It felt too close, too personal.

The blowing of his oxygen blended with the buzz of the clippers. Loud. Noisy. Too much. Over stimulating. In my ears, the combination seemed as thunderous as an out of control, torrential rain mercilessly battering every surface without remorse. The result was the static of white noise that engulfed my ears. Normally, such white noise was comforting, even preferred when attempting sleep. Here now, it produced something else.

How was I to explain how uncomfortable I felt?  How was I even to understand why I felt so uncomfortable?

It wasn’t that I was scared of or opposed to physical contact.  Touch may not be one of my main love languages but it certainly was not bottom of the list.  The main factor, I wondered, the lack of healthy physical contact between my father and I over the years.  My father had not been particularly good at initiating physical contact with me as a boy and young man growing up.  We probably hugged now more than any point I could remember in my 40 years of life. 

I did not ponder this much in the moment but looking back, yes, this was most likely the main contributing factor to this anxiousness I was feeling.  Though, perhaps there were other reasons I have yet to consider.

Whatever it was, I certainly could not and would not explain that or use that as a reason to NOT serve my father.  I probably could not have vocalized it at that moment anyway, even if I had tried. 

So, I continued to run the razor over my father’s head, clipping his hair down to a #1.  Short.  His request.  He had never had his hair this short.  But after 4 weeks in the hospital and hair that insisted on continuing to grow, it was getting too unruly and this was the easiest solution.  Cut it short.  Keep it short.  It would grow back.  By the time he was discharged, it would probably already be half way there. 

The skin of his scalp beneath my fingers was soft. Seemed to contrast with the now short and prickly hair.  With every pass of the razor, being careful not to snag or pull his hair or nick his skin, I could feel the looseness of the skin on scalp.  Was it always like this?  I had never cut his hair before.  I had never cut anybody’s hair before.  Was the skin on the scalp supposed to be snugger, tighter?  I don’t know.  Or was this looseness the result of how much weight he had lost in the past four weeks?  I noted these things quickly and almost mechanically as I continued.  I was terrified of snagging his hair or cutting his head and causing him pain and discomfort.  Plus, he was on blood thinners.  I most definitely did not need that. 

Perhaps this contributed to how I was feeling.

Perhaps I was nervous about taking too long, or snagging the wires and tubes, of making his breathing too hard and laborious.  Too often while I was here, he struggled to breath and his oxygen dipped low, setting sensors off.  Any exertion of effort could and often did provoke such incidents. 

Thus, the tension, the discomfort.  Fearful of hurting him.  Anxious about provoking a breathing fit.  Unfamiliar with close physical contact. 

And yet, the simplicity of this act, of this servant posture, makes it stand out as a precious and significant memory.  Perhaps, in some ways, as intimate and personal as washing ones feet.

This is life.  This is real.  This is up close and personal. This is the raw vulnerability and openness of serving and being served.  These are the moments that matter.

Abba, the greatest acts of serving are rarely the ones noticed by all.  The most significant acts of serving are rarely the large and rare, once in a lifetime moments.  No, they are often found in the little, simple acts of everyday life.  Ones that we often overlook, take for granted, or marginalize. 

Next to your dying on the cross for us, the greatest act of your servant hood to us as your creation is the washing of your disciples feet in that upper room that night. 

It feels too close, too personal.

And yet, vastly significant. 

Perhaps I will spend the rest of days discerning why that moment in my father’s hospital room was so uncomfortable to me, perhaps it will just come to me.

Either way, it is a precious memory to me.  Serving my father, loving him, his accepting, his asking…perhaps it is something more than just cutting hair.  Perhaps, it was/is an evidence of the father/son intimacy that we had grown to know and experience in recent years.

Too close?

Too personal?

No.  Just right. 

Beautiful.

Good.