John 13:1-5 Two hands and a basin and a towel at his waist against twenty-four feet that had followed him this far. Without his outer robe he looked frail, tired, old almost and they heard how his knees creaked as he bent towards each pair of feet sore and smelly calloused and hairy cracked and dirty. He never looked up, as if feet were all that mattered. As if he could heal the whole world with water and a towel. Philip’s, with the long scar down the ankle— he’d never heard the story of how Philip came by that scar. He wouldn’t have time now. Andrew’s, whose feet were so small, with toes like walnuts and pale stripes where his sandals had been. On and on he went, and didn’t speak, and didn’t preach, and didn’t promise anything but clean feet. In his hands he nestled a foot with long bones, and dirt in the creases on the toes and a bad blister on the right heel. Half the skin torn away—blood-raw. Why didn’t he tell us? he thought. We would have slowed down, found some wool to pad his sandals with. So he took the towel in his hands again, and found a clean spot, and ever so gently pressed against the wound, and as he heard a hiss of pain, he prayed to his Father for one more healing miracle. And a tear fell from above him, and landed on his hand, right in the middle, and it must have been a trick of the light but Judas thought it looked like blood as he flexed his healed foot and stared after his bent Savior who had crept to the next beloved disciple with nothing to offer but a basin and a towel and two hands and hope.