All I have to give

I have always hated the term "mission trip". If you take the two words on their own by definition, you get a combined definition of a journey taken for the purpose of a task or activity. But when you dig a little deeper, you find that "mission trips" have traditionally been short term vacations with a purpose including time set aside for designated projects & activities that all make us feel super good about what we're doing for these poor people, complete with a photo montage so that you too can feel good about what I'm doing. Don't we all feel so good about what we're doing for God now? I bet he is just waiting to congratulate us. If only my arm was a little longer I could scratch my own back instead of merely just patting it. - Ok, so I added that last part for myself but seriously - look at what we in the western church call "mission trips".
So please, please, please do us both a favor & don't put me in the awkward place of telling me face to face that you're going on a mission trip. My questions would probably start with - So, how are your neighbors doing? What do you know about the culture in the place that you're going? Did you know that there are folks in our own hometown who sleep outside & that you don't have to go to _________ to "minister to" them? What does "ministering to" people even mean? When will you return to that place? Are you investing in each other's lives or merely going to "save" theirs?
Now, before you begin to get offended & start pointing fingers, please finish hearing me out. Eight years ago, I went on my very first, and last, mission trip. Eight years ago, God knew I needed a safe place & he took me to Garland, Texas to find it. In an old Gold's Gym, God met 8 heart broken adults & 9 kids in the body of one of the spunkiest little white haired ladies I've ever met. Through her, Jesus loved on us. Through the other staff members, God has taught me what the church is supposed to be like. Through the kids that would come to eat at the state's free summer lunch program & the teenagers that came to serve community service, God reminded us again what unconditional love looked like by splashing it across their faces. That summer, I had nothing to offer them. Nothing. They gave me so much more than I could have ever given them. Ever.
And so, year after year, we have returned to Garland, not on mission trip, but to reconnect with our friends, our brothers & sisters, who live here. I've got at least 4 years worth of duct tape name tags stuck to my bathroom wall as a daily reminder to pray for my boys. It's so humbling to be in a place where these elementary aged boys have people shuffle in & out on a weekly basis & yet they remember me. "Miss, didn't you have a mustache last year?" (I dressed up like King David everyday.) "Miss, didn't you put gummy worms in chocolate pudding them dig them out with your face that one time?" "Miss, can we make slime again this year?"
So when it came time to begin preparing for getting to visit with my boys, there were a lot of questions I had to ask myself. Can I go & trust that God is in control with everything that's going on with Gma P & Aunt S? Will I be able to physically do this? How can the schedule be arranged so that I can teach both the boys & the girls? But there was one question I dreaded most of all - What will you do when there's no call Wednesday night from gma asking how things are going & then praying over speaker phone for not only those of us who drove 4hrs to get here, but those at home, those who walk here, those who came to eat lunch, those who didn't AND what will you do when she's not there to take down the list of boys names & pray for them this next year?
In a room with 7 children & 3 other adults, I admit I cried myself to sleep last night. You see yesterday, we talked about how God can take our broken hearts & fix them into something new. Just about the time that those 30 boys were about to get rowdy, I smashed a beautiful red plate with a hammer. They were shocked. I asked them if anything had ever broken their hearts & watched those very active bodies sit still as I sat down on the floor in front of the stage where they were seated & told them about my gma. I told them how my heart had broken & how sometimes it still felt broken. I told them how gma loved them even though she never got to come meet them. I told them how she prayed for each of them by name everyday. It got really quiet. "But Miss? You'll see her in Heaven again one day, right?" I smiled. "Yes, and so can you. She'll love to actually meet you there."
Yesterday I realized, these boys have people who come through all summer long & want to convert them into little tiny Jesus lovers. They know all about Jesus & his 12 friends that went everywhere with him. They know about a short tax collector & a tree....which incidentally wasn't part of anything I had prepared....but anyway.... I have nothing more to offer them but myself. To be silly with them & wear a mustache. To fake the "Eww...gross" when we make slime on Friday, which also wasn't in my plan. To ask them & listen when they tell me what was for lunch. (I wish I could run downstairs & play soccer with them, but that's just not in the cards for me this year.) And to ask them again on Friday for their duct tape name tags so that I can pray for them again this year. I'm sure my momma will pray with me since gma's waiting for us.
These boys & girls don't need somebody announcing their wonderful plans to take a purpose-driven vacation. They don't need somebody to come in & re-invent the wheel of Bible school. They really don't even need me to tell them about Jesus - they have heard about him. They just need me to love them like Jesus would and that's all I really have to give them.
There are faces that I miss incredibly this year - some who have aged out, some who have moved on, some who are out of town for a while. But this is NOT eight years of mission trips for me & our birth children - this has been eight years of being completely invested, giving everything I am & everything I'm not. Eight years of boys. Eight years of laughter & tears God has given me. Eight years of watching them grow up a week at a time. Eight years of God writing their names on my heart. Eight years of spending a short week with our friends from a different town. Eight years of watching God grow & use the many staff members we've come to treasure & love. Eight years of being fully committed to loving & praying for them year round.
Until God tells me otherwise, I will continue giving them all I have to give, which is just myself. But because of Jesus, myself is just enough. 

