Waiting Tables - A Journal Entry

It was really nice to spend the morning with my hubby.  But then I had to finish making preparation for church services and I could feel the angst rising up in my heart.  To make matters worse, my dear hubby had to clean up a flooded mess in the church's basement.  For me, it was just another mess he had to clean up - someone else's mess, not one of his own making. 


There are so many things he does like that.  Changing the church sign, putting the screens in the windows, fixing the mower, fixing the plow & truck, overseeing the budget, listening to gripes, complaints and agendas, visiting the sick, preparing sermons, worship services, and bible studies, fixing the furnace, installing new parts, ordering replacement parts, making sure he's manning the church phone just in case someone calls, laying cement, digging holes, carrying tables, and walking on eggshells....all these things and so much more I've watched this dear man do with little or no help... just him, alone.


Waiting tables.


The phone doesn't ring to offer encouragement.  The phone doesn't ring.  Quiet whispers cast shadowy suspicions of motives and actions.  Those he is called to love stab at his heart.  He bears it.  I watch.  Sometimes the salty tears stain my face as I watch this man offer life to those who are satisfied with the status quo.


Waiting tables.


I watch this man greet people with kindness as they ask the question, "Is this a hand-shaking day or a hug day?  I just don't know with you."  These same ones demand his presence and reject his heart.  They demand his schedule and reject his time.  They demand his back and reject his mind. 


Clean up the mess, put away the tables, stack the chairs, change the sign, empty the bucket, roll the rug, clear the drain, buy supplies, take out the trash, pick the songs, lead worship and then offer his heart.  I watch.  They expect him to do these things, and he does.  They must get their money's worth for one day's work.


Waiting tables.


The tears stain the page as I write. Ink smears across the page. 


A picture of a towel and basin flash in my mind.  His voice speaks softly to me as the angry sobs unfold in His arms. 


"Now before the Feast of the Passover, Jesus knowing that His hour had come that He would depart out of this world to the Father having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end.  During supper, the devil having already put into the heart of Judas Iscariot, the son of Simon, to betray Him, Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into His hands, and that He had come forth from God and was going back to God, got up from supper, and laid aside His garments; and taking a towel, He girded Himself.  Then He poured water into the basin, and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel with which he was girded" (John 13:1-5).

Matthew, Mark, and Luke provide details that make the washing of the disciples' feet even more dramatic.  These men, having traveled all over Israel with Jesus for more than 3 years, are gathered together for a Passover meal, for what Jesus knows to be the last time.  He spends time preparing their hearts for His death, painting a stark reality on a canvas of hope. 


The disciples arrive to a prepared place.  They sit at the table waiting to be served instead of serving.  Arguing over who is the greatest and will have first place.  Jesus watches. And then, He begins. Their filthy feet in His hands.  Their filthy hearts soon to know the freedom of their Kinsman Redeemer's blood-bought purchase.


His eyes.  His hands.  His heart.  His words.  His blood.


My feet.  My heart.  My redemption. 


The Lord of Glory waited tables. He loved them to the end.


Father forgive me.