Matthew’s were full of calluses. His feet were hardened by the Galilean roads, the flimsy sandals he wore, the miles and miles he walked with them. When I washed his feet, after the initial shock, he relaxed into the experience, a pedicure, a day at the spa. I rubbed right under his instep, trying to soothe all those places he held his fear.
Andrew’s toes cracked loudly when I washed his feet. He stretched them out as if he’d been wearing too tight shoes for too long. He was embarrassed by the sound, and the other disciples laughed. They’d all been holding so much in. I’d taken them on quite a journey. And now it was almost over.
John’s feet were thin and swift, nails short-clipped, he had high arches and a strong heel. He was our runner, he could walk for miles without getting tired, he never complained.
James’s feet were dry and cracked and brittle. He always looked as if he were on the brink of tears. I was gentle, dabbing the cloth rather than wiping, so as not to tear his tender skin.
Thomas’s feet had been severely neglected. He was our wanderer. We’d lose track of him for hours, and then somehow he’d show up right at mealtimes, usually with a new mouth to feed or a sweet pastry to share. His feet were crooked with bunions, from trying to force his feet into shoes that didn’t fit. I gently pulled on his toes, stretched out his ligaments, tried to tell him that he belonged.
Peter, well, Peter took me awhile. I could hear everyone’s eyes rolling as he argued with me. They were ready for dinner. But Peter had pulled his robe taut over this legs, trying to hide the feet below, as if he were trying to convince me that he had no feet at all. He wouldn’t let me near them at first. I think he was ashamed of the state of his feet, the dirt under his nails, the corn on his heel, the mud in all the little cracks and wrinkles of his sole. So silly. Doesn’t he know that everyone’s feet get dirty? But when Peter is passionate about something, he dives right in, all the way, and neglects everything else around him, including his feet. So of course, when I insisted, when I told him that I must wash his feet in order for him to have any part of me, he went in whole hog, he wanted his whole body cleaned as well. Easy there, Peter. You’re clean, you’re fine, just as you are. There is such thing as moderation, you know.
Finally, I came to Judas. His feet were blackened by the tar in the roads, bruised from pacing and worry. I washed his feet too. I started in back, with his heel, the one that would turn against me. I dipped the towel into the basin, let the water seep into its folds. I wrapped the towel around his heel, felt his achilles tendon contract at the touch. It’s ok, I tried to tell him. I know what these feet must do. But still I tried to scrub them clean. They were such strong, willing feet. Earnest feet. Feet ready to change the world. I thought about his father’s smile the first time his feet carried him to his arms. About the giggles that would erupt when his mother tickled and kissed his toes. About all the roads his feet had seen. All the roads we’d walked together. I rinsed out the towel in the basin, rung out the excess, and as I worked down over his tibia, the ligaments in his instep, I thought about the first day we met, how I loved him immediately, without hesitation. And about how I loved him still. Even though he was breaking my heart.
They say that there is a connection between each part of the foot and every part of the body. The eyes are connected to the third metatarsal, the stomach, pancreas, and kidney to the arch, the sciatic nerve to the line that follows the achilles tendon. Just to the outside of the ball of the foot, they say, is the connection to the heart. I worked that spot hard, willing it to be clean, knowing it couldn’t be, loving it anyway. He was too much in his toes, where his brain and ears, neck and spine were kept. Again and again I wordlessly begged him with each swipe of the towel not to do this, to find another path, to walk a different road. Some tears mixed in with the dirty basin water. Maybe if I cleaned them really well, these feet would not walk out on me. Maybe if I paid closer attention to his arthritis, if I listened better to his heel spurs, massaged the tendonitis, he’d change his mind, he’d take a step back. But like a ballerina in her first pair of pointe shoes, he was all on his toes, all in his head, wrapping and fortifying his feet around so his toes could bear the weight.
When the right foot didn’t seem to work, when I couldn’t get it clean, I tried again on his left, dipping the towel, wringing out the towel, unfolding the towel, the water splashing out if its bowl. I washed around the bottom, base and edge, around his heel and arch, past the ball, over his thick cuticles and between his toes. He almost laughed, a little smirk, when I reached his toes. Did he remember, then, his mother’s loving touch?
Did he remember the first times his heart was broken, when his father didn’t return, when the kids laughed at school, when his mother cried herself to sleep every night? Did he recall all the times it cracked in two, again and again, from the disappointment, the broken relationship, the hope deferred?
Did he remember all the hearts he’s broken since?
Did any of these disciples, my dear friends, recall the moment when they never thought they’d recover from the spurned love, the foreclosure on the house, the illness, the accident, the child who ran away?
Do they remember the hearts they’ve broken, the mistakes they’ve made, the poor choices chosen?
There is more to come. Soon, my broken heart will break theirs, and somehow they will have to find a way to keep going, to keep walking, to keep stepping forward. Somehow they will have to take their broken hearts and wash the feet of those who have broken them. They will have to find a way to let someone, whose heart they’ve broken, wash their own feet to healing. These are the only steps forward.
They are going to break each other’s hearts.
Their hearts will all be broken.
But, I wonder, will they wash their feet anyway, will they let their feet be washed?
This is the only way.
Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives these broken hearts receives me. And whoever receives my broken heart, receives the heart of God.
Thanks be to God.
😢
ReplyDeleteThank-you❤️
ReplyDelete