He had a name

Tonight as many in our area were anxiously awaiting news reports concerning possible violence at a presidential candidate's rally, one family mourned, for the second time, the loss of their father. They had already lost him once to choices he made that brought about the circumstances in which I would meet him.
The complexities of homelessness can not be explained in one simple blog. Nor do I profess to be an authority in the matter. What I do know is that Mr B had a name; he wasn't just some nameless, faceless drunk that roamed about the streets of Conroe. He had a story, if you only sat down to listen. He had a family. He always had a cane. And a lot of the time he had a bottle in the other hand.
Unfortunately for most, the bottle was all that they ever saw. They just couldn't look past it. Perhaps more unfortunate for others that could see past the bottle, they saw a project that needed to be fixed. It's true that Mr B often needed shoes or a pair of pants that would fit his gauntly shaped body. He needed a shower and soap, although not so much with the shampoo. He needed to eat more and drink less. But what Mr B needed most of all was to know that he was loved unconditionally.
I could honestly sit for hours & just listen to the stories from his life. Stories about his childhood, his wife, his kids. There were stories he told me about his own gpa, the many jobs that he had worked, and I can still hear him say "Brooklyn" in that thick northeast coast accent. Sometimes he'd tell the same story, forgetting a few more details from the time he had told it before. There were stories I would ask about that he couldn't remember. But there was one thing Mr B never forgot - he was deeply & unconditionally loved by a mighty God, even in the middle of all of his mess.
My path with Mr B crossed almost 7 years ago. I was immediately drawn to him because I watched the way he would interact with my children. He loved children unless, of course, they touched his cane - even though it was just a Swiffer handle this week - but that's another story for another day. Watching this 90lbs man throw a football with the boys was sometimes the highlight of our Sunday mornings together. One Christmas when we were trying to unravel the Christmas light ball, he wound himself up & urged the kids to plug him in like a Christmas tree.
We would look for him, and a few others, as we drove through certain parts of town. I always had to keep the windows unlocked so that the kids could, at a moment's notice, roll them down & yell, "Hey Mr B!" while they waved so hard I thought their hands would fall off. We'd see him in the rear view mirror, just a shakin' that cane in the air. My kids loved him unconditionally.
So tonight when I sat them down on the couch to tell them, I knew their hearts would be broken. We talked about our favorite Mr B moments & how much they'd miss him. I told them the message my friend relayed from his son, "At least we know he's not suffering anymore." And that's when it hit me - I've only ever known a broken Mr B, weighed down by the death of his wife, his go-to coping technique, & a very fractured body & mind. But the next time I see Mr B, he will be completely whole! He won't need a cane - though I'm sure he'll call it a staff just so that he can carry around a stick. He won't need shoes or a new pair of pants. And he won't need to cope with anything. I shared that with the kids & watched their sad faces change with the realization of the hope that brought.
Though gma's life was radically different from Mr B's, I knew I could share with them the same hope we found in October when we read some verses from Revelation - He's serving God in his temple, day & night. The sun isn't scorching him anymore & the heat doesn't beat down in him. He's not hungry. He's not thirsty. And God himself has once & for all wiped away all of Mr B's tears.
I'm going to miss Mr B but had I not taken the time to just sit & listen to him, I wouldn't even know his name, let alone his story. It's so easy for us to throw well meaning things, possessions, at people in hopes that we might fix what ails them. But all that stuff wears out or gets used up or lost. What doesn't wear out or get used up or lost is the time we spend just loving them. Mr B wasn't always an easy man to love, but then again, neither am I. Thankfully Jesus loves us both enough that we learned from Him how to love each other. Unconditionally.

