Look at their Feet.

I was confident we could sit in the front. Jim quietly insisted we remain in the back due to snotty noses and moods. I confidently/defiantly marched to the front and regretted it about 30 seconds afterwards. They jumped, smashed stranger’s feet in the kneelers, Josie took off her shoes, James very loudly said “Jesus is sad because his friends killed him,” making me look like the all time craziest mother ever. In between tantrums, musical chairs, and nearly cracked skulls, I heard small pieces of the homily. Father spoke of humility, and going outside our comfort zones to wash the feet of those who need us. He then washed the feet of unsuspecting parishioners. Thankful I was not chosen, because who knows what my feet smell like, I thought about the feet I am entrusted with washing. Jim’s planted firmly on the ground, wearing the shoes I bought him for Christmas, because they are sensible, and he knows I like them. James’ sausage feet were hanging in the air  as he purposefully confused the pew with monkey bars.  His shoes were proudly on the wrong feet because he put them on by himself and refused to change them.  Josie’s: long, lean, and smelly; had one sock on, the other off, revealing her fuchsia nail polish she applied by herself and then spilled all over my bathroom. Her pink light up pumas to match her shirt were stuck in between the kneeler. Rita’s jumped on her dad’s lap as she giggled and cooed revealing her joy to the Church.

Each pair unique, stubborn, and strong. And each pair, most definitely, in need of a bath.

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