought.
Immediately after this interaction I was filled with remorse. Why did I think I had the right to shut down a genuine gesture of kindness just because it made me uncomfortable? I was ashamed of myself for the way I had acted and how I had treated Jace. After thinking on this for a few minutes, I thought about going back to him, apologizing, and asking for a second chance.
That’s when I hesitated. I had already rejected him once, and therefore I had absolutely no right to ask that. So I sat and listened to the worship, letting the music pass over my head without really participating. I had really screwed this one up, missed out on a shared squad experience, and probably fractured a friendship. I didn’t think too highly of myself in that moment.
And then something hit me. I had spent the better part of the past hour listening to a squadmate’s testimony and telling her mine. In both of our stories a crucial shared element was redemption, and along with that redemption second chances that we didn’t deserve but received anyway.
I had a brief flashback to a fateful day in March four years previously, when I sat in my college auditorium begging God to take me back, after I’d spent months running away and not believing. I knew full well that I had no right to ask, and yet had no doubt in my mind that he would honor my request, because Jesus my savior will rescue all who ask.
Jace represented Jesus in more that one way that night.
My brain may as well have imploded after this realization. I discreetly got Jace’s attention the next time he walked by, apologized for being a stubborn idiot, and told him that I had changed my mind and wanted him to wash my feet.
So he did. And it was weird. Like I said, I’m not a huge fan of people touching my feet, and they were pretty gross after walking around in sandals for three weeks. I also didn’t feel worthy – who was I to have some guy wash my feet?
Here’s the thing: Jesus, the flawless Son of God, washed the feet of twelve guys, and theirs were probably much more disgusting than mine. On top of that, he knew full well one of those guys was about to turn him over to the authorities within a day.
None of us are worthy. That’s the beauty of it.
