Foot Washing

They arrived before me, eager to make the most of the cooler morning hours and a beach empty of crowds. Dressed in new running shoes and expensive exercise clothes, they walked far from the water with arms flailing wildly as they began their morning workout at a pace that prevented conversation or looking for shells. I, on the other hand, was dressed in only a bathing suit and tee shirt, and my bare feet only wanted to stroll. I had come to the beach for different kind of exercise.

In the gospels, there’s a story about Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. They were surprised by the humility and touched by the intimacy of such a gesture. Peter protested, of course, but, in the end, Jesus knelt in front of them with a bowl of water on the floor and a towel draped over his shoulder. It was a night of surprises, but as they left the upper room the disciples felt closer to Jesus than ever before.

I suppose I came to the beach in hopes God would wash my feet. Too often, I run through life far from the water, flailing my arms and unable to notice the world and people around me. But this morning, when I heard the waves call me from my bedroom, I rose early and went for a walk. Inching toward the shore, I felt overwhelmed by the intimacy of such a moment, just as I was fearful the waves would pull away if I drew close. So it is when unworthiness walks too close beside me.

A wave slid up the shore and covered my feet and legs with cool salt water. The wet sand gave way to my weight and my feet were enveloped in the wet sand. I paused and let another wave come, then another. Large clouds on the horizon took their morning stretch, and seagulls swooped searching for breakfast. A cool breeze traveled along the shore and glanced my cheek. I didn’t protest. I accepted the moment, accepted the gift, with opened arms.