Humble pie a la crab

Today I got a serving of humble pie. And it had a crab in it. I almost sent it back. But I’ll be darned if I wasn’t the crab.

Don’t let this charming crustacean fool you with his big eyes – he has an enormous self-pity complex. Not cute. But I can relate.
It was that time of the week again. Time for me to do one of the least favorite parts of my job. An annoying task made more annoying by the fact that I’ve been doing it for the better part of three years. I complained aloud to my boss, told her I didn’t much like it. Whine, whine, went the less than attractive sound coming from my lips. This job is beneath me.
You see, I’m chairwoman of some committee at work now. I’m getting important. But alas, it seems no one will recognize it. I’ve been here in this clinic for three years, and I still have this job, this low task that no one else wants, and I can’t stand. It’s even more miserable, perhaps, because I’m some sort of expert on the topic, bringing all sorts of questions from staff and patients across my desk. Why me? Moan

Oh Humility. I don’t like you sometimes. You’re the one I pray for with extreme caution. Only in my most transcendent moments can I ask for you. And right away I regret it. Because I pray for humility, and then I keep jobs like this. Maybe I’ll take it back.

But today came the Epiphany: My favorite things should be the smallest things, the most
unseen, the most ugly, unattractive things. This job right here – this is the job I should love the most because no one wants it, and it’s terrifically mindless monkey business. Because as I enter into this job, I get a little lower, and a little closer to Jesus, to His heart and the way He lived His life. 

Internal groaning ensued. And the cognitive dissonance made me a little teary-eyed right there in the office. I cried because I don’t really believe Jesus’ kingdom methods. Even though they sound so nice.  
     “Service is the key to influence.” 
Sounds like it’s straight out of a John Maxwell book. I’d probably quote it in a Facebook
post. But I don’t want to live it. I don’t want the nominal, invisible work. I want to matter. I want to matter, please.

But there it was, the nagging, sinking knowing that I should dig right into the smallness, get as low as I can, cherish the opportunities to sweep leftovers off the floor with my bare hands. I should treasure every dirty diaper, relish grimy bathtubs begging for a soak. This is my kingdom, His kingdom. I’m most successful down here where no one can see.  

See, domestic servitude is the bee’s knees.
What kind of a God wrecked the system like this? What kind of God puts on flesh to get dirt beneath His fingernails? What kind of God elevates the midnight janitorial shift to heaven’s celebrity status? The place of washing feet, palming smelly toes in my hand, that’s the place of true honor.  This is where I catch His eye, steal His heart. And I know that’s what matters. 
Dear God: Teach me to love the simple, small things. To enter into humbleness with gratitude. And please, please meet me down here.
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