The service on the Thursday before Easter (Maundy Thursday)
often includes everyone washing each other’s feet the way Jesus washed the feet
of the Disciples the night before he died.
It is a moving spiritual experience that can help you understand the
Easter story. I’ve never been to one
because the idea of anyone touching my feet (except children playing “this
little piggy”) creeps me out. Although
you don’t have to participate, it would creep me out just to watch.
Janet and Kate have never given me a hard time about
it. Kate would probably love to get into
the psychological issues but thinks it’s judgmental to question anyone’s
religious practices. Ed has never said
anything one way or the other.
When Betsey was about four, Janet told her about going for a
Holy Wednesday pedicure and she wanted to go too, since Janet said she always
gets her toenails polished. So it became
a Grandma-granddaughter outing every year and when Cilla was four, she started
going. By then they had moved on to
getting manicures. If I ever get a
manicure, the first thing I’ll have to say is “Well, I hope you like a
challenge.”
The first year Cilla went, we were sitting around having
snacks and drinks before Easter dinner when my mother complimented the girls on
their pink (Cilla) and purple (Betsey) fingernails. Cilla beamed. “Thank you, Grandma Louie. We got it for Monday Thursday.”
“It’s Maundy Thursday.”
Betsey hissed, “Sheesh!”
My parents looked puzzled.
“You know, when Jesus washed the Disciples’ feet because in the olden
days, everyone wore sandals all the time and their feet got all dusty. So when someone came to visit you, you had to
wash their feet.”
My mother was a Unitarian with little imagination. “But you don’t wear sandals all the time, and
when you do, your feet don’t get dusty.”
She might have said it was silly, but one thing I’ll say for the
Unitarians is that they teach you to be respectful of other people’s ideas.
Unfortunately I slipped up on that. “Jesus Christ, Mom, it’s a symbol.”
Everyone got quiet.
My father looked like he was about to say, “Now look here, young lady,”
Betsey giggled, and Josh said, “She didn’t mean it, Grandma. She’s sorry.”
“We got our toes done, too!”
Cilla started to take off her shoes and socks.
“Not now, Cilla,” I said.
“We’re going to eat soon,” But it was too late. Cilla was sitting next to my father on the
couch and she put her feet in his lap. “See?”
“Very pretty.”
“Betsey and Grandma and Aunt Kate got theirs done, too. Do you want to see?” Janet has never been a favorite of my father’s.
“That won’t be necessary; I’m sure they’re very nice.” My father
can really be quite courtly when he wants to be, but Janet, probably just to
annoy him, took her shoes off.
“You do it, too, Aunt Kate.” Cilla squealed. So Kate did and then Betsey and then Josh,
although he didn’t have anything to show, until everyone was barefoot except Ed
and me and my parents. My mother
apologized that she hadn’t had her toes painted.
“I just go get some more crackers,” I said.
“And we need some olives,” Cilla piped up. “It’s not festive without olives.” As if the toe rainbow wasn’t festive
enough.
By the time dinner was ready, everyone had their shoes on,
because as Kate had pointed out, Jesus and the Disciples had all put their
sandals on to eat.
A better ending for to this would be for me to have an
epiphany and go to the service the next year.
But I never have. I am not known
to be stubborn (which may be a polite way to say that I may be wishy-washy), so
I think that every once in a while, I can put my foot down, even with plain
toenails.
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