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Humility is longed for by many, yet truly found by few. It asks for a price that few are willing to pay: the surrender of self. Our human nature loves the pedestal; it delights in being seen, heard, and admired. But the way of Christ calls for a quieter path, one where pride is laid down and truth is lifted up. It is only when I am emptied of confidence in myself, when I confess that I am a beggar and not a prince, that I can take my true place among the disciples of Jesus.

Have I learned this fully? I doubt it.

But the simple cleaning lady in this week’s story did, and her understanding led her somewhere beautiful. Let’s follow her there.

You can read the Story of the Week here:

Wishing you a day filled with joy, peace, and a touch of the humility we all need.

A Touch of  Grace

by J.K.Stenger

Elsie had been cleaning all her life, hardly noticed by anyone. She just cleaned other people’s homes, other people’s messes. She wasn’t a doctor or a bishop. She didn’t save lives or preach sermons. She just cleaned what others wouldn’t touch.

But it didn’t matter. God saw her. And every morning, before she picked up her mop she knelt beside her bed and talked to Him. He was her Maker, her Joy; the One she worked for. Not the president, not the tax office, and she certainly did not do it for fame.

People mocked her for that. Some treated her like the dirt she was removing. They said she was foolish to believe in the fairy tale of God. But that didn’t bother her either. God needed her as a cleaner, so she was determined to be the best cleaner she could be.

The floors she mopped shone with the light of heaven’s glory. The windows she washed were clear as pure crystal, and the bathrooms sparkled with a freshness found only in the mansions of kings. 

But her age caught up with her. Her body began to ache. At first, only a little but it grew worse over time. 

Arthritis. That’s what the doctor said. “There’s nothing to be done.”

After so many years of hard work, Elsie’s knees throbbed, her joints stiffened and pain flashed through her body at all the wrong moments. Her work as a cleaner came to a stop.

“My dear Jesus,” she prayed one morning. “All my life I’ve been a cleaner. Not like You. You cleaned hearts. I just cleaned toilets, but now I can’t even do that.”

She shifted uncomfortably on the creaky, wooden floor as another flash of pain coursed through her body. “What is it you want me to do?”

It was very still in her room. Only the ticking of her old clock on the wall could be heard. Outside, a car sped carelessly through the street. 

And then a soft voice filled her heart. It was the voice of her dear Savior. 

“Go to the cathedral,” He said. 

The cathedral?

She wanted to ask why, but she knew the Savior well enough not to question Him. So she got up, put on her coat, went down the stairs and made her way to the sanctuary.

She had never been there before. People spoke of its beauty, of the hush and the holiness that filled the place, but she could not imagine herself walking among the sacred whispers of the saints. Such a place belonged to angels and cherubim; not to her. 

But today, the Savior had invited her. And that was enough.

When she stood before the heavy wooden door that would lead inside, she swallowed hard. It was a gorgeous building; the very gateway to heaven. Its walls shimmered with age and beauty, built from the finest materials of its time. It was a place worthy of worship to the One who does not dwell in houses made by hands, but seeks a resting place in every human heart.

She pushed the door open and her heart skipped a beat as she beheld the breathtaking grandeur before her. The cathedral was enormous, steeped in a holy aura of silent reverence. A faint scent of candles and incense lingered in the air. Towering pillars rose on all sides, supporting the arched roof far above, while stained-glass windows along the walls depicted the lives of the apostles of Jesus in heavenly hues. Soft, muffled sounds echoed through the sanctuary; whispers, footsteps and the faint creak of benches, where a few worshipers sat scattered. They had their heads bowed in reverent submission before the holiness of God.

Behind her an old man leaning on a cane shuffled in. He lowered himself onto a nearby pew and gazed up at the great cross before him. His eyes glistened.

Was he crying?

It wasn’t her responsibility. The cathedral was a private place of communion between God and man. No one was meant to interfere here. And yet, Elsie’s heart went out to him. He looked so fragile, so weak, and there were unmistakable tears in his eyes.

But what could she do?

She should do nothing.

And yet, she had to do something. Wasn’t she a cleaning lady, one who scrubbed away dirt until everything shone like new? That was her calling. And this man, too, seemed to be grappling with a stain he could not wash away.

But how was she to help?

A gentle nudge of the Spirit pushed her toward the old man. Ever so casually, she walked in his direction. When she reached him, she lightly placed her hand on his bony shoulder, just a tiny touch, warm and compassionate, accompanied by a silent prayer to the One who does all things well. 

The old man turned and looked her straight in the face, his eyes brimming with tears. He wanted to speak, but no words came; he was overcome by emotion. Feeling embarrassed and somewhat ashamed for involving herself in matters far above her station, she quietly walked away and left the cathedral.

Confusing thoughts swirled in her mind. Nobody had asked her to do something like touching a complete stranger, especially one who was crying. Who did she think she was?

***

That night there was a knock on the door of her little house. She was just washing her dishes with her stiff fingers and almost dropped her favorite porcelain mug.

A knock? Who could that be? Nobody ever came to her place. Nobody even knew she was actually alive. 

When she opened the door with trembling hands, her ears burned and her heart skipped a beat. It was the bishop of the cathedral.

Surely the old man in church had complained about someone intruding on his privacy. He had come to talk to God and she had not respected his need for quiet fellowship with the One who could truly help him. She lowered her eyes and before the bishop could speak, she whispered, “I am so sorry. I will never again come to the cathedral and make such a nuisance of myself.”

She expected harsh words, a justifiable complaint from the one in charge of the cathedral. Instead, a warm hand rested on her shoulder, soft, compassionate and accompanied by quiet words.

“The man whose shoulder you touched,” the bishop began, “lost his wife last week. He had no faith in God and did not know where to turn.” The bishop’s voice grew very soft, almost like the whispers of the Spirit. “He prayed for the first time in his life and asked God if he might feel the touch of his wife’s hand one last time. ‘God, if You show me, I will believe in You too.’”

Elsie stood speechless. “Was that …”

“Yes,” the bishop said. “That was the very moment you touched that man’s shoulder.”

Silence fell for a moment. Then the bishop spoke again. “I hear you are a cleaning lady?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Or rather, I was. My hands and knees don’t cooperate anymore.”

He smiled. “I want you as a cleaning lady in the cathedral. Every day.”

She looked up, her eyes wide. “I—I can’t,” she murmured. “Too old. Too much pain.”

“You don’t understand,” the bishop said gently. “I don’t want you to clean pews and dust floors. I want you to help clean people. I want you to pray for them, smile at them and simply be there, doing whatever God’s Spirit leads you to do.”

She blinked, hardly able to comprehend what the bishop was saying. “You mean… I can be in the cathedral every day, close to the portal of heaven, and serve my Lord there?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” the bishop said with a broad smile. “Just like the prophetess Anna in the temple, who served God with her prayers day and night. And you’ll be royally paid.”

As the bishop left, Elsie sank to her knees, tears glistening on her cheeks. She was seen. Not by man, but by God Himself.

_____

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