Make Space For Bob

In our living room, hangs a picture of Jesus washing St. Peter’s feet but Peter isn’t happy. It looks more like he’s enduring a painful pedicure, his face scowling, hands tightly clasped on his lap. On the table beneath the picture sits a huge black basin, beautifully crafted by a potter we love with a linen tea towel draped over its side. This vignette is a reminder to follow Christ’s example to stoop, to serve. As I contemplated that picture, another scene came to mind. I see the same Jesus, but this time, he’s reclining on a low sofa and Mary is washing his feet with her perfume and tears. I never could understand how Jesus could be comfortable with both washing Peter’s feet as well as having his own feet washed until I met Bob Dodds. The first time I saw Bob was at a prayer meeting at a thrift store called Operation Blessing on Barton Street in a depressed area of Hamilton. Brushing past the racks of used clothes was a circle of about 8 people gathered in a ring, heads bowed in prayer, but when a final “amen” was said and they straightened up, Bob remained hunched, folded in upon himself, his head almost on his knees. The bony limbs were hidden in the folds of the oversized grey trench coat; the back of his head, matted, greasy and grey. I thought perhaps that he was drunk, as were some of the people who happened upon our meetings. But I was wrong. Bob was sick- actually dying, but we didn’t know it then. Shortly after everyone had left, Bob was still slumped in his chair and my husband, Andrew asked him if he’d like to come to our house for dinner.

“Yes”, his smoker’s voice whispered hoarsely. “I’d like that very much.”

Throughout dinner, Bob’s head was almost on his plate and even lifting his fork to his mouth proved a monumental task. He apologised, saying that he was taking a lot of prescription drugs for pain. I imagined that after dinner, he’d be glad to get home and lie down, but Bob had other ideas.

“I want to wash your dishes”, he said.

“Absolutely, no way.” I said.

“I insist!” was his reply.

I really didn’t want Bob in my narrow galley kitchen, washing my good Denby china, but something in the way his eyes looked at me, almost pleading, made me change my mind.

“Okay”, I said “But how about I wash and you dry?”

Bob seemed okay with that compromise and handing him a tea towel, we got to work. By this time, he was really unsteady on his feet, and Andrew watched incredulously from the next room as I braced my feet and Bob began leaning on me with ever increasing need for my support until finally his whole weight was on me, his head resting on my shoulder but still slowly wiping the dripping dishes. I held my breath each time he picked up a plate from the rack, gave it a cursory swipe with the towel then banged it clumsily on the counter. We didn’t talk much, but I sensed something, no... Someone between us. Bob just didn’t want to help. He needed to help. He kept thanking me for letting him help. His sacrificial offering of wiping my dishes was for him, like wiping Jesus’ feet. Yes..it was awkward and strangely weird, but as he offered this gift, my kitchen became holy ground. A few weeks later, Bob was dead.

I love to help but over the years, I’ve learned that in my eagerness to volunteer, I’ve kept others from experiencing the joy of serving.

There can also be a power dynamic at play. When I have the means, intelligence, or solution to a problem, I have more power. In many relationships, the one with the most power has the least love.

We need to not only wash feet but allow ours to be washed as well.

It’s time to make space for Bob Dodds.

p.s. This story is an exerpt from my book, “Uncluttered: Make Space For What Matters” available on Amazon.