When I started writing today’s blog I had decided not to take or publish this picture. As I have written I have changed my mind. This is how I actually started:
If I were really, truly brave, I would have pursued the idea that came to me, of photographing my own bare feet to put on the blog today. I considered doing that, but decided that it was a step too far, for me and for my pride. In the summer I might varnish my toenails and decide that I could bear the thought of the world seeing my feet. But this morning, as I look at them, I can’t be quite that brave.
Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. Jesus stooped down low to the dirt, sweat and foul odour of tired, calloused and misshapen feet, and gently washed and dried them. And not long after that, he stooped down even lower as he walked, crawled, the path to his own death.
As I have written I have decided that maybe I should be brave about something as simple as a photo of my feet, exactly as they are this morning. In fact, it is not about being brave, but about not being too vain to say that these are my feet, and Jesus would have washed them, too, despite my protests.
