my feet. Their crusty callousness reminds me I can never add enough balm to completely smooth my journey. They reflect my victories and defeats even as they hold my body in tenuous balance. I hide them in colorful socks, but they snag the fibers causing holes. My worn-down soles attest to my soul’s burdens.
This week in Max Lucado’s book Grace, I read about Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. When I put myself in the disciples’ shoes, I recoil. Jesus kneeling at my feet makes me shudder. I pull my feet away and sit on them until He has to sit on me and wrestle them toward Him. Then, under His firm gentle grasp, I feel Him wash my soiled, cracked skin. He massages each callous, knowing how each one formed. His hands are the balm smoothing them baby-soft. Every defeat reveals the victory of His presence in every race. My child-like faith dances barefoot in the streets, showing off His pedicure of grace. When I lose my balance and fall on my worn-down soles, He lifts me up again, soul’s burdens, feet, and all.