footwashing

After two back-to-back doctor’s appointments, I came home just before dinner to find that Mark had to leave ASAP for school and wouldn’t be back until 8 p.m. Strapping Denton into his booster seat and getting Creed settled at the table, I surveyed the kitchen to determine the fastest way to nourish my children.

Even though I’d spent over an hour the night before cleaning the kitchen, it had reverted again into a pit of despair and was piled high with dirty sippy cups, crusty half-eaten food portions, and a mound of supplies for creating meaningful, stimulating Lent and Easter items to lead us through a season of celebrating the new life we have in Christ. I couldn’t help wondering how in the world that new life would be manifested in our home when I couldn’t even find time to finish the Lenten Cross banner I’d started two nights ago, let alone keep the kitchen “springtime” fresh.

Dinner was a cacophony of demands, corrections, laughter, and Kindermusik, but somehow both boys managed to eat their fill and were excused to the living room to play while I tackled Mt. Everest, which included disposing of nearly ½ cup of dinner debris that had collected beneath Denton’s chair.

Cleanup time was punctuated by tearful bursts from Denton in the other room (I couldn’t adequately referee since I hadn’t seen what happened), several ill-timed business solicitation calls, and an unusual number of bathroom trips by Creed, who needed help scaling the baby safety gate each time in order to get to the bathroom without Denton in tow.

After the fourth trip to the bathroom (which also happened to be the second toilet poop of the evening and the millionth time I’d scrubbed our hands with antibacterial soap), I looked longingly at the clock and decided it was on my side: bedtime was at hand. “Everybody UP the stairs!” I said joyfully. Both boys happily complied, with me following to spot them. What I DID spot, however, was a large smushed brown lump amid smears on the sole of Creed’s right foot as he progressed upward.

“Creed, STOP. You have poop on your foot,” I said as calmly as I could. “Lift up your foot and come down. You’ll have to sit right there until I put Denton in bed; then I’ll come back and help you.” I motioned to the tile entryway at the foot of the stairs, but Creed was confused. Weren’t we going UPstairs? I lassoed him with my left arm and set him on the tile to wait for me. “Sit down, sweetheart. I’ll be right back,” I said, then felt something roll into my shins. It was Denton, who was rolling down the stairs. Thank goodness my legs were in the way. I scooped him up, and before anyone could bat an eye had his teeth brushed, diaper changed, PJs on, pacifier engaged, and lights out. One down, one to go.

I grudgingly made my way down the stairs to Creed, who sat obediently on the cold tile floor examining the poop on his foot. “DON’T TOUCH IT!” I yelled. He jerked his little hand away from the foot and sat quietly, absent-mindedly poking at his mouth with a piece of debris he’d discovered on the floor. “DON’T TOUCH YOUR MOUTH!” I shrieked. His dark eyes shot up and he lowered his hand soberly. I felt guilty. “Sweetie, there’s POOP everywhere. We can’t touch our mouths because there’s POOP everywhere and poop is really DIRTY.”

“Okay, Mommy,” he said patiently.

I went to the bathroom to find the toddler wipes. This was definitely going to take some moisture and scrubbing. But when I got there I realized why he had poop on his foot—there was poop on the floor. So I scrubbed it off of the tile and off of the stool where he had stood to wash his hands. Then I made my way out to Creed’s foot, armed with the toddler wipes, grumbling in my heart every step of the way, disgusted with the whole situation, and feeling deeply sorry for myself.

I started to scrub, trying to hide my disgust, but to no avail. “Mommy, what’s the matter?” Creed asked earnestly, looking with concern at my furrowed brow.

“Nothing, sweetheart, I’m just so frustrated,” I said, embarrassed.

It was at that moment—mid-scrub and up to my armpits in bad attitude and self-pity—that God gave me a glimpse of Christ. Not Christ teaching the crowds, challenging the status quo, or performing a miracle (all things I would have been delighted to do for God), but Christ stripped down to the essence of a slave, scrubbing the sludge off the feet of His disciples. We had just talked about what modern-day foot washing would look like at church two Sundays ago, but now I understood. I fought back tears as God’s object lesson soaked into my heart: Creed and Denton are MY disciples. They (and Mark) are my nearest and most constant opportunity to imitate Christ—to learn what it means to set my self aside and meet someone else’s needs. Some days that means an extra-long snuggly hug; other days it means scrubbing poop off little toes.

My eyes dropped to the little foot I held in my hand, and suddenly, surrounded by dirty toddler wipes on the entry mat, I heard Christ’s words: “Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet.” I reached for another wipe and gently caressed his little foot as God wiped away all the resentment in my heart.