“Gene, do you remember what I told you just before we ordained you as a Deacon, you know, that part about being a servant?”
I had apparently surprised him, stopping him on his way to the worship service after Sunday School. “Yes, I do,” he recovered nicely, nodding with an accomplished grin, like he had just responded correctly to the high school teacher’s pop question at the beginning of class.
“Well, then,” I said, “I have something you can do for your Pastor,” I said, referring to myself.
Gene and his wife have been my friends for years; they are no strangers to me. I spoke at his dad’s funeral only a few years back, and his wife’s grandmother was one of those godly women who hold their place as revered saints in the life-memory of a church.
Gene was been ordained as a deacon in our church last year, so serving in an “official capacity” is still fresh for him, which I perceived to be a good thing that day— for I saw an opportunity for me to tease him a bit. “Okay, Gene,” I said, trying to sound serious, “I have a challenging ministry opportunity for you. Are you ready?”
Wobbling just a moment, he cautiously said: “I suppose so.”
“Here it is: Can you tie my shoe laces?”
I thought of that nursery rhyme I had learned so many years ago that begins with the stanza:
One, two,
Buckle my shoe
Three, four,
Knock at the door;
Lately, for me, knocking at the door has proven much easier than buckling my shoes.
I was in the process of recovering from rotator cuff surgery on my right shoulder. Since I’m right- handed, with my right arm immobilized by a brace, I’ve had to learn to do simple tasks with my left hand and arm. I’ve adapted quite well, with the help of my wife, but tying my shoe laces, which requires reaching across and down with my right hand and dipping my right shoulder, proves to be dangerous, and painful.
And this particular day, Sunday, my shoe laces had come undone, just before the worship service.
That’s when Gene happened to walk by.
Gene returned my banter with his own: He teased me about how he and a couple of other deacons had told Lori, my wife, to tie the laces of my two shoes together, just to “trip me up.”
But Gene didn’t hesitate, he knelt down to tie my shoes.
It’s an humbling experience to have someone tie your shoes. There is something uncomfortable about sitting there and having someone kneel before you, doing something for you that you have been perfectly capable of doing yourself for most of life; it’s like you are helpless and masquerading as royalty at the same time.
I thought of all those people I had visited in the hospital and long-term care centers who couldn’t get along like they once had.
I wondered if I had been sensitive to their incapacities, some of them temporary, others, permanent.
I watched as Gene meticulously tied my shoe laces.
“Now, I didn’t get those too tight for you, did I?”
“Nope,” I said, “just right. I think I’m ready to go.”
As I made my way to the church sanctuary for the worship service, I glanced back at Gene, and saw something else in him: Jesus kneeling before his disciples before the Last Supper, on the night He was betrayed.
Shoe tying may not rank up there with foot washing, but on a scale of humble acts of service, it surely comes as a close second.
“Thank you, brother,” I told Gene. “You’ve been a true servant. I’ll try to go and do likewise.”
Which words, I thought, upon reflection later, is decent advice— not just for myself but for others, as well—for all of those making their way not only to worship services on Sundays but also down the Path, on the journey we call Lent, with Jesus—on the way to the Cross.