Found at Her Feet

Found at Her Feet

As Mom’s liver malfunctions

unfiltered fluid finds it way

to places it doesn’t belong.

Liters of ascites fill the abdomen

while the rest travels further south,

settling and swelling in her legs and feet.

 

“Mom, how are you feeling?

You want me to rub your feet?”

 

I half expected her to shake her head

and decline the offer,

but she didn’t—she nodded.

I never massaged my mom’s feet

throughout the course of her life,

nor she mine for that matter…

I’m just not a feet guy.

 

“That would be wonderful.”

 

Her acceptance startled me a bit,

so I proceeded to the bathroom

to see if I could locate some lotion.

There, sink-side on the top shelf,

a little basket held the toiletries

of my late, great father—

aftershave, deodorant, cologne,

and some creamy almond lotion

I remember rubbing on Dad’s

back and arms during his final bout

with the throws of death.

 

As I knelt in front of my mom,

I couldn’t help but think

about Jesus washing his friend’s feet—

a posture of servitude and honor,

an act of humility and hospitality.

Part of me felt self-conscious and silly

while another side of me was lost

in a kind of sacramental reverence,

joining the Servant-Jesus on the floor

tending to my mother’s basic needs.

 

These last few weeks I’ve found

a deeper connection to my mom

as I’ve been forced to come closer.

Helping her roll over in bed.

Bracing her as she walks to the bathroom.

Picking her up off the floor

with my siblings after her last spill.

Dignity is replaced with intimacy

as the veil between life and death,

thinning and threadbare, begins to tear.

 

As I found myself at her feet,

I FOUND MYSELF at her feet.