Tonight, we celebrate Holy Thursday--the Last Supper, when Jesus washed the feet of his followers. I was invited to have my feet washed at the service in our parish, and then to wash the feet of three others. So, there I was, front and center on the raised platform right in front of the altar, with two men, one on each side. I felt a teensy bit inconspicuous. And a bit more, I felt nervous. But it was really lovely. The three I was asked to wash were a child in second grade, and a husband and wife (probably around age 30). My church spreads out the washing, so that we are all over, in all the aisles. It's a nice way to bring the ritual close to everyone. I was struck by the memories brought out by the experience. A year ago today, I was washing the feet of homeless men and women at an ecumenical event in my neighborhood in Southern California--a world away it seems. You know, the feet I saw that day were worn, calloused, truly dirty feet. Such a contrast to my own