His Feet

My clearest memory are his feet. Not the feet that had felt like knives as they bent my ribs. Not the feet that had struck at my face in fury. But his feet. I didn’t know that shame could fade to pride so quickly. But it can.

I was fourteen and small for my age, a reserved shy shadow of the man I might one day grow into. Others struck me for an unknown reason, some imagined offence I had committed. Verbal assault soon became physical, yet it wasn’t the impact of fist on face that hurt most. I felt alone. I felt small. I felt undone. 

But then his feet were there. I knew these feet, I had walked in their step all my life. I couldn’t lift my head, but new tears formed as these feet planted down in defiance over me. I don’t remember the words—I don’t need to—he was standing over me, and that was enough. I was safe. I was protected. I was his. His feet spoke loudly, boldly announcing that this cowering boy was under his protection, that any who came for me must first contend with him. At least, that’s what I heard his feet say. I guess others must have heard something similar, because the kicking stopped.

I doubt many would take the same liberties with me today, I’m not 14 and small anymore. Yet life has dealt its blows, and I have felt both the fury of circumstance and sinful choices, often leaving me feeling alone, small, and undone. Sometimes I can barely lift my head, my world a collapsed shadow of what it was designed to be. But then I see his feet.

I am the outsider and outcast, the poor and needy; I am Ruth who lays at the feet of my kinsman, who calls out, “Spread your wings over your servant, for you are a redeemer.” (Ruth 3:9) And he has. My Jesus stands over me, feet firmly planted. I am his and he is mine, and his banner over me is love.