A few months ago, my family and I sat around the dinner table and made bucket lists. We each thought of three or four things we’d like to do or places we’d like to go one day before we die.
Two of the items listed beside my name are taking a trip to London and writing a book.
The bucket list is an I’ll-get-to-it-one-day list. Recently, though, I’ve been thinking about the following question: If you had thirty days left to live, what would you do? I have so many answers. Thirty days couldn’t hold all I’d want to do and see.
But if I were down to my last night on earth, I believe there’s only one place I’d want to be. I’d want to be home with my children. I’d want to breathe in my girls. I’d want to inhale the scent of their bodies, and brush their hair one last time. I’d want to wrap my arms around them and not let go. I’d want to memorize the sound of their laughter, and wipe away their tears. I’d want to trace my fingers across their precious faces. I’d want to look them in the eyes and tell them once again just how much I love them. I’d want to bare my heart to them so that when I was no longer with them, they’d never question my love.
* * * * *
It’s Thursday of Holy Week, traditionally known as the day before Jesus’ death. The day of the Passover Feast. The day when Jesus gathered with the twelve closest to him, the twelve he intimately loved…the twelve among whom one would betray him, one would deny him, and one would doubt him.
It was his last night on earth, and knowing those among him would abandon him when the moment of truth arrived, He shared a meal with them and then bowed low and washed their nasty feet in an intimate act of love. There was no other place he’d rather have been.
Who can question the love of One who spends his last night on earth washing your feet?
Oh, how he loves.
I can’t fathom the grace of One who would wash the foul feet of a man who was about to plant the kiss of death. The grace of One who would wash the filthy feet of a man who was about to pretend he never knew him. The grace of One who would wash the dirty feet of a man who would later need to touch and feel the wounds of death in order to believe.
Oh, the grace of the One who bends down and gets his hands dirty in order to clean the lowest, dirtiest parts.
I’m devastated by the grace of the One who knows my every failure, and still he says, You are loved.
