Rose with Dirty Feet

i scrambled frantically around while the rest of my class was still singing worship songs in the classroom, across the courtyard. i collected a large plastic basin from the showers in the guy's restroom, my own bath towel, and an 8-inch ceramic bowl from the kitchen, filling it carefully with the cleanest water i could, since the base has been running on muddy water for the past 48 hours.

the words of John's gospel (chapter 13:1-17) pulsing through my heart as i try to make sense of what just entered my mind while looking across the classroom, singing Swahili spirituals, my eyes locked on a woman named Rose. she'll be leaving our DTS early because she's pregnant and probably about to pop. she won't be doing the outreach, but she'll be able to re-attend just that phase of any of the upcoming DTSes next year.

our leader explained Rose's farewell story to us after we finished eating, and our speaker for the week prayed over her, preparing her for the journey ahead, along the road home, across the breadth of Tanzania.

as the singing began, Jesus' action and words in John's gospel stabbed into me from no place i can imagine. origin-less, these thoughts led me to take another drag on my coke bottle, setting it down on the table in front of me again, and then exitting the chorus.

coming back across the courtyard now, mission accomplished, i was steadily carrying a basin, cradling a bowl and my big brown towel, praying in the dark of night that i wasn't spilling anything. i didn't understand where this had come from.

Jesus, i haven't done this in years. is this really your idea? am i gonna look really vain? i feel like an attention grabber.

10 minutes later, i was on my knees in a room only occupied by myself and three others, dipping my clumsy, lanky white hands into the bowl, and carrying water carefully over to Rose's feet waiting in the basin.

"Maji baridi?"
"Ndiyo."
She hisses. i've just told her that yes, the water will be cold.
"Pole." (Sorry.)

at first the water invokes a recoil on her part, but soon, as Paul reads the story in John 13, from his Swahili Bible, seated next to her, i am lost in the one i am imitating.

first the right foot, then she withdraws it, dried to the touch, and offers her left foot, just as thickened, toughened, and scarred as the first. her brown skin is difficult to gauge concerning it's cleanliness, but i'm thorough anyway. and then finishing up, i wipe it dry with my towel, draped in a bundle over my right shoulder.

she blesses me quietly ("Mungu aku bariki.") as i look up at her when i finish, pulling away the basin and bowl, drying up the floor where Jesus had humbled me. Paul finishes reading, closing the bible, unable to meet my eyes, because his are watering up. not because of what i've done, i'm sure, but because Rose is one of his best friends here, and she's leaving too soon. i hug them both, resting my head on both shoulders in turn, and then just as quietly as i'd begun, i'm done, and take my leave.

suddenly all i want is to be alone with Jesus.
suddenly all i can think about is Jesus, the Son of Man whom i've just imitated and obeyed.
and suddenly i get why i did it.
it had nothing to do with Rose, really. she may or may not remember the mzungu who washed her feet, several months from now, while caring for her sixth child in its infant stages. but i'll remember how captive i suddenly was to Jesus.
and he'll remember what it was like to have, on this rare occassion, my full attention.

PAX.