Washing my feet.

Washing my feet.

For our wedding my husband, Matt chose to do something different. He wanted to do something meaningful for me. He prayed about it and decided that The Lord would have him wash my feet as a sign of his love and commitment to me. And to show me one very important thing . That my feet smell.

He would serve me.

I cried throughout the entire ordeal as my Dad played the saxophone. I tried not to look Matt in the eyes because I knew I would further lose my cool and surely have to be carried off stage on a stretcher. About tonight honey, can we reschedule ?

Almost 7 years later the bowl he washed my feet in and the water vase that he used are on top of our refrigerator. I put them up there to remind myself that just as Matt served me, I need to serve him. No actually I put them up there because that’s the only place in the house the kids can’t reach. The vase would be broken by now and the wooden bowl would be used as a ” play potty” or ” accidentally” broken on purpose. Tragically . With my fourth child to blame. His name is not me.

But in all seriousness I noticed something this week. The place I placed the special items is actually very symbolic. As a mother of three and a wife of six I have a lot of cooking to do. ( Matt likes quality food and still eats like a teenager. Just the other day he looked at me with a grin while eating his dinner.)

” I’m a growing man.”

No honey. I’m pretty sure that saying stops at about age 15. I felt like a cougar of sorts fixing meals for him and sharing a bed with him. Maybe next week he will ace his spelling test. We can only hope.

I love you babe.


When we married I knew two things. I wanted to be Matts wife and I wanted children. Lots of em. Six months after we were married we got pregnant with Asher. My life as a Mother was in full swing. I never got to see what married life without children was like. I was almost instantly a Mother. I was instantly a server.

I always struggled with people saying that we are Gods servants. It seemed more like a job title than a relationship until I saw what being a servant really was.

I’m serving him everyday all day , in the middle of the night. When I’m sick. When I’m exhausted. When I’m happy . When I’m sad. When I discipline my kids. When I screw up. When I fight with my husband. When I pray for a friend. When I give my kids goldfish for breakfast. When I fall short of my duties as a ….

Servant. A mother. A wife. A daughter. A friend.

Serving our Father as a Mother is not as hard as we might think. He knows your exhaustion and wants to bend down and change a diaper with you. For the umpteenth time today. He wants to help you throw dinner together while you have crying kids at your feet. He wants to cry with you at the end of the day when you feel inadequate to raise your kids. Because he made you to be enough.

And with him , you are.

So I’m gently reminded that as I serve my family, and people I love that I’m serving him. He’s asked us to have willing hearts to serve, regardless of your circumstances. When we choose to get down on our knees to wash someone’s feet , he’s right there pouring the water for us. It’s his heart to serve, and when we abide in him it becomes our heart as well.

Serving isn’t always easy or glamorous. But when our hearts are turned towards his eyes there is always enough. As we serve he gives us the grace and strength we need . Minute by minute . Diaper by diaper. Poop by poop. And by poop I do mean when you try to use the bathroom alone and a kid finds you.

They always will.

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