This is Mr B. He had a name. Billy. But he also has a title - Son of The King.

A Mother's Day fable

Ya, ya, ya. So I wrote this blog about my mom on Mother's Day. Ever since then I've felt like this horrible hypocrite. Don't get me wrong, I meant every single word I said about my momma. It's just, well, it's just that that day was anything but a warm fuzzy day for me.
Aside from the giant hug from my own mom brought on by the salami cheese rolls, my Mother's Day was spent largely either in tears or on the verge of tears. The fact that there would be no trek across the field to gma's effected me more than I wanted to admit. She wasn't my mother but especially in those four months before she went Home, I morphed into this weird forth daughter kind of person. Mother's Day will never be quite the same without her. It just sucked. 
But that wasn't all that was amidst. My own children didn't seem to recognize that I deserved to be recognized that day. (Insert sarcasm here) Don't get me wrong, the instantaneous "Happy Mother's Day" from my oldest as we walked into the dollar store was welcomed but tempered with the fact that I had just mentioned it was Mother's Day. Ya, I was fishing for acknowledgement. So what? My middle guy apparently offered his own verbal version of accolades in the middle of me having to get on to him for something - a fact reported to me by my oldest so the jury is still out on the validity of the report. My youngest son? He didn't get any memos. Then there was my daughter.
Oh the lovely little pink Piggy - who had just days before in her anger thrown her soccer ball & beamed me, an innocent bystander, in the back of the head. In her anger, her stubborn side (which comes from her dad, I assure you) refused to let her apologize to me. One day. Two days. Three days passed. No apology. She walked in with this tiny bouquet of flowers from gma's yard, offered, "I'm sorry I hit you with my soccer ball. Happy Mother's Day." And there it was. My Mother's Day 2016. I know you're fabulously jealous.
Monday I spent the day fighting a horrible headache & celebrating at my pity party for one. No, really. The only thing missing was a white cake with buttercream icing. I played my music & cleaned the house so lovingly left a mess. I'm sure left that way ensuring I wouldn't get bored the day following such a fabulous outpouring of about me-ness. It sucked. Mother's Day sucks.
So this morning when my pitiful self woke up with a debilitating headache, I was sure that I'd be on my own again. When my prescription strength painkillers for my back did nothing to curb the pain, I quickly found myself on the bathroom floor, laying on my robe, trying not to expel the nothingness that was in my stomach. I cried. Surprised? I didn't think so.
When I finally made it back to the bed, a tiny face peered through the crack in the bedroom door. "Momma? Are you ok?" I motioned her to me. "I really need some water baby girl." That was it. Like a call to arms, my children, the ones who two days before failed my expectations, immediately sprung into action.
Throughout the day, there were cups of water, an offer for the thermometer, repeated trips taking out the trash & rebagging the can, peeps through the cracked door and silence. Wonderful, beautiful silence. In my stupor and fog, I had missed the tray of food they had prepared at some point - a granny smith apple cut & cored, a cinnamon bagel topped with cinnamon sugar butter they had made because we were out, a Monster and a beautiful pink carnation from Piggy's own recital bouquet with a note - We hope you feel better soon.
The gravity of what transpired today didn't hit me until the fog wore of this evening. No, my children did not set aside this one day out of the year where society & culture tell them they have to acknowledge & praise me for doing my job. What did happen was something far greater. In a time when I needed them most, they set aside themselves & served me all day long. Those acknowledgements & servants' hearts speak volumes louder than any "Happy Mother's Day" ever could. They demonstrated their love, they didn't just say it.
I like to think that all moms wonder - Are my kids ever going to "get it"? Unfortunately for me, today my kids demonstrated that not only do they get it but they get it even when I don't. It's not that they didn't love me on Mother's Day, it's that they continue loving me the other 364 days a year.

