Consider feet. Actually, consider your own feet.

It’s spring, that time of the year when we notice our sandals hiding at the back of the closet and know that soon our feet, probably well-covered these last few months, will soon be on display.

We sometimes ignore our winter feet, just making sure they have warm socks on cold nights. So, the nails may be a bit long. Women’s feet may reveal the fading, chipped remains of an earlier pedicure.

And feet, like the rest of us, don’t necessarily get better looking with age. We have bunions or flat feet, hairy toes or nail fungus or ingrown toenails. Not very appealing.

This sudden spring awareness of feet coincides with our liturgical tradition: the washing of the feet on Holy Thursday. This powerful liturgical moment imitates the example rooted in John 13, when, at the Last Supper Jesus washes his disciples’ feet.

I’ve heard a homilist say that if we spent as much time pondering Jesus performing this action as we spend meditating on the institution of the Eucharist, which took place at the same meal, we would have deeper insight into Jesus’ call to us.

In all the parishes I’ve attended, and even one where I was on staff, I’ve never been asked to be one of those who washes feet on Holy Thursday. Could I overcome my aversion to hairy feet to fully embrace the power of this symbolic action?

I even have a hard time taking my shoes off and letting someone wash my feet, if that is the custom at the parish I’m attending. I’m embarrassed. Are my feet clean enough? I do not have pretty feet. Do I want to display my feet to a stranger? It seems very intimate.

These thoughts make me even more aware of Jesus’ remarkable gesture. It was a symbolic action, and profoundly intimate. Like much of our Catholic faith, it’s earthy and bodily and real. On the night before his agonizing and public death, Jesus also offered us his very body and blood to consume. How much more intimate can you get?

Most likely, Jesus and his friends wore sandals. The dirt of Palestine’s dusty roads embedded itself into their feet. Shoes themselves had a symbolic value in the Middle East. It was considered an insult to show the sole of your shoe to someone.

In 2008, President George W. Bush was speaking at a press conference in Baghdad when an Iraqi journalist threw his shoe at Bush. The president ducked, but the symbolic value was not lost. Throwing a shoe was the height of disrespect.

So, we have Jesus, bending down, kneeling and washing his friends’ feet, and pointedly telling them — and us — that this is what we must do.

Pope Francis illustrated this beautifully when he went to a detention center and washed the feet of the young inmates, male and female.

And I recall my cousin Fran, happily taking care of my mom’s feet as she aged, convincing us she loved working on her aunt’s old feet. She made my mom feel very loved.

Jesus used the culturally symbolic action of washing feet as a perfect example of love taken to the margins, of humility in action, of devoting ourselves to others.

Our feet take us on this journey of faith. Our feet — and our hands and our very lives — should be used to love those in whom we meet Jesus.

I realize maybe Fran did love taking care of Mom’s feet. But more than that, Fran loved Mom, and knew this was one way to show it.

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