Big Jim’s feet told the story. It was hard to miss them. They hung over the bottom of the bed by at least six inches. Jim was a tall man and had probably never found a bed to fit him, less the standardized hospital beds in a care center.

I had never seen anyone’s feet like his. Swollen and huge, the skin blotchy and tightly stretched over bones, they didn’t seem to belong to the wasted man lying in bed, chest caved in, breathing laboriously. His feet were scarred and marred from years of neglect. The toe nails were yellowed and thickened, grown into the skin like the talons of a an old bird. The soles were cracked and so calloused, they looked like old leather. From the grime between his toes, it was clear he hadn’t washed his feet in a long time. I was pretty revolted.

Jim never wore anything other than broken down sandals, barefoot no matter what the weather. He obviously never paid much hygiene to his feet and it seemed that now at the end of his life, no one else cared to either. I’d met Jim over the years at the food bank. He never took very much food, “I don’t need much,” he’d say, lighting up another cigarette while he waited outside. He loved sweets and I’d give him cookies when they were available. He was a talker, usually showing up to chat at length at the busiest time – or when I was alone, seeking a little  solitude.   He offered much advice gleaned from a life lived the hard way. Mostly he talked about God and being clean and sober and passing on the message. He did not tolerate fools who thought they knew how to run their own lives without God’s help.

The smoking finally got him. I lost track of Jim for a year or two until the news came that he had esophogial cancer. When he started coming to church again, the cancer was already advanced. He kept coming to church as long as he could and never gave up either hope or faith.

Shortly before he died, I visited him at the care center. He still joked about the cookies and thanked me for helping. I was the grateful one for he had taught me much about kindness.

Looking at Jim’s beat up feet, I thought   of Jesus walking and walking and walking for three years among us, His feet touching the land, raising up dust along the roads, becoming tired and broken and calloused. They too bore the scars of His journeys. No one cared for the Lord’s feet. No one offered to washed them when he entered their homes, as was the Jewish custom, except the woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her tears.

Today, Maundy Thursday,  the Christian world reflects somberly on Jesus and his disciples in the Upper room. We remember how before the Passover meal took, Jesus took off His outer garment to show His disciples what it meant to be a servant:

“After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel with which he was girded.” John 13:5.

Jesus, though the Master, humbled Himself to wash his disciples grimy and  unattended  feet.

There wasn’t any water or soothing lotion in Jim’s room to pour on those pitiful feet. He probably wouldn’t have wanted the attention. There is always a rationale for what we don’t want to do. Truthfully, I didn’t want to even get close to Jim’s feet , let alone touch them.

It wasn’t so bad. The skin was soft, feverishly warm  and dry, the toes scratchy and sharp. Suddenly, his feet weren’t dirty at all to me.  What was prayer and what was touch, I still don’t know. He looked at me surprised and then sighed softly. I left after a while and cried in my car. There are many ways to wash another person’s feet. Through Christ’s love  all things are possible. In Jesus’ kingdom, the  untouchable becomes   touchable,  the filthy parts are cleansed  and the “least of these brethren”  becomes the greatest.

Friede Gabbert