Since we've moved, I've really struggled with anxiety. I've recognized a tendency towards it in the past and stuffed it down, covering it with other things, laughter, food, running away from the root of it. Here I am, alone a lot, and forced to face it. There's not much to cover it up here in California. This dark valley seems to cast light on the darkest parts of me while the rest remains shadowed. I feel imprisoned by myself. I've grown, I've learned, I've lost, this year, but I've refused brokenness. Jesus has asked to wash my feet, asked for my humility, asked for my submission, and it's uncomfortable and I keep trying to cover up my entire exposed self with a washcloth.
Today, I like Peter, will allow Jesus to wash my feet, to be deeply intimate with me, to point out the dirt, not only on my pinky toe, but the dirt that covers the soles of my feet, the dirt that is in between, the dirt that makes me brown instead of the untouched white that I am once He has washed me.
Okay, Jesus, clean me up.
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