Holy Week — day five, Maunday Thursday

My co-worker once told me,
as I dusted unwanted espresso grounds onto the floor,
and into my sweaty, tired shoes,
that the coffee grounds and sweat
were probably making a mighty fine americano in there.
I wear those same shoes to work most every day.
Sweat on
sweat on
dirt on
sweat.
These are the feet that you washed.
These plain and smelly feet,
bad at fasting
and listening
and sitting still,
probably still covered in unwanted coffee.
Bad at loving,
good at fidgeting,
and jumping to the wrong conclusions
with great gusto and pride.
These feet, who will turn from you
and call themselves pious,
poor things.
These are the feet you washed.
Love must not fear the flailing love of us,
nor fear the stench and filth of living.
No, this is what love embraces hardest.

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