Here is a memory from eight years ago, well-worn but fitting still:
It began with accidentally spilled fish water on the carpet while the boys were changing the tank. As we blotted that up, the toilet overflowed and four-year old Hannah slipped on the floor, soaking herself in toilet water. While mopping the floor and bathing Hannah, the puppy had an accident in the other room. Up to my elbows, I certainly was not thinking about the feet of Jesus.
I am thinking now of the feet of Jesus, however. May I never suppose His feet to skirt around life’s lowly messes. Profoundly yet simply, His feet are compared to bronze, an ordinary metal for the commonest uses and the holiest places. Cooking pots for the kitchen and coins for the dusty streets of commerce were made of bronze, and so were holy articles for the temple and the altar for the holy of holies. Feet like bronze, not jeweled and guilded, belong to the One who says, “Follow Me,” and who then steps promptly onto soiled carpets and floors, into bath water, through the sanctifying fray of common moments, and up to the throne of God. Onto, into, through, and upward—it is not easy to follow the way of those bronze-like feet, but when mine are callousing, His are glowing and sacred to be sure.