Lessons from my Father’s Feet, part 2

My dad was a steel worker for most of my life. I remember the heavy boots he wore everyday. Big heavy boots with steel safety plates across the front. As soon as he would get home, those boots would come off and most of the year his gardening boots went on. Late in the evening when he finally settled into a chair in front of the TV, those boots and his socks would come off.

There they were-his calloused, sweaty, gnarly feet. I thought they were the most disgusting things I had ever seen. I hated it when he would ask me to carry his socks to the hamper. I’d pick them up by the top edge, hold them at arms distance, and hold my nose and carry them to the hallway hamper. I can still remember my revulsion.

Now most mornings between my quiet time and the start of my office hours, I help my father get around for the day. He’s slow, but most of his morning routine he accomplishes on his own. Except that he can no longer reach his feet. So every morning I find myself, cloth in hand, washing my father’s feet. After breakfast I’m on my knees and I help him into his socks and shoes. If you told me growing up I would one day be doing this, I would have laughed.

I have come to cherish the routine: honoring my father by washing his feet, even though he was not always the most honorable man. It is a joy to hear him sigh with contentment that it feels good when we’re done. It’s a unique thing that is going on. We talk about the day. He asks about my schedule, about my ministry, about what’s ahead. We talk about people he has met, sports, fishing, life. The most amazing thing is taking place in the mornings. My father’s feet are drawing us closer together.

Here is the lesson. Sometimes we focus on what repulses us in a relationship and it pushes us away. Or we choose to avoid the ugly, the repulsive, the uncomfortable in our relationships with each other, and push each other away. Perhaps we should look for ways in which our brokenness, our imperfections can draw us together.