i finally got my feet washed.
they were sore from a day
of running and standing still,
of impatience and veiled pride,
and i wondered, as i sat in the pew,
whether the one who washed them
would be able to smell the sweat
from my socks and shoes.
but as i waited in line for my turn,
i looked at the pink and brown feet
around me, vulnerable in their bareness,
and realized our feet had all been places
that had made them dirty,
no matter the story.
when i sat down in the washing chair
the woman looked me in the eyes,
smiled, asked my name, whispered hers.
the water was warm and the sponge was soft
as she gently cleansed first one foot
and then the other, drying them on
the white towel tucked into her cassock cord.
i felt the dampness between my toes
as i padded back down the aisle to my row
and wondered if i dared
take communion barefoot, too.
what God has declared clean, let not man call common.
