Every New Year's Day, my local church sponsors a group of ladies with a foundation called CARITAS. These ladies come from all kinds of backgrounds, mostly rough ones. Many have been abused or have various drug and substance abuse related issues. Some of them have been thrown out of their homes and shunned by their family.
These women, more so than some of us, know what it is to crave love because they have been rejected for so long. Many understand the desperate need we all have for hope. Most of them are Christians already or very open to hearing about the Gospel.
Over the course of New Year's Day, church members are invited to come and play board games with these women, eat with them, talk to them, and fellowship with them. This year I decided to go.
A team of volunteers served the ladies lunch and then one of the ladies volunteering pulled out a bag of nail polish. She asked if anyone wanted their nails painted. At first, some of the CARITAS ladies were cautious, but the more we talked to them and pampered them, the more they opened up about themselves.
The stories shared in that room are not ones that I can share on this blog, but needless to say, many of them were heart-wrenching.
In the middle of all this, one of the CARITAS ladies asked if I might be able to paint her toe nails. Up until that point, the lady who brought the nail polish and I had only been painting fingernails.
One thing ya'll should know is that I hate feet. I hate touching feet. I hate feet being on me. I hate the feel of feet and the smell of feet. Feet just are not my thing. I am happy to paint my own toe nails, but in that moment where I was asked to paint someone else's toe nails, I balked.
In my head, there was a battle that went on. Every excuse imaginable came to mind as to why I could not and would not paint these women's feet. The arguments in my head were silenced, however, when I felt the Holy Spirit remind me of the story of Jesus washing His disciples feet.
Jesus. The Man who died on a cross for me. Jesus. My Creator and Redeemer. Jesus. The whole reason I was even in this place. Jesus. The Man who washed dirty feet.
In that moment, shame engulfed me. As long as I could be comfortable, I was willing to serve, but the minute I was asked to do something that might be hard for me, I made up excuses.
Jesus is the most selfless and loving person to ever walk this earth, yet He never demanded thanks or applause. He took on the form of a servant, though He holds all authority in Heaven and earth in His hands.
If Jesus could wash dirty feet, was it really too much to ask for me to paint these women's feet? Is any task that I am asked to do beyond me in light of the fact that Jesus washed feet and even died for me?
Sometimes Christ washes our feet and sometimes He calls us to be His hands and feet and serve others.
With that conviction on my heart, I knelt down and painted these women's feet. Over six women asked if I could paint their feet that day. Tears streamed down many of their faces as I painted their nails. One woman said that she felt like Jesus was painting her feet.
I think that day, He may have been.
"When he had finished washing their feet, he put on his clothes and returned to his place. “Do you understand what I have done for you?” he asked them. “You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and rightly so, for that is what I am. Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. Very truly I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them."
John 13:12-17
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