Little Baby Feet by Gina Burgess
This is a reprint from 2006
Little, sweet baby feet. Mary will soon cover them with her hand, warming them against the night chill. She has treasured in her heart all the words spoken about her first born Son.
Things like, "The angel was so glorious, shouting out praises to God on High and the Good News! The Messiah is born! Our long awaited Savior, the Lord, is born!" And word went out publicly, through the bright streets of Bethlehem.
The star shining down on the child guided the shepherds to worship. The little feet, toes curled against the chill, wiggled in His mother's hand.
Eight day old, tiny feet with pink toes that curl in pain as the centuries-old right of covenant is performed on the Messiah. Simon lifts his old eyes, tears spilling from their corners to the Lord God Almighty, praising Him for this precious gift. Anna speaks to all who will listen about the Christ child, this most amazing gift from God.
The feet grew large enough for little sandals as they toddled, one in front of the other. Tiny hands holding on to a big Daddy finger. His first steps, those little feet on their own, dust swirling around them, making the little nose sneeze. A delighted chuckle from Daddy, and a bright grin from Mommy. Loving, watchful eyes guarded those little feet from the fire, the holes, the rocks.
One day a mighty procession fills the streets of Bethlehem. Camels dressed in finery, servants dashing from house to house questions in their expressions, the star's bright light settled over one house. Magi, wise men from the East nod and smile. They get off their beasts and carefully search the packs until fine gifts are found: Gold, frankincense and Myrrh. Reverently they enter His presence. They bow and worship Him, kissing His little feet.
The days go by and His feet grow larger, tucked underneath Him as He sits in His Father's House. The voices of many echo around. He speaks with great authority and the voices quiet. "Did you not know that I must be in My Father's House about My Father's business?"
The days go by and His feet grow larger. The heat bears down, and the slap of leather against hard ground is muted by many voices. Dust billows up and covers those following behind Him. Disciples they are called, word that loosely means dust gatherers as they follow Him. Sitting at His feet are men and women thirsting for the living water that falls from His lips; hungering for the Bread of Life. They follow Him Who promises.
The days go by and storms cease, roiling billows calm, deaf hear, blind see, sick are healed, the lame leap, lepers are cleansed, demons are routed, stories are told, His feet get tired and His bones grow weary from the press of the oppressed. The feet carried Him through desert and over mountain, through streams and over the sea. His own received Him not but those that did receive Him were given Life because He is the Way, the Truth and the Life, the Doorway to Heaven.
One afternoon the feet are resting against cool tile. A woman enters the room, ignoring the many men apparently at supper. She settles at His feet. Her tears wash the dust from them. Her hair dries them. She kisses His feet in deep worship for she has been forgiven much. She washed His feet as the nobleman did not, her worship reverent in anointing His feet with ointment.
One day the feet stumble down the street, drenched in His blood. The feet are in agony as they trudge toward Golgotha. The nails are hammered through them into the cross. Splinters pierce the skin. Blood drips from them into the dust. The feet strain to hold Him up for one last breath and then He gives up His spirit.
Tenderly the feet are washed one last time, a hundred pounds of spices and clean cloths are wrapped around the body and He is laid to rest in a freshly hewn tomb. The stone covers the entrance and darkness engulfs the One. Days pass. Suddenly, the earth quakes.
Those dear feet touch earth once more, transformed, the same, but different, glorified, radiant feet and body. These dear feet walk down a road and the King tells from Genesis to Malachi all those things that foretold His coming, His dying, His arising in victory over sin and death. On the mountain, the last thing the disciples see are the soles of those dear, sweet feet rising to Heaven.
Oh happy day, the day I can sit at those feet that are even now on the pavement of sapphire as clear as the heavens... those feet like burnished brass having been fired in a furnace. And His voice is like the sound of many waters, refreshing waters, living water.
Happy day to kiss them in worship and adoration... To sit at them and learn from He who has all knowledge, and has all power, and has secured victory for me giving me life eternal with him. Oh happy day, O glorious feat.
Considered thoughts from Gina Burgess at 12:47 PM