Washing Feet

It takes an act of courageto take your shoes and socks offto slip out of sandalsto let another human beingtouch a part of you that may not be pretty.Baby feet are sweet and soft, andmamas kiss them and count toes andhold those tiny sweet soft feetwhen they are cold andsplash bath water over them andhear baby laughter.Big feet are rough and calloused,some with corns, some misshapen, fromyears of being on them.Waiting tables or farming orwearing cheap shoes orpushing feet into fashions that areunkind to human beings.So it is hard to bare your rough,misshapen feet to another’s touch. Jesus washed feet.One night, he became a slave during dinner.He picked up a towel.Took a basin and water pitcher andbegan to go slowly around a tableto wash his disciples’ feet.Feet that were rough.Misshapen. Dusty from a day’s travel.Feet that had walked roads with himfor three years.Feet of people he loved.Feet of people he needed to touchone last time.When Jesus was a baby,Mary must have kissed his feetall tiny and sweet and soft andshe counted toes andheard baby laughter as shepoured water over them.Tonight, Jesus washes the feetof people he loves.One by one. Slowly. Lovingly.Maybe he washes his own mother’sfeet—I like to think so.Yet no one washes Jesus’ feet this night.Soon, those dusty bare feetwill feel the hard dirt of a prison cell.The cold stone of Pilate’s pavement.The stones of Jerusalem’s city streets.Soon, Jesus’ feet will be pushed together.The last time anyone touches him,it will be with rough hands.Rough hands will savagely drive a spike through Jesus’ feet.No one washes Jesus’ feet this night.For what his feet will soon endure,will I let him wash mine?Will you let me wash yours?© The Rev. Sheila N. McJiltonPictures accessed through Google images