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.
