mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos

As I sat on the maple floor of my kitchen in Chicago on a Thursday evening in 2017, voluntarily polishing my son’s chukka boots for the weekend — it became a meditation on my own father, who was actually my second father, who would often offer to polish or freshen up my scuffed, dirty shoes

— first, my white Keds-knock-offs from Zayre, Venture or Jupiter — the canvas stiffened bright white, an unnatural brand new/ the scent of that liquid polish and sponge instantly conjured/ me smiling/ did I remember to say thank you? did I know (how) to?

later, when I was in high school, he would clean and polish my beloved and preciously expensive pair of Stan Smith white leather Adidas /or were they leather Tretorns? then, when I was in college and always pressed for time or conversation, I began expectantly asking if he could please polish my black heels or black boots for work – but more importantly for the weekend — he always, obliging me.

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Every act:

a favorite meal,repeatedly cooked and served/ a packed lunch *with a meticulously selected and quartered pomegranate* - never ending juice stains on countertops, dish towels and school shirts/a double batch of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies shipped overnight to the dorm in Nebraska or the studio apartment in Albuquerque/ a homemade pot of soup with sixteen kinds of vegetables/ a shirt or dress pressed or steamed in the wee hours for work or an event the next day/ a favorite pair of jeans or baseball uniform washed and dried overnight and waiting there pristine in the morning - for the hundredth time/ a relentless search for a favorite but discontinued aftershave or a pair of rare Nike Dunks - low tops/ making tacos at 10:00 PM after she finally came in from playing on a summer night/ sloughing an awkwardly unreachable and painful callous for him/ a ride to or from the “L” - but particularly, “from” - after he fell asleep and missed his stop for the dozenth time/ a drive to 5:30 AM strength-training from Portage Park to the West Loop for three months straight in winter, when she didn’t have to be to work til 8:00 AM/ filling an ipod shuffle with a deep song curated playlist the night before the class bus trip to D.C. or Springfield/ gently combing the tangles out of her hair when she ran out of conditioner/ rubbing his back/ a home pedicure on the patio on the first day fit for sandals — or shoes polished again and again — and again

— every task, every errand, every attendance, every ease that was bequeathed were always proxies for foot-washing —all these seemingly simple and humble acts to the recipient were performed out of enduring care and love, and at times, adoration, worship, even.

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“And he turned to the woman, and said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet: but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head.”

The Gospel of Luke,
Chapter 7, Verse 44

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I did it, I do it, in remembrance of him and Him, of her and Her, of them and Them, all, and their tasks, favors and time – so much unrecognized or unacknowledged tenderness and labor.

Let them lodge eternally in my memory and theirs.

thank you, thank you, thank you.

amen, amen, amen.

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