There is a hush that comes
when you kneel beside someone.
A stillness that settles into the hands
as they move with care
over skin, over callus, over time.
This is not work.
This is worship.
The water is not just water—
it is a consecration.
The soap becomes sandalwood,
the towel, a sacred cloth.
And the feet?
The feet are not simply limbs.
They are thresholds.
Portals.
Stories held in bone and flesh,
bearing the weight of lives that walked before you came to meet them.
I stay a little longer at the ankles.
I linger where others might rush.
Because I know what it means
to have someone touch you
as though you are holy.
To wash the feet of another
is to remember
that love kneels.
That service is not beneath us—
it is what lifts us.
So I return to this task again and again,
not with dread,
but with reverence.
Because in this small act,
I meet the Divine.
Not in a temple.
Not in a scripture.
But in the quiet corners of an overnight shift,
with warm water,
gentle fingers,
and the soul of another
laid bare before me.