The notes from the piano’s final chord died away, and the choir rose to collect songbooks and de-robe our flowing, blue gowns. The church service had gone well. Engidye, my fellow choir member and favorite hospital nurse, laid her hand on my shoulder. “Do you want to stay for foot-washing?” she asked. I couldn’t repress a shiver. It was a cold, rainy morning and nothing seemed more unappealing than sitting outside in the gloom while my feet were dipped in cool water. I politely declined, and began walking home. Halfway down the stairs to our compound however, I paused. The crowd of white-shawled women bustling about the church yard, basins in hand, towels over arm, seemed to draw me. O bother. I might as well stay. I re-ascended the stairs and began hunting about for Engidye. But after making a full-circle of the church and its yard, there was no sign of her. Somewhat relieved, I turned to the stairs once more. Before I reached them, an old lady caught me by the arm. “Do you have someone to wash your feet?” she asked, wearing a genuine expression of concern. “Well, uh, no.” I said. “Let’s wash each other’s feet!” she urged emphatically. Her upturned face was wrinkled from years of smiling, and a few gray locks peeked out from underneath her blue head-kerchief. I couldn’t refuse.
She managed to find me a couple spare basins and seated herself on the sidewalk curb while I went to get water. Carefully, she removed her soiled, hole-filled socks. They were still wet and muddy from her walk to church. She didn’t cringe as she placed her foot in the icy basin. I stared at it in awe. The top knuckle sported a large, cracked blister. The sole was flat and calloused. One of her toes was half eaten away by a cancerous sore. I delicately took it in my hands and dipped it in the water. “Does your foot hurt?” I managed to say. “Yes, very much.” She answered cheerfully. What burdens had these feet borne? How many miles had they travelled?
Then, it was my turn. I had worn my long, black stockings because of the cool weather. Not wanting to immodestly begin undressing right in front of the church, I simply offered her my foot, stocking and all. She asked no questions. She gave me no funny looks. She quietly took my foot in her hands and began scrubbing vigorously. I was glad for the stockings. I would have been ashamed for her to see my neatly trimmed toenails and soft soles. They had borne no heavy burdens. They hadn’t travelled many miles.
We emptied our basins in the bushes and turned to thank each other. She hugged me happily and pronounced a thousand blessings upon my head. As I watched her painfully limp back inside the church, I felt – well, what I think Jesus intended us to feel after foot-washing.