Washed Feet

Tired.

The good kind.

He said he’s been going and has kept going. That’s a cycle we know.
I mean – my hands know that.

Worn.

But he also said wife, and prayer, and sacrifice.

Hard to put a finger on what that sounds like when we barely know the steps.

Rare.

So he’s going and going and going.

But he’s also kneeling and making the coffee and when the clock says 5:30,
he’s making a big breakfast because he’s got a big love for a wife he holds in a big way.

Bacon, waffles, good eggs, and music.
As if that kneeling music isn’t loud enough.

Bouncing off the walls and she’s tired but amazed.

Asking questions like, why would another human do this when sleep is just down the hall.

Bedroom is right around the corner but he’s out and the sheets are already cold.

Expectations.

Sleep, let another do it. You don’t need to rise and serve and love.

Expected things don’t make the music.

He knows this and the cross and the love of a dad that thought music should be on earth too, so he bends like His Maker bent.

Washed feet. Bacon sizzling.

He finds the way to the sink and starts the coffee.

Music.

Following her small frame as she teaches and is worn but I’m sure she feels the beat of a man bending, kneeling, and offering.

Wonder.

Amazing what songs with real flesh attached can feel like.
Songs that pulse through a hand that’s tired but loves the dance more than sleep.

Brother.

That’s what I call him, because I admire his song and his house and the way he’s tired but kneeling.

Kneel brothers.

You can’t hear the song until your chest is pressed against the cold wood floor praying for the one that fits perfectly in your arms.

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