Mother's Day & the opening of a new chapter

Ever since October 31, momma & I have ridden to our early, no EARLY, Saturday morning Bible study meeting together. Having spent hours together everyday this fall, Saturday became our stay connected time. Some Saturdays we sat together, especially those first months. It was a necessity for both us. The strength provided in sitting in even the most loving of circles didn't compare to the strength I gained in her gentle hand on my back when we would sing "In Christ Alone" or a question would strike particularly close to home. As time moved on, God began to strengthen us enough that we could sit apart, even across the circle from one another at times. After all, there would always be the ride home.
But it was always more than just a simple ride home. To be completely honest, most Saturdays neither of us really needed anything from the grocery store, it was just an excuse to spend more time together alone. Without fail, every week we ended up at of all places, Walmart. I am my mother's daughter in that "shopping" means groceries and I'm perfectly ok with that.
When caring for Gma P moved to the next level, our time together had an extended purpose. Most Saturdays looked like a morning begun with singing & prayer, sharing & listening, followed by a trip to Walmart, Kroger & Gma P's. Breakfast at 5am wouldn't last until 3 or 4pm so a solution had to be found.
I picked up a package of these totally amazing, totally greasy, totally comfort food salami cheese wraps. Mom grabbed the equally healthy donuts or zingers. When we were done shopping & loading the car, she'd toss me the hand sanitizer & a napkin. I'd open our second breakfast while she put the shopping cart away. She'd talk. I'd listen. Then I would talk & she would listen. In the middle of all of the chaos of life, a new tradition, one meant for just the two of us, was born. There was no question in my mind this week as to what I would offer this amazing woman as a small, but extremely meaningful, gift on Mother's Day.
You see, tomorrow night is our last night of our Revelation Bible study. I won't miss the 430am incessant beeping that came from my alarm. But I will miss the ladies who carried us through this fall with their texts, emails & prayers. I will miss my seniors, especially since I won't be their leader next year. I will miss spending Saturday afternoons with momma & Gma P alone. Most of all though, I'll miss  spending practically all day with my momma. For those few short hours every week, I had her undivided attention & she had mine.
It was in those hours that such wisdom & kindness was spoken. There was a kindred bond made in knowing we were equally invested in the tasks the week would unfold before us. Schedules were synced & plans of attack made. In love. With grace.
So if you call one Saturday morning & can't get ahold of either of us, please don't panic. We're probably on a back porch somewhere, with our phones turned off, playing the cd that Gma hummed along with until she went to sleep, syncing our schedules, making plans of attack, enjoying our salami, cheese & donuts, and talking about Jesus. Because I don't care how old I get, I'll always need time alone with my momma. 

Because sometimes love is a pot of hot water

I guess Brian & I were like any typical teenage couple. We couldn't be together enough, couldn't be apart too long, couldn't wait to spend the rest of our lives together. Well, maybe that last one was just me. I jest. Maybe.
At any rate, the things we defined as love in our teens were different from the things we defined as love in our twenties were different from things we defined as love in our thirties and all those were even different from what we define as love now, as one of us has already begun their forties. Getting married so young meant literally growing older and growing up together if we really meant those words we said that day twenty-one years ago.
Love in our teens was very typical for young love. Lots of romance & gifts. Long calls on the long distance phone. (You'll have to look that one up kids....) Handwritten notes & cards. Boxes with trinkets commemorating our "anniversaries". Then, we got married.
Now, for those of you that know us now, you might be shocked to know that love in our twenties meant lots of fighting & just staying with it. Those first years together as husband and wife are years that I would never go back and live again. But they have made me, made us, who we are today. Gifts turned into packages of diapers. Dates turned into bill money. With alternating schedules, handwritten notes looked more like something a teacher would send home - "Today I really could have used your help but I know you'll try better next time. ♡" The heart meant to mask the dripping sarcasm & passive aggressive tone, of course. Baby one, baby two, baby three and even baby four arrived during that oh so fun time as arguments about money & "quality time" filled the air of the 1050sq ft home we made. Our thirties couldn't come fast enough.
By the time they arrived, patterns & routines had been established. We both realized either the money was there or it wasn't & the one person we fought with about it was the one person on the same team. We only had one year of diapers & sleepless nights left. We could do this! And so, we did. Gifts started re-emerging again but they looked a little different. Instead of flowers & chocolates, a crockpot was great! Forget the jewelry, I never wear it anyway. I want a vacuum cleaner that works please. You want to watch another football game? Ok. But the best gift of all? Who would take the first shower. Before we knew it was even happening, love went from something we were doing to something we simply were being. Being aware. Being available. Being second.
Now, as we've (almost) entered this new decade together, love again is different. Some days it is - Really, sports again? Other days it's a text with a picture of a penned on wedding ring and an "Oops, look what I forgot today." Gifts today are wonderful, cherished Symphony bars. Love looks like the trash taken to the end of the driveway or dinner actually ready when he gets home. Grooves & routine are just that. Habit. We are set. But then there are those moments when love goes above & beyond, taking me back to where it all began.
For me, this week, those moments have strung together. Steriod injections Monday warranted flowers & an early birthday card that made me cry when I got home that night. Tuesday it was the quality time I was given to recuperate by having the whole day off while he filled my homeschool mom shoes. With a storm Wednesday morning, we divided and conquered - Brian cooked dinner & I searched for flashlights, batteries, fans & other basic supplies. But we're (almost both) in our forties now. Thursday would be different.
I, thinking I was being the selfless one, sent him to gma's to take his shower. I would have a simple bath here, at our house, by warming pots of water outside on the burner. So selfless, right? But I watched as one stockpot, two stockpots, three stockpots, FOUR STOCKPOTS were warmed & carried for me to the bathtub. With temps in the high 70s & a humidity of 85%, the shower he had taken an hour before had been pointless. But there he was, not complaining a bit, even when the plug drained & he started all over again.
You see, sometimes love IS flowers & chocolates. Sometimes it's diapers & there's a whole lot of crying, from everyone. Sometimes it's in realizing you're on the same team & dividing to conquer. But sometimes, love looks like a pot of hot water. Gentle filled, lovingly poured out, refilled again & again.
There was nothing for him to gain from that constant pouring out other than the smile on my face. For me, it was the reminder that sometimes I think I'm being selfless but love is really about being poured out, over and over again. Even when I don't want to, even when it's uncomfortable, even when I think I've done my fair share. Love, true love, is always about being poured out.

