Coffee maker puffs hot steam,
Kitchen sink is scrubbed and clean,
Apron's on, its strings are tied,
And here I yawn at faucet side--
What morning bliss! I've time to spare
For me and Jesus, closet prayer!
Then one whose soul has buckled down,
Calls on my phone, "Pray for me now.
I'm overwhelmed, can hardly breathe,
My soul wears sandals on its feet"--
Unstrap the feet which have been bound,
Wipe them clean of dust and ground.
Gently wash, and listen close,
Even to the most verbose,
They aren't crazy, they aren't mad,
They just haven't had the chance--
To speak, and really who would dare,
When ridiculed for what they share?
A troubled soul's a thirsty land,
Its toes and heels as dry as sand,
It's tried the balms and the creams,
Yet thirsts the more for desert streams--
Desert streams? That makes no sense,
Till soul is wrapped in towel that's drenched.
Bathe the grime from sandaled feet,
Of those whom Christ came to meet,
And if one soul asks for your towel,
Let it go, and then sit down--
Let a fellow servant wash,
Your feet too, as Jesus taught.
When dinner's made and evening comes,
When dishes clink to washer's hum,
My apron hangs, its strings untied,
My rubber gloves at faucet side--
Then? What bliss is mine to say,
"Washing, I've been washed today!"
written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig
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