When Love sits on the ground. . .

Her face is tender in the warm lampglow. And even though I know her back is tired my roommate sits on the floor bent low.

Over my feet.

Steaming in the pan of water they are unlocking my tightness - all the way to my brain. Gently she lifts and dries them. A trust - for few people can touch my ticklish feet.

Cradling my foot against her knee she presses away the tension of lifeweight they carried all day. My toes nearly poking her neck. She doesn't mind. Her face is tilted gracefully - artist-like. As if she were playing a soulful cello line rather then restoring the soles of my feet.

And I, sitting up in this soft chair, am humbled deep by her nightly gift. The gift of humility. . . of communion. And in her hands, in her eyes - the resemblance of Christ.

Love lavished with no demand for returns lifts us into its purest realm.

For I do not yet have the strength to soak and massage her feet. And none of the disciples even thought to offer to rinse the Saviors tired, dirty feet after Love sat on the ground tending to their souls.

Endless and eternal lesson to learn!

I feel that I am only ever beginning - with tentative childish toes at edge of this vastness. My inner pride shrinking as the universe expanding makes room for love. And I am the "least of these" for someone in this intricate circle. A gift that is sometimes hard to accept. But it brings release and that same sense of smallness that comes from seeing a long ways off.

Beautiful. This unassuming way my God restores heart vision.

By Love bending low.