Friday, April 2, 2010
The Washing of the Feet
Last night I must say was filled with crowded emotions. My eight year old loved the idea of going to this Mass, thinking for sure she would get picked to get her feet washed. I had to break the news that the selection had been made previous to our arrival. I thought she might burst out a comment when she noticed a young boy getting his feet washed. I had to hold her up to see most of what was going on and I could tell by the look on her face that she loved being held that closely as if she were a younger child. My thoughts drifted way back to the time in my childhood when my brother Phillip was chosen to have his feet washed as a young boy. He was premature at birth and had very little fingernails and toenails and what he did have were soft and to me always in disarray. Besides the fact that he was not that much older and he was a boy and his feet stunk. I was worried the priest may kill over when he came upon Phillip. I remember my mother taking great care to have clean, if not new, socks and shoes for Phillip for the big day. I don't really know why I was so bothered by the occasion but my brother has since died at the age of 33 and I feel sure he is now at the Heavenly banquet. (And I bet his feet don't stink anymore either.) And I thought of how all our cares, all our worries small or large can be brought right here to the table and be taken care of. So, as we processed after Mass following Jesus, we came around to the empty Tabernacle and the extinguished Sanctuary Lamp. It was beautiful and as I knelt I prayed for my husband's friend who was admitted to the hospital Tuesday with necrotizing fasciitis, a serious flesh eating bacteria. I began to cry as I thought about him waking in the next week or so and finding the parts of his flesh peeled away in the attempts to save his life. I cried as I thought about Jesus' flesh being torn away as He is scourged. I was glad to be in this emotional state, in this Chapel, with this community, with this child and I was glad for my parents who taught me to leave it all right here, at His feet.
Posted by Julie Cragon at 10:24 AM