Holy Thursday
Just came from the Foot Washing Service at our Church. My pores are open and my soul is awake.
I feel protective of the experience to the point being tempted not to share it but I just can't do that. What can I say? The motley and raggedy Catholics that we have been sharing fellowship with have wedged their way into my stony anti-institutional heart.
We process forward, everyone barefoot. Old, young, wheelchairs, homeless. There were three stations. At one, an admired peace-writer who stands six feet tall, bending to refill the pitchers with warm water. At another, a toothless woman washing the feet of a lawyer in a suit. We saw our neighbor, who is Protestant and hosts her home-church. She saw us in line and kissing us on both cheeks, wept. Another man who lost his wife to cancer, having come straight from work, brings piles of folded towels to each station.
In the line, as our turn approached, I was holding sleeping Calliope, this sweet woman asked me if she could help. I said, "Can I give you the baby?" She said, "Oh, I was hoping you'd let me." So, I draped the sleeping girl into her arms. I approached my turn unburdened.
The person in front of you washes your feet. This tween girl, braces shone, had obviously been doing this for years, smiled at me as she rubbed my feet with warm water. And when I couldn't talk from crying, she helped me up and said, "It's okay." Then, I washed Benicio's, who, like my Dad, blinks when he feels shy. He pressed his front teeth with his finger while I patted his feet. Then he washed Manny's. Then Manny washed Clara's. Manny wanted to pour a lot of water.She giggled. And then when she stood to wash Geoff's she laughed even more. What I loved then was that, just as Geoff sat down on the step for his turn, the Choir began "The Servant Song" from our wedding. Clara stroked Geoff's moon-white feet while I poured the warm water for her. The boys stood behind me smiling and watching their Dad.
It's so vulnerable, that act, your feet in someone else's grasp. It is equally vulnerable, bending your knees and touching someone's feet. Father Rock said that we have been mired by the dust of war, of the natural disasters, by the suffering around us. That we must wash each other off and present our brother before God. The chilly floor and the wet feet and the people shuttling piles of towels reminded me of labor, which made me cry even more.
I so want to remember this. Even if I attend this service many times in years to come, I will never forget this one.
I feel protective of the experience to the point being tempted not to share it but I just can't do that. What can I say? The motley and raggedy Catholics that we have been sharing fellowship with have wedged their way into my stony anti-institutional heart.
We process forward, everyone barefoot. Old, young, wheelchairs, homeless. There were three stations. At one, an admired peace-writer who stands six feet tall, bending to refill the pitchers with warm water. At another, a toothless woman washing the feet of a lawyer in a suit. We saw our neighbor, who is Protestant and hosts her home-church. She saw us in line and kissing us on both cheeks, wept. Another man who lost his wife to cancer, having come straight from work, brings piles of folded towels to each station.
In the line, as our turn approached, I was holding sleeping Calliope, this sweet woman asked me if she could help. I said, "Can I give you the baby?" She said, "Oh, I was hoping you'd let me." So, I draped the sleeping girl into her arms. I approached my turn unburdened.
The person in front of you washes your feet. This tween girl, braces shone, had obviously been doing this for years, smiled at me as she rubbed my feet with warm water. And when I couldn't talk from crying, she helped me up and said, "It's okay." Then, I washed Benicio's, who, like my Dad, blinks when he feels shy. He pressed his front teeth with his finger while I patted his feet. Then he washed Manny's. Then Manny washed Clara's. Manny wanted to pour a lot of water.She giggled. And then when she stood to wash Geoff's she laughed even more. What I loved then was that, just as Geoff sat down on the step for his turn, the Choir began "The Servant Song" from our wedding. Clara stroked Geoff's moon-white feet while I poured the warm water for her. The boys stood behind me smiling and watching their Dad.
It's so vulnerable, that act, your feet in someone else's grasp. It is equally vulnerable, bending your knees and touching someone's feet. Father Rock said that we have been mired by the dust of war, of the natural disasters, by the suffering around us. That we must wash each other off and present our brother before God. The chilly floor and the wet feet and the people shuttling piles of towels reminded me of labor, which made me cry even more.
I so want to remember this. Even if I attend this service many times in years to come, I will never forget this one.
posted by Maria at
8:43 PM
2 Comments:
Thank you so, so much for sharing this Mia. Now I won't forget it either. Holy Thursday Mass always brings tears in me, too.
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