Foot washing

On Holy Thursday, we participated in the foot washing ceremony at St. Nick’s (which was unbelievably crowded). Like everything at St. Nick’s, there are no half measures, no timid toe-dipping, but full-out foot washing, with warm water poured over our feet from pitchers into the basins below, and foamy expensive soaps, and fluffy white towels with which to dry off. The act of giving and receiving such intimate service is very powerful and very evocative. This year I was struck by a memory of Carrie last July.

When Carrie came home from the hospital the last time, it was evident that her poor body had betrayed her in ways that were both great and small. One of the small ways was that, although chemo had taken every hair from her head, her legs were still quite furry—and she would not wear shorts while they were. Her platelet count was too low to contemplate a nick from shaving so I helped her use Nair to dissolve the hair. So we did, but her extra-sensitive skin reacted by forming blotches in an alligator-skin pattern, so she wore long pants anyway. Later that day she asked me to help her exfoliate her feet, which had peeling and flaking skin on the soles from lying in bed for so many weeks and from poor circulation. As she sat in the couch in the family room, I rubbed her feet with a loofah, while she shrieked with laughter because it tickled her so much. We would take a break for her to recover and then she’d tell me she was ready, and I would again rub until she could not take it. Her uncle Peter sat on the couch nearby laughing with us until the task was done.

The basin of warm water, the fluffy towels, the acts of both giving and receiving service with a light and willing heart—they all came back to me on Holy Thursday, and I felt her presence there with us again.