kick you when you wash mine.” A chuckle whistled through his lips.
I didn’t find it funny. Wash his? Why hadn’t that occurred to me? Service definitely meant doing for others, but in this case, I’d have to pass. Seeing my own feet was bad enough. The Little Piggy That Ate Roast Beef curled back as reality dawned on me. My whole left foot drew up like a fist. “You know what? No offense, but I’d rather not wash your feet. Or have you wash mine.”
Tad kept scrubbing, all while staring at my bumpy toes. “That’s okay. I understand. But I’d appreciate it if you’d let me finish.”
I grimaced, doubting I’d ever be able to look him in the face again.
The others around us, except Deacon Rivers and Mother Holloway, of course, worked quietly, ushering in the wings of morning, the edges of heaven, in muffled prayers and quiet sobs. Deacon Rivers’s surprise at Mother Holloway’s “pretty dogs” punctuated the harmony of soft sobs, whispered prayers and the sound of water lapping in the plastic bowls.
A woman who’d confided in me weeks earlier of her plans to leave her husband wept as she held on to his ankles. We’d gone through the Scriptures, she and I, but this touch, this tenderness, preached a much better sermon. He pulled her up beside him and they held each other, staring with eyes as wet as their bare feet. The music minister’s wife grunted in approval as her husband scrubbed her heels gently, praying as he went. They too had recently come close to parting.
My heart leaped, both at Tad’s touch and the kiss of Christ on this place, affection I wasn’t prepared for, an exchange I wasn’t ready to accept. Still, tears threatened. I’d come to church today determined to resign from the singles group, the choir, everything. I’d come sure I had nothing left to give, that there was no point in even trying. And after many years of debating about what to do with my feet (it’s a little nutty to own a shoe boutique and have Frankenstein toes), I’d decided to take my podiatrist’s advice and have my toes broken, using the time I usually spent on everyone else to recover.
A year ago, I never would have considered doing something like this. Service to my church, family, friends and customers was the call of my life. Then my son’s father came back into our lives and my best friend had a stroke and almost died. My son moved out of my house and into his dad’s apartment with his pregnant girlfriend. Everything that I’d hung my heart on, my faith on, seemed turned inside out, leaving me to wonder if I’d been trying to work for God instead of walk with Him.
Who knew? Perhaps the podiatrist could not only fix my feet but redeem something from the gnarled mess that had become my life. I certainly couldn’t. All I could do was try and protect myself, create a little safe space. That was all I’d come to church for today, to redeem the time, to set some boundaries in my life.
Tad came for something else entirely.
To wash my feet.
And to take my turn teaching Sunday school. This quarter, the pastor had implemented a new program for the lay leaders. Each ministry in the church, deacons and deaconesses, women’s auxiliary, singles group, seniors fellowship, married enrichment group, music ministers, children’s department and everybody in between, would take a turn teaching Sunday school to a class made up of peer leaders. Tad had surprised me last week by calling to say that he’d take today’s entire lesson.
I was relieved then, calculating the extra minutes I’d have to run through my choir solo and check with my ministry volunteers. For a moment, I was a little miffed that Tad responded to the pastor’s edict but never called to help with any of the programs I put together. Why can’t I just be thankful? It never dawned on me that Tad had something like this planned. It wasn’t as if we communicated verbally enough for me to read him. Though we interacted often, today was the most words we’d shared at one time since that talk earlier in the summer about my son.
Instead we spoke in actions, a language of Secret Santa gifts and assigned seats in the choir stand. We shared a silent and frustrating loyalty, both to each other and to the church. Ours was a bottomless desire to outserve, outgive and outsuffer everyone else, including each other. A need that I wanted to eliminate from my life, starting today.
I’d probably never stop serving in church completely but with a grandchild on the way and my son’s father in the congregation every Sunday with his diamond-dipped girlfriend, the unending well of my Christian love seemed to be running dry. I needed to take Dana’s advice and let God be good to me for a while, maybe even be good to myself. It didn’t seem likely than anyone else was planning to take on the job. At least not until this morning. Now I wasn’t so sure I wanted anyone to. This was just weird.
Though we were president (me) and vice president (him) of Brothers and Sisters in Christ (BASIC), Tad usually looked past me, as if too busy to give me his full attention. Today though, another man lived in his skin—a towel-brandishing, knee-bending, foot-washing man.
His towel hung from one side of his waistband now, like a child’s napkin at a barbecue. He tugged it free and tossed it to the floor before tapping my ankle for me to lift my foot out of the tub. How he knew to do that I didn’t know. Did he get pedicures too?
Too embarrassed to look at him any longer, I stared at my sunshine shoes, the yellow peekaboo pumps I’d made for Dana’s wedding but had only been brave enough to wear today, three months later. Now, I longed for a pair of fuzzy slippers. They’d be easier to escape with. I’d tried to roll with it, but this was ridiculous. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I have to go.”
I struggled to get up, but Tad held my foot, massaged my heel. He took a deep breath. “Wait…Listen.”
The rhythm of Mother Holloway’s humming my favorite hymn, the music minister praying under his breath, someone’s wife crying behind me, and the splashes of simple service moved me, moved through me. It started as a shiver at first, then a stream and finally a flood. The room faded as I shut my eyes, letting the sacred sounds close in on me. Who knew that feet could bring such peace to a place?
Warmth poured over my ankles, flowed between my toes. That Tad. Sneaky. I sat in my chair, head buried in my hands. If he’d only stopped there, I could have endured it, pretended none of it had happened. But as always, Tad went too far.
“You have beautiful feet, Rochelle, the Gospel-spreading, life-giving kind, the kind that make it to the finish line.” He said it loud, in his tornado-warning voice.
Mother Holloway stopped humming. I stopped sitting, dropping my unopened Bible from my lap as I stood. The book splashed Tad’s face as it thudded into the water. The black cover peeled back and released the gold-edged pages, billowing at first, then bloating.
Tad grabbed the book and squeezed as though saving a life. And he was saving a life. Mine. From the cover, bought by my son as a boy, to the notes scribbled in the margin on almost every page, that book contained the past ten years of my life and all God’s promises for my future. Still, I went for my shoes, to run, to save my heart. To save my mind.
“Wait.” He held out the damp Bible. When I took it, he held it with me, knowing I wouldn’t stay. Everyone was looking at us, listening, but he didn’t seem to care. “Really, Rochelle, your feet are beautiful. So are you.” He released his grip on my Bible, but tightened the grip on my heart. Why had he waited until today, when I was giving up on everything, to get all brave? I held the wet stack of pages in front of me like a shield and headed for the door.
“If that boy thinks those feet are pretty, Chelle, you’d better marry him. No offense, sugar.” Mother Holloway’s voice followed me to the door.
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