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Year Two, Day 336: "By Washing Feet"




I just made it home from my gig in Salem.

The pastor had four new tires for his car.  No blowout on the freeway for us!

I had a present waiting for me at the church. This pastor has been blessed with a sense of humor! I had a gift basket containing a Seinfeld DVD collection, including the episode with the "Soup Nazi" and a soup spoon engrave with the words "No soup for you!"

Also a package of soup, and a bowl filled with $75 in $1 coins for the service I had missed!





If you recall, the last time I was scheduled to play at this church, the pastor had a blowout on the freeway. We never made it to the church. And it was a Lenten worship service and soup supper. I had been so looking forward to that soup! (Lutherans are known for their delicious soups, in case you were wondering!)

But on to the service.  A profound experience. 

I must say that this was one of the most moving services I have ever played.

I told the pastor, (and excuse the corny cliche) that it was not a service, it was an experience.

It is hard to put words to this.

The music was beautiful.  ("The Holden Evening Prayer") The scripture was profound. The silence stirred my soul.  They had a washing of the feet portion.  The message was heavy on washing of the feet. On the drive down, we had a lively discussion.  I am most humbled that I could keep up with a theological conversation with a learned pastor! Me!

But as we talked about Maundy Thursday, I mentioned how I thought the story of how Mary annointed Jesus' feet with oil and then dried his feet with her hair was one of the most beautiful stories in the Bible. He agreed, and actually that was part of his sermon. He pondered that Jesus himself could have been so humbled by this act, that it inspired him to wash the feet of his disciples at the last supper.

As we talked about serving others with humility, my own son came to mind. And a thought formed in my mind. Before thinking it through, I told him about my relationship with my adult son. The man that resists my mothering him as an adult. The boy that always wanted to appear "tough".  

This is the man, that whenever we have lived together, has softly asked if I can rub his feet at night.  He always said his feet hurt.  I pretended to be slightly annoyed. But we had a routine. It was how we bonded. And how he allowed me to nurture him. Even when he was a grown a*s man.

I would put a movie in, sit on the floor by his bed and rub his rough, stinky man feet. He would often ask if I could put lotion on them because they were so dry.

I miss these times. I actually told him this yesterday.  He told me he did too.

And as I rode in the car with my pastor friend, to a Maundy Thursday service, I thought of my son. I thought of Mary. I thought of Jesus. And I got goosebumps.

On the ride home, we talked a bit of politics.  The "mother of all bombs" our country had just dropped on the ISIS inhabited tunnels in Afghanistan, the dangerous talk of war with North Korea. And Trump's embarrassing tweets.

I told the pastor, I did not hate our president. I cannot allow myself to hate. I actually prayed for him. Prayed for him to finally recognize the magnitude of the responsible of his office. To develop compassion.  To open his heart to loving and serving others as Jesus commanded, if he is indeed a Christian.

"But how?" I mused.

And without skipping a beat, the pastor said, "By washing feet".

Can I get an Amen?

Have a Happy Thursday!

I will talk to you tomorrow.

With Humility and Much Love,

Zita

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