A Jesus Girl’s Guide to Soul Care: A Pedicure for the Soul
If I tripped and fell on the impossibly tiny Vietnamese manicurist, as I climbed into the indulgent massage/Chinese torture/space chair, she’d die.
When I get a pedicure, I feel like a giant. Every inch of my Scottish-Norwegian-Nordic-Goddess village pillaging size 9 ¾ … fine – size ten feet have got to make the Eastern folk question their safety. Also, their hourly wage. And I don’t know what they are saying as they banter back and forth in their mother tongue, but the giggles are indicative of mocking.
I know they know I know they think I am a massive American breeding malady of big boobs, big hair, big teeth, big Texas.
I can withstand the mockery if they make my callouses disappear and my heels smooth as a baby’s butt.
Also, I don’t know how they so meticulously get that Kitten Nose Pink Cashmere paint on the nub of my deformed little toe. It’s magic. They can say whatever, in whatever language they please, just make these snow-ski like feet look pretty… ur, normal.
And yes, I leave with my pocketbook $50 lighter, my backside toasty warm and kneaded into butter, clicking “người phụ nữ đó” into Google translate with fresh new solar nails.
Ugh, why did I look that up?
More often than not I am left wondering how anyone can survive with a waist the size of my ankle.
Where the heck do these women of the Oriental Nail Salon keep their liver?
Is it in their handbag?
I am confident of this, my torso provides ample space for all of my vital organs. I have room for extra parts if need be.
And even more often than that, I am left questioning why I can’t be better… smaller, tiny if you will?
Once I found a clearance blouse, it said Size 10, but part of the tag was missing, I missed the part that said 10P. As in petite. I tried it on and got so helplessly wedged inside of the Cotton-Poly blend, one arm trapped over my head, one arm bent back behind, I finally committed to the purchase and hulked my way out of it, ripping it to shreds. You do what you gotta do to get out of any given dressing room with any remnant of dignity you might muster. Even if it costs you $8.99 and you drop it in the dumpster behind Chick-fil-a.
And, here is the thing, I get tired of listening to myself analyze the size of my butt, the truth of my identity, and the genealogy that created… all this. But I also have added this to the dialogue, I believe Jesus.
Really, I do.
I believe what He says about me, I believe He chose me.
And this is soul care.
My friend Bobbie Schaeperkoetter brought the topic to my attention; soul care.
And yes, we are all into self-care.
I think for the better part of forever Christian women denied themselves as some sort of ode to holiness. Then we cratered; spent, exhausted, angrier than a wet cat, and drunk in our closets – an influx of “set me free” Renaissance Jesus Chicks started burning their bras and getting pedicures and tattoos (not me personally, I mean yes to pedicures. But I must wear a bra, and I am afraid of needles.)
With this new found freedom and the stark reality that Paul didn’t mean we should LITERALLY submit to our husbands as if we lived in a cave, we started adopting babies, saving homeless folks, and spewing Grace like a boss.
But what about our souls?
Such guilt. So much condemnation and awfulness, granted most of it I manifested in my mind and claimed it was Jesus. But in reality, Jesus doesn’t sound anything like me.
But man, Satan does.
Satan has a Jami voice that he can throw like Jim Henson.
That voice, the one that accuses and condemns, that creepy monster sounds just like me.
For me, soul care is rebuking that beastly puppeteer in Jesus Christ’s precious name. Soul care is rejecting every ugly thought about my body, person, feelings, and laundry management and whispering the truth of who I am… daughter.
Soul care is going into a bible study on a Tuesday morning, not because it adds to the Cross but because it reminds me of how complete the Cross is. Fellowship doesn’t afford me the accolade of righteous, neither does foster care, choir practice, Wednesday night potluck, or the offering plate… the Cross does.
He came and conquered every single lie of the world, left it nailed to a bloody stump of wood, and walked out of the tomb and into the light so that I could be called His friend.
Soul care is believing Jesus when He said, “it is finished.” He left no work for me to do. Nothing to measure up, catch up, or pretend is enough.
If I paid Him back, it would be a purchase. If I could earn the Cross, it becomes a wage. I am capable of many things, but I cannot do a single thing to produce this. And if you think you can? Consider the weary work of trying to pay Him back? Your tithe is not enough. Your “perfection” still pales.
This is rest, this is soul care.
This place of believing Jesus chose you while you still sinned, and He ADORES you right now, right where you are, this is SOUL CARE.
This is the ultimate place of R&R.
You are loved so absolutely perfectly, you can do NOTHING to improve on that romance.
You can’t be thinner, shorter, taller, prettier, uglier, meaner, nicer, or more anything and make Him anymore in love because He is 100% sold out on you… unto His death.
This is soul care.
The place where a fast is out of utter awe, instead of barter or hunger strike.
The gift of your last dollar isn’t to gain His praise, but simply because you believe, He has plenty more.
Crawling into that corner recliner at 5:00 am with your bible, journal, and pen isn’t because you have to, it is because you cannot wait to see what sweet thing He has to whisper in your ear.
This is soul care.
Whatever your work, be it soup at the soup kitchen, tucking in a foster love, washing the feet of your aging parent, or simply doing another load of laundry, so everyone has clean socks and underwear, you do this because you love.
He did the ultimate work because He loves perfectly and your soul is well with Him.
Welcome to the Soul Spa, may Jesus be all over your wonderfully cherished self.
This is soul care.
We love because He loved us first. 1 John 4:19
May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained. Love, Jami
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