The Ritual

The trash can of warm water steamed faintly at the front of the church. Women filed past it, dipping pitchers into the surface and carrying their portion back to their small tubs. The men performed their ritual in the back, away from the women's section. Even though most women wore very long skirts or dresses, legs were a distraction. The room was hushed; the silence itself was part of the ritual. Basins were placed gently on the tile floor. Shoes slipped off, stockings rolled down. She could see all of this from her place in line.

She had grown up in this church and had heard about this night for years; finally, she was old enough to participate. Not only did you have to be in good standing with the Church, but you had to be a baptized member. Not attending was terrifying. It would mean you would no longer be a part of God’s flock. The pastor often reminded them that God would spew the Lukewarm from his mouth, and no one wanted to be found lacking. It could mean risking your status in the Church and possibly excommunication, unless you had a very valid reason for not attending. Many people who were not regularly seen at weekly services attended this event. No one wants to be turned aside from God. No one wants to lose their status as a chosen one.

This holy day occurred once a year in the spring, but its intended value was to be with them every day of their lives, a reminder to be humble and serve.

It commemorated the time when God saved His people from the Angel of Death. Foot washing demonstrates proper humility and a willingness to serve others. This night felt like the pinnacle of belonging. The girl stood in silence and solemnity among the other women. As they walked forward, she was paired with a very old woman she hadn’t seen at the weekly services before. Even though the elders were always supposed to be served first, the older woman signaled with her eyes and hands for her to sit down in the chair, while she labored to perch herself on the lower stool provided for the elders. The capable knelt in front of the person whose feet they were to wash, to learn humility.

The old woman’s gnarled hands cradled the young girl's feet one at a time, dipping the now-cool water over them in a symbolic washing. Every movement slow and gentle, yet thorough. She had even carefully separated and washed each toe, meticulously drying each one with a final pat. It was all the girl could do to quell a giggle; her toes were terribly ticklish. Around them, the same quiet motions repeated: cloths dipping, waters dripping, the faint rustle of fabric.

She felt more naked and exposed having her small foot cupped in someone else’s hands, as if all her adolescent sins were written all over her skin. Awkwardly, she watched others from the corner of her eye and followed their clues, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes and judgment. Lifting one leg and then the other so that both feet could be washed.

The difference of her young foot in the gnarled hand could not be more startling. There was no grandmother in her life; she hadn’t known what old looked like this close up. She stared at the pink scalp peeking through the old woman's white hair, bowed before her, and felt a sense of tenderness. Tears welling up. She caught the scent of baby powder. Who was she to have someone laboring over her feet, someone whose hands bore years of hard work and age? She thought of the endless amount of chores women did, how many diapers these hands had changed, how many dishes they had washed; the work had been hard. This she could see. She stared at her own soft, untested fingers in her lap.

Then it was her turn.

The girl knelt before the old woman, cradling the clean towel across her knees, and looked at the old legs before her: dry, cracked, swollen at the ankles, blue veins weaving patterns around them like ghoulish lace. Her heart thumped in her chest, and she glanced up quickly to catch the old woman’s eyes. Carefully, she removed one sensible black shoe and peeled down the drooping pantyhose stocking, surprised to see it had been held up with a rubber band. She laid that gently to the side.

The stocking appeared to be stuck to the old woman’s heel. The girl tugged once, twice, and suddenly it popped loose, taking a bit of skin with it. Blood dripped, turning the water in the tub a pinkish hue.

Her gasp shattered the silence of the evening, and she quickly murmured apologies. The old woman flinched and tried to pull her foot away. Worse, the girl had dropped it, causing a splash in the pan. In all the stories of this night, she had never heard of such a thing. How could this be happening? It wasn’t just the blood, obviously from a blister on the old woman's heel, but something more her eyes couldn’t make sense of. The older woman’s toenails were thick, discolored, and misshapen, curling out and under her toes like claws. The skin around them was cracked and sore. It seemed impossible that she could ever fit them back into her shoe. How was she even walking? The girl had never seen a foot in such a state except in horror movies, movies she knew she wasn’t supposed to watch. Her stomach twisted. The old woman’s face went rigid with shame. A slight moaning sound escaped as the old woman tried to lift her foot from the cool water. “I can’t reach them to clip them anymore,” she whispered so softly that the girl wasn't sure if she had heard it or thought it in her mind.

The silence swallowed all of the air in the room. Sweat prickled on the girl’s forehead and upper lip as she tried to breathe. Everyone nearby stilled; she felt the weight of their eyes.

She had to pick up that foot, had to hold it in her hand and pour water over it, as the ritual demanded. She wanted to complete the act, to wash the old woman's foot carefully and all her toes in reciprocation. It was what this night demanded from each one of them. But all she could do was stare at the wounded foot, her hands limp and unobedient at her sides, thinking, 'I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to fix this!’

The water stilled, pink, cold, and the silence remained heavier than before.

Somewhere in the back, a single chair creaked, then even that small sound was swallowed by the stillness.