I wake up most nights at 3 am, my perimenopause alarm clock working on cue while the rest of my body seems to be going haywire. Sometimes I toss and turn while my mind rolls through all the things I’m anxious about – the dark and quiet of this time of night turn the volume up on my thoughts until they almost seem audible. I look over to see if they are loud enough to wake my husband.

Some nights, I wake and lie there and fall back asleep – a grace. On others, I lie there until I can’t anymore, and roll to the side of the bed to pray or make my way downstairs to journal out my prayers on the family room couch – hoping the release will wear me out so that I can go back to sleep sooner rather than later.

Despite the inevitable grogginess to come, I feel welcomed by the quiet and a fresh glass of water. I always feel like I don’t know where to begin, but once I start — Jesus — the worries come out in the form of words and sentences. I write so quickly that they blend together here and there – I’ll never have to worry about anyone reading my prayer journals because they are practically illegible.

Jesus, I need you. Jesus, I’m weary. Jesus, up again. Jesus, there’s so much weighing on me.

I write, then pause, drink water, and pick at the dry skin on my feet. I used to scold my mom, with the best intentions, and tell her to leave her feet alone; but now I think of her back then, and I get it. Pulling at a piece of rough skin – something that cries out to be smoothed – feels like an easy fix when so many things in my life are looming overhead, too big and too complicated to fix.

We often become fixated on the little things we think we can control when there are so many things that feel the opposite.

I think about Jesus with me and my picked-at feet. I remember how He washed the disciples’ feet and wonder what each of those feet felt like. I imagine Jesus getting up from the Passover table, belly full, surrounded by conversation, perhaps laughter or arguing. Wasn’t He worried about all that was to come and about how many things still felt undone? Did He think about how much His friends still didn’t understand or the depth of pain He was going to feel?

Maybe some of the disciples were trying to prove themselves to one another, or to Jesus. Maybe they wondered if they were spiritual enough, strong enough, smart enough. Maybe some of them struggled to understand why others were in the room. Maybe one of them was known to take too much of the food. Maybe Peter dominated the conversation. Did anyone notice Jesus removing His robe, picking up a towel, and putting it around His waist?

I try to imagine what Peter’s face must’ve looked like when he realized what Jesus was doing and considered his own feet as Jesus bent down before them. Did he stand up? Were his eyebrows raised? I wonder how Peter could miss the point as often as he does. I wonder how I can keep trying to pick away my anxiety and try to cover it up again as much as I do.

Peter protested Jesus washing his feet, and Jesus responded, “Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me.”

I imagine Jesus sitting on the floor of my family room with our shaggy rug under His legs, in the middle of the night, while the rest of my family sleeps. Would I try to hide my feet under the couch cushions? Would He hold my feet gently, and wipe them clean?

“Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me.”

Unless you stop trying to prove yourself as useful and right, with all things under control, you won’t wake to your need for Me.

Unless I spend time with your worries, the things you’d rather keep hidden from view — each dry patch, scab, and crack — you will not know Me and receive the depth of My love as much as you could.

Unless I wash you, and welcome you in as you are, you won’t be able to welcome anyone else into My love and mean it.

I wonder how many cracks Jesus found on the feet and in the faith of His disciples that night. Were there doubts of worthiness and their own belovedness? Did any of them try to help Him, instead of sitting still and waiting to receive? What dust and dirt, filth and germs, pain and power, questions and insecurity, did Jesus wash away into that basin? How many times did He have to refill it?

I imagine Jesus going to get our red Welly tin of bandages from the laundry room, picking one out to cover up my small wound, worries, doubts, disappointments, and shame. I picture Him trying to get a bandage out and working to get the sticky side to stick in the right places, and giving into the laughter that follows.

 

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