He washed MY feet

Mothers of boys…we see our sons in their most vulnerable moments. We’re the ones they come to when they are sick, when they get hurt, when they’ve had a broken heart or a bad dream.

And because we’re the ones who see them with their guards down, it makes it harder for us not to over-protect and over-manage. Hard to keep ourselves from going before them to make the crooked paths straight.

We alone know the heart of our son, the heart that grew right under our own, in a way nobody else ever will.

This is why it is almost impossible for us to look at our son and see a man. Even if he has hair on his face and an apple on his Adam, we still look through those grown-up eyes and see the breakable heart of our own little boy.

Instead of the 27-year old man, we see the 4-year old little guy that we dropped off for his first day of preschool. The one that walked off sadly with his teacher, tugged on her hand to stop, then turned around to look back at me. As he looked me up and down with all the solemnity of a judge, Jacob's parting shot was: “I just wanted to remember what you looked like...”

Letting go is hard.

It’s been even harder with Jacob. Partly because he’s my baby, partly because he’s always been the sensitive one, and mostly because he’s traveled down a long and crooked road that only he could finally make straight.

I’ve learned so much from Jacob. As a little guy, he was my peacemaker…the one that always wanted everybody together in the same house in the same room singing Kumbaya and passing out cookies. He has always seen the best in everyone and everything around him. Every meal that I cooked was the best one he had ever eaten, every song his brother taught him on the guitar was the best one he had ever heard, every ballgame he and his Dad played was the most fun ever.

 

Jacob has always seen life in extremes…from the brightest hues of the rainbow to the darkest grays imaginable. For him, those days that weren’t The Very Best, were almost always The Worst.

To experience life so deeply is both a blessing and a curse. To be born with a heart so empathic that it never stops feeling must be both wonderful and terrifying. I never really understood depression until I had to watch my young son struggle in its grips. I never realized how far one would go to escape those dark feelings, until he almost escaped too far.

We’ve been through a lot, my Jacob and I. Much like any parent-child relationship, not all of it has been pretty. But we’ve never given up on each other. No one could love him more.

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Last Saturday, I was kneeling on the floor beside the Dickman’s chair, looking over his shoulder as he read about me making fun of him in my last blog. As we were laughing together, I felt something cold and wet touch my feet. I swung my head around to see Jacob on the floor beside me, washing my feet off with a paper towel.

Let me repeat myself: Jacob was washing MY feet.


To fully appreciate this act of kindness, you would have to know what ugly feet I have. My feet are Fugly. Truly. My own Mom once told me that my feet looked like they had worn out three bodies. My husband tells everyone that he married me IN SPITE of my ugly feet. I have bunions. I have callouses. I have cracked heels. I even have a spot on the bottom of my right foot that occasionally grows a tiny hair, but we’ll save that for another story.

“What in the world are you doing? Are my feet really THAT dirty?” I said to J.P. in surprise.

“Nah, they’re not too bad. I just wanted to wash your feet.” He replied.

Distracted by my husband’s hysterical laughter as he watched another video of his sedated self…I paid my son little heed. Until a few moments later, when I felt him gently rubbing lotion onto my now clean feet.

“Seriously, dude…lotion?” I said.

“Yeah. Your feet are really dry. This will make them feel better.” So said my handsome manservant.

Again, without much thought, I turned back to my laughing husband.

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Later that day I pulled up to Jacob’s new apartment. He and his Dad had begun moving him in and thankfully, I had timed it just right so there was nothing heavy left for me to carry up the stairs. As the guys were busy doing manly stuff like putting bed rails together and hooking up cable, I puttered around in his tiny kitchen, trying to not to wonder what might be growing in a half-empty bag of flour that had survived six weeks of storage in a horse trailer.

No sooner had we moved him in, than he was ready for us to be on our way. As I walked back down the steps of his apartment he called out to me and I turned around.

“Mom…? Thanks. I really mean it. Thanks for everything. I know I’ve put you through a lot. That’s why I washed your feet this morning.”

“Well, baby…that was really so sweet of you. But I’m sure you washed my feet because they were hideous and your OCD just couldn’t stand it.”

 

“No, Mom. I mean…yeah, it started out that way. I got a paper towel to wipe a smudge off your foot. But then I thought about how Jesus washed his disciples’ feet and I wanted to do the same for you. I couldn’t find any oil, so I just used lotion. I wanted to show you that I’m sorry. And that I love you.”


I looked at this beautiful man that was once my little boy.  I really looked at him. And suddenly all I saw was the man, standing strong and vulnerable before me. His tender heart shining out of blue eyes full of hope...hope that I would understand the importance of the gift he had given.

Finally, I saw.

I walked back up the steps and hugged him. I wrapped my arms around this son of mine who had been through so much, who had fought so hard to stand right where he was standing. I told him I was sorry. That I didn’t realize at the time just how precious a gift he had given me. But now? I got it.

As Jacob’s mother, there is nothing that I’ve ever done to make me worthy of him washing my feet. Even so, I got it.

There I stood - just like Peter – confused and unworthy.

And there he was - being Jesus - giving the purest of gifts in the most humble of ways.

As I was driving away, I glanced back one more time and took a long, appreciative look at the man standing on the stairs. In that moment, with a heart filled to bursting...I just wanted to remember what he looked like.