I was brought up in Catholic school and I remember one special Friday where we had to wash the feet of a few nuns. I was in middle school at the time, and truly was honored to do it. I knelt down in front of my designated subject, took the small white rag and basin, and washed her feet. It was a humbling experience. It stuck with me, and still does into my early fifties.
I had my first pedicure when I was in my early forties. I’ve never gotten another. I felt bad for the Oriental gal knelt in front of me, slaving away at my cracked toe nails. I felt like she was a “servant” of some sort to me, and it felt bad. I even told her. She looked up at me and laughed. She said, “I make money this way.” I thought to myself, “So what? It doesn’t feel right that you are on your knees scraping away at my ugly feet. I feel bad for you.” Again, I only “thought” this. I didn’t express this to her because I was aware it might make her feel bad.
When I was in my thirties, I had hair down below my butt. it was literally 4 feet long. I thought that to be a real woman, you had to have really long hair. And what if Jesus came down from the heavens and asked me to wash his feet with my hair one day? If I butched it all off, how was I supposed to achieve that task?
I proudly grew my hair for over 20 years to that eye-catching length. When I went to the beauty parlor to have it washed, they made me KNEEL in the chair and turn around so it wouldn’t all go down the drain. One day, my daughter told me her friends made fun of her because her mother looked like a hippie. That day, I went and cut 3 feet off and picked her up from high school. My hair was now shoulder length. She gasped when she looked inside of the car. “SHEESH MOM, I didn’t mean for you to go do that!! What happened to your hair??”I laughed and told her it was probably time to get rid of it. It was freeing and I didn’t need it that long anymore.
If Jesus does come ask me to wash His feet, I’ll gladly do it. I’ll use my own jacket or something though. I hope He won’t mind.