There are places in me that ache quietly—places I’ve hidden beneath layers of good intentions and strong appearances. Places where old wounds still whisper, where pride disguises itself as survival, and shame builds quiet cathedrals I never meant to enter again.
Sometimes, I forget they’re there.
Until a word…
A memory…
A silence too long…
And suddenly, the wound breathes again.
On this Maundy Thursday, I think about those places.
Not because I want to.
But because Jesus is walking straight toward them.
He knows it’s His final night.
He could pray. Preach. Call fire from heaven.
Instead, He kneels.
And washes feet.
Dusty, calloused, undeserving feet.
Feet that will run from Him. Feet that will betray Him. Feet that haven’t earned a thing.
He doesn’t flinch.
He touches what is low.
What is unclean.
What we’d rather hide under the table.
I wonder—if He reached for my feet, would I pull them back?
Because like Peter, I’ve said, “You’ll never wash me there.”
Because like Peter, I’m fine with a Savior, but I wrestle with a Servant.
Because like Peter, I want to be strong enough not to need help.
But on Maundy Thursday, Jesus says,
“Unless I wash you, you have no part with Me.”
This isn’t just about clean feet.
It’s about a clean heart.
A surrendered pride.
A cracked-open soul.
A recognition that the One who stooped low knows exactly what I’m hiding—and still chooses me.
So I bring Him my feet.
And my fears.
And the tombs I’ve locked behind false strength.
Because He’s not afraid of the smell of sorrow.
He walks right into our Gethsemanes, carrying water and a towel.
On this Maundy Thursday, I remember:
He washed Judas’ feet, too.
Not just Peter’s.
Not just the ones who would stay.
But the betrayer’s.
That’s the kind of love He brings.
That’s the kind of grace He still pours.
So tonight, I sit still.
I let Him come close.
I do not run from the basin.
Because when the Servant-King kneels before me, I have nothing left to prove.
Let Him wash you, friend.
Let Him handle the dirt.
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