Today will be a tough day. This will be my first Sunday in church since my diagnosis. There are so many people at First Baptist who love me and truly care about my family. I have a pastor who preaches the Word and loves his people. The worship team helps to usher us into the presence of the King. So what’s the problem?
Church is where my defenses come down. Nothing moves my emotions and bares my soul like corporate worship, so I predict I will be a mess. When my friends offer a kind word and a hug, it ruins any bravado I may have had and the waterworks start. I’m sure this is a perfectly healthy and normal way to react, especially given the circumstances, but it’s hard for me.
You see, I’m the caregiver. I’ve fed and cared for a farmer for 23 years. I’ve raised or sheltered children for almost as long. I love and live to see that others have what they need. Not much makes me happier than when people enjoy my food or want to hang around my house.
Now, I’m moving into a place where, for a prolonged period of time, I will be the one who needs to be fed and looked after. I will be vulnerable and needy and I hate that part.
I have learned, in theory, that for every person who wants to wash feet, someone must be willing to let their feet be washed. Now, that head knowledge must make the journey to my heart.