Living a marathon life in a sprint paced world

The fact that I was laying in bed on a heating pad Tuesday evening at 630 probably did not surprise my husband a bit. The fact that I was staring at my phone with tears rolling down my face, again, probably did not surprise him either. But the words - I don't want to be me anymore - flashed a saddened look across his face. It wasn't that I didn't want to be me anymore. He knew the words that came out mouth were just a cover as I attempted to deal with the flood of emotions I was trying to suppress from the day. The pain from the day was just more than I could bare at that moment.
Seventeen years ago we made the somewhat unpopular decision for me to stay at home with our kiddos - well at least the one we had at the time. All worlds were rocked two years later when we announced that we would be a granola-eating, grain-grinding, cotton-weaving homeschool family. Ok, I jest. Although I really do like granola.
Perhaps one of the biggest lessons for me in this homeschooling journey has been to pace myself. When we first started, school looked a lot like I had plucked it out of its public school atmosphere & duplicated it at home. Teaching posters lined our kitchen & the crates of books, workbooks & worksheets probably cost us, globally, a small forest. There was a strict schedule outlined on the wall, complete with a clock mounted next to it. Now, before all my vet homeschool mommy friends pee on themselves in absolute hysterics, remember your first years. Remember that new-to-this-journey mom that you know & take her a cup of coffee today, ok?
At that to say, FOR MOST HOMESCHOOLERS, the sprint paced public school model either constantly drives them crazy or they succumb to a new way of life. Homeschooling children is no sprint. Most vet homeschool moms would tell you that attempting to duplicate what we've always understood education to look like just doesn't work in their world. And that's ok! I spent 13 years in the public school system, got an excellent education (at least well enough to homeschool my own children, right?) & do not think that homeschooling is the right education mode for all families. (Yes, I'm an oddball even in my granola eating world!)
But for us, the ability to homeschool our family has meant more than a simple academic education. It is a way of life. For us, it is a slllloooowwww way of life. And we've lived that way, not because we're just to lazy to be more involved (although......), but because we've been extremely intentional in our activities. With all of the opportunities out there for homeschoolers today, we could EASILY fill our schedule 6 days a week, 8 hours a day. That's just not who the Fosters are.
So when a friend texts me and asks me to visit at a time when her world has been stripped out from under her, academic education takes a backseat. When a young momma reaches out because she feels lost & forgotten in the middle of reading Treasure Island, I slip away & cry through the next few hours with her. When math & history & science were spread across every surface of the livingroom & kitchen table but gma just wanted to show us the hummingbirds, math, history & science stayed where they were as we slipped our boots on & headed out the back gate.
It's not that homeschooling is better, it's just different. And it's caused me to live differently.
Sprinters train by studying the technique of their individual strides, constantly trying to lengthen each pace & keep their posture straight so as not to lose their balance. Marathoners train by finding their lactic acid threshold & running at or near it for an hour or better so that their body builds a tolerance to the lactic acids their muscles are emitting. One isn't better than the other, they're just different and serve different purposes.
Every person in my family would tell you that the past three years now have been the most difficult marathon we've ever run together. There has been plenty of training as we joke about survival not being a lifestyle but a mode to get you through a time. There has been no time between situations to examine pacing techniques nor any desire to lengthen our steps.
This is our marathon. And with God as our trainer, we have been held at the threshold of what seems like "I can't take one more step" for a very long time. No, what we're going through isn't enjoyable. No, it's really not a comfort to hear you say, "It's such a blessing to see how faithful you guys are being." Honestly, we're tired. Each and every one of us is tired.
BUT when we look back & see the endurance that God has built in us over the past three years, we can all say - I'm not who I was. There's a strength there that wasn't before. There's a fortitude that only threshold training could build.
So as I continue to make conscious decisions about the busyness I allow into my life, I temper it with the ability to continue running at my threshold. No, I don't want to go shopping; I'd rather be available to sit at Chili's & cry with a friend for three hours. No, I don't want for my kids to be involved in more activities; I'd rather spend a couple of hours in the garden with them & my aunt everyday. No, I don't want to nail another schedule to the wall; I want to teach my kids how to run the marathon that will be their life, learning along the way. I want them to run with the Trainer we can trust as he pushes us past our limit so that our endurance in him can grow.
It's not that I don't want to be me. It's that sometimes "me" feels the burn of my muscles while my endurance grows. I'd much rather feel that burn though than forever stay the me that I am now.

