"May I wash your feet?"

"NO!" And my heart added, "That's a definite NO with three exclamation points!!!"

He had been hanging around the camp meeting tent all week—listening to my sermons from just inside the canopy, filling his notebook pages with more words than I had spoken, grimacing at the humor, and triple-checking each text against the notes in his brightly-underlined Bible.

I recognized him as a bad memory from camp meetings past, a Christian who had been absent at the distribution of humility but who had instead accepted a divine assignment to develop patience in others.

My heart bore bloody wounds from thrusts of his acerbic tongue, and my kindness was calling for backup.

"May I wash your feet?"

His question was insistent, grating like sharpened fingernails across everything I had been saying about grace.

Thursday evening was communion, "in memory of the supper Jesus had hosted the evening before His death." Large pieces of communion bread had been baked into the shape of hearts, "ready to be broken." Plastic cups were filled with the pure juice of purple Concords, "His blood, shed for us." All were stacked like layers of a wedding cake, ready to be distributed to the worthy and unworthy.

But first we were to wash feet, "in remembrance of Him."

"May I wash your feet?"

The men, women and families were scattering to rooms where water, towels and basins were awaiting their celebration of humility.

I had waited, not wanting to be first, and secretly hoping that I'd be needed elsewhere for the next 20 minutes.

"May I wash your feet?"

His request was more insistent now, like the thunder of a dripping faucet.

I searched the stage and the tent, hoping for deliverance. None came.

"May I wash your feet?"

"NO!" My heart commanded.

"Why certainly. Thank you for offering," my vocal chords responded.

He nodded, and led my wary feet into the room designated for humble men.

Our conversation quickly traversed the traditional topics—weather, family, traffic and shoelaces. But all the while the room grew smaller, squeezing all oxygen out under the door.

We were last, and the basin's water had just arrived from a glacier. Every cell in my feet screamed for protection from the frigid water and his approaching hands.

Then, kneeling before me on the shabby carpet, he reached out, took both my hands in his, and looked directly into my eyes. I smiled, and prayed for God to grant me temporary deafness so I would not have to deal with the glib criticism I knew was coming.

"I have been looking forward to tonight, and especially to this moment," he began.

His eyes glittered with eagerness, blinked twice, and then filled with a tsunami of tears.

"I have fallen in love with Jesus." He wiped his eyes and face with the white cotton towel that was there for my feet. "And I need to tell you how sorry I am for the person I have been."

He wiped again, soaking the towel with a flood of repentance.

"Please pray for the person I am becoming."

We prayed, and he washed, each stroke a miracle of glacial warming, and each pat of the soggy towel eloquent with confession.

I washed, and we prayed again, arm in arm, hearts in tune with the Master Washer.

"Please pray for the people we are becoming."

Dick Duerksen is the official "storyteller" for Maranatha Volunteers International. Readers may contact Dick at dduerksen@maranatha.org.