I was never very close to any of my grandparents. Why isn't really important, just th at we weren't really close. My maternal grandmother passed away a few years ago, and I went home to Georgia for the funeral. I remember distinctly walking into the living room of her house, and seeing my grandfather sitting in his chair, shoes in one hand, socks in the other, staring at them.
"Hi Pop," I said softly. "Can I help you with something?"
"I can't see to put my shoes on," he said sadly. Pop had macular degeneration and was nearly blind by this point. "Marie used to help me with these things."
Pop had these long, skinny pale feet that completely freaked me out through most of my childhood. He had thick, twisted yellow toenails and I avoided even looking at his bare feet.
Before this day, I would have told you that I loved my grandfather. I would have told you that we weren't close, and it bugged me that he told jokes about me weight or my hair, but I would have said that I loved him, because, well, because he was my grandfather.
I sat on the floor and put Pop's feet in my lap. I slowly worked the dress socks over his mangled toes and his long feet. I rubbed my warm hands over his cold, aching diabetic feet and gently put his shoes on.
And I loved him.
In that act, I learned more about love than at any other time in the years before of since. In that moment, I felt that I new what love was. That moment changed the way I saw my grandfather, even when he grew confused and difficult. I always saw us together in the living room, me working the socks over those toenails that so disgusted me, him missing the woman who had helped him put his shoes on, probably without him ever asking.
When Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, he loved them. He didn't just demonstrate service or give an example - he loved - action verb - by washing their feet.
I'm certainly not Jesus. But I see the value in that menial action - the action is, in itself, love. Not just an act of love, but love itself.
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