Witten by Kara about 1 week ago, but delayed by her technologically challenged Dad!
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Two days ago I received an extraordinarily humbling lesson in foot washing. I have always found the story of Jesus washing his disciples' feet to both deeply moving and quite imperative. However, I realized how deep my own pride went when this week it was not I that was asked to wash the feet of another, but rather it was my own feet that were washed.
My two closest girlfriends, sisters named L. P. and P. H., came by my room after dinner on Wednesday, and I was quite happy to sit with them on the floor of my room for a bit. The older one, P. H., all of a sudden stood up, smiled, and said, “I'm going to wash your shoes.” I followed her gaze to my shoes sitting just outside my room. My really, really dirty shoes. My chacos. My four year old chacos. My chacos that still carried the dust of Egypt, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Israel, Germany, the Netherlands, and Thailand on them. My chacos that have forged rivers and sunken deep in the stickiest mud with only ever the slightest rinsing afterward. Because, after all, they are chacos, and we all know chacos are meant for the dirt. And my rubber Beans. The ones I only use when I fear getting stuck in the mud in my chacos.
I blushed and immediately told her not to. No worries, I would wash them myself. But now L. P. was standing, and the two of them were calling to the Shan couple that also lives in my house. Now they were all telling me that P. H. and L. P. were going to wash my shoes. B., the husband who speaks very good English, motioned to my dusty chacos (really, they weren't even that bad, just dusty, because there hadn't been much mud for a while) and said, “Shan women will look at those and think you are lazy.”
I tried to tell them then I would just have to start washing my shoes, but I didn't need someone else to do it for me. I was so embarrassed at the thought of someone else washing my shoes, the very thing I wear on the lowest part of my body, in a culture where feet are considered worse than merely dirty. However, P.K., the wife, handed P. H. and L. P. the detergent and the scrub brush, and the two of them took me to the shower and taught me to wash my shoes. Really they did all the work and only let me watch, as I stood their barefoot on the muddy cement. They scrubbed and scrubbed years of dirt off those shoes. I had forgotten what a vibrant purple and green my chacos once were.
I had also forgotten what it meant to let someone give a gift that required immense humility and self-sacrifice on their part. I felt utterly awkward to be served so. Humility is contagious, and their humility humbled me deeply. If only I could explain how low feet are considered here, how careful one must be to never point your feet at people or places of respect, and how very dirty the dirt roads make feet/shoes here. If only I could explain this, my deep mortification would make sense. For just a moment, P. H. am and L. P. acted as Christ to me, and I, like Peter, did all I could to prevent their act of service. I really have so much to learn about receiving generosity. These two girls, who have certainly never heard the story of Christ's foot washing, may never know how they stretched me and grew me in this one act of service, but I will never forget it.
Two days ago I received an extraordinarily humbling lesson in foot washing. I have always found the story of Jesus washing his disciples' feet to both deeply moving and quite imperative. However, I realized how deep my own pride went when this week it was not I that was asked to wash the feet of another, but rather it was my own feet that were washed.
My two closest girlfriends, sisters named L. P. and P. H., came by my room after dinner on Wednesday, and I was quite happy to sit with them on the floor of my room for a bit. The older one, P. H., all of a sudden stood up, smiled, and said, “I'm going to wash your shoes.” I followed her gaze to my shoes sitting just outside my room. My really, really dirty shoes. My chacos. My four year old chacos. My chacos that still carried the dust of Egypt, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Israel, Germany, the Netherlands, and Thailand on them. My chacos that have forged rivers and sunken deep in the stickiest mud with only ever the slightest rinsing afterward. Because, after all, they are chacos, and we all know chacos are meant for the dirt. And my rubber Beans. The ones I only use when I fear getting stuck in the mud in my chacos.
I blushed and immediately told her not to. No worries, I would wash them myself. But now L. P. was standing, and the two of them were calling to the Shan couple that also lives in my house. Now they were all telling me that P. H. and L. P. were going to wash my shoes. B., the husband who speaks very good English, motioned to my dusty chacos (really, they weren't even that bad, just dusty, because there hadn't been much mud for a while) and said, “Shan women will look at those and think you are lazy.”
I tried to tell them then I would just have to start washing my shoes, but I didn't need someone else to do it for me. I was so embarrassed at the thought of someone else washing my shoes, the very thing I wear on the lowest part of my body, in a culture where feet are considered worse than merely dirty. However, P.K., the wife, handed P. H. and L. P. the detergent and the scrub brush, and the two of them took me to the shower and taught me to wash my shoes. Really they did all the work and only let me watch, as I stood their barefoot on the muddy cement. They scrubbed and scrubbed years of dirt off those shoes. I had forgotten what a vibrant purple and green my chacos once were.
I had also forgotten what it meant to let someone give a gift that required immense humility and self-sacrifice on their part. I felt utterly awkward to be served so. Humility is contagious, and their humility humbled me deeply. If only I could explain how low feet are considered here, how careful one must be to never point your feet at people or places of respect, and how very dirty the dirt roads make feet/shoes here. If only I could explain this, my deep mortification would make sense. For just a moment, P. H. am and L. P. acted as Christ to me, and I, like Peter, did all I could to prevent their act of service. I really have so much to learn about receiving generosity. These two girls, who have certainly never heard the story of Christ's foot washing, may never know how they stretched me and grew me in this one act of service, but I will never forget it.
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