You're done ladybug

This is actually a pre-blog writing I shared a year ago today. 

This past Saturday night I wanted my momma's advise on my Monday night lesson. Honestly, this isn't at all new - I frequently want my momma's advise and frequently I want it about my lesson. On the surface, there was really nothing new about what was going on. But really there was.
We live on a compound - well, l use "compound" loosely. With conjoining properties, gma, mom & dad, Brian & I and Jeff all live within "I need a roll of toilet paper now!!!" distance. I printed my lesson, slipped on my rubber boots, trekked through the lot next door, checked on our garden, and meandered my way to gma's house.
Now, to all of those people who are taken back by the idea that a 92yrs old woman lives by herself, I scoff. Why did I go to gma's? Because my momma & gma have a routine every Saturday night. Gma's not winning any marathons and honestly, her strength has decreased more than I would like to admit to myself over the past month but mom & gma's routine is for gma to be able to have a bath - as long as she wants - and to have her hair curled afterward. She's just not strong enough to do it all alone.
My plan was to have mom read my lesson and leave so that I wasn't in the way when gma got done. But the older I get, the more I realize, things don't always go the way that I have them planned in my head. Gma got done WAY earlier than I thought she would. So I sat at the kitchen table, wondering if I should leave. Then I heard my momma call me. She needed help with something that was just out of her reach. I handed it to her and resumed my place at the table, now waiting to see if there was anymore help that was needed. Another five minutes or so went by and then my gma called to me.
I walked into her room & stood at the end of her bed. All of the activity seemed to have taken the strength out of her. Over the next 30-45 minutes, I stood there in that room, soaking in EVERY SINGLE SECOND. The thought that one day it would be me on the floor, rubbing the lotion in on my momma's tired, frail feet & legs was almost too much to hold the tears back. "You're done ladybug," words that I will remember for a long time to come - even though they will mean nothing to anyone else. I watched in amazement as they had this whole routine down with the comb and the curlers and the bobbie pins. Momma knew right where every curler went. And gma remembered exactly which curlers had been a gift from my gpa. "Ok Ms Butt, you're done." I giggled at their silliness. Ms Butt, Ms Burt - ha!
It was only a silly bath & momma was only curling gma's hair like she's done every Saturday for the past year. But the humility that my gma has shown in loosing some of her independence is a testimony of her confidence in who she is. And she'll tell you - She's a child of The King.
And my momma. The gentleness and tenderness that I watched that evening - she wasn't rushed or hurried or just doing it because she had to. She was serving her momma just because she loves her. She was pouring out all of that grace and mercy on the same tired and weary feet that had carried her all those years ago.
So on a weekend when my own family had left me feeling overlooked and unappreciated, God again gave me a small glimpse of who he is....who I'm supposed to be. God is faithful and he is loving. Jesus demonstrated humility that goes beyond all human comprehension. He is gentle and he is tender. And this time, he used two of the women I hold most dear, and a bath, to show me.