| Sunny Side Up June 22, 2005 �2005, Kathleen Gibson For the love of great feet � AB photos It's a photo I love: the thumb and index finger of a woman's hand - my hand - cradling a tiny foot; red, womb-wrinkled, crowned with five impeccable toes. My grandson Benjamin's foot, only a day young. There's another: the bare soles of Benjamin's feet snuggled beside a colossal pair - his dad's. Were I a talented photographer, I'd publish a book of photos like that. I'd fill its pages with new feet like Benjamin's. Big feet like his father's. Beautiful feet like my sister's: since their creaking toe joints 'sang' me cheerful as a child they've become works of art; resplendent with finely manicured red painted toe-nails, toe rings, and dangling ankle bracelets. I'd save a page for my friend Esther's feet. I washed them for her when I was in India. She sat, uncomfortable and protesting, while I scrubbed their calloused soles, massaged in lotion and finally baptized them in a steady stream of tepid water. Esther's dark feet tread the thorny paths of servanthood. Every vein tells the story. Recently those feet took her, food in hand, prayer on lips, to the hut behind her home, where a young husband, toddler and nine day old infant wailed long into the night - the children's mother had died. I'd unwrap my father's feet for a photo, I think, from under their layers of Dr. Scholl socks and leather shoes. I'm always surprised by how white they are compared to his hands, by how vulnerable they look out on their own. He clips his toenails religiously, my father, places each clipping on the table, finally scoops them up, pads across the room to the waste-bin, and dumps them in. I've watched that ritual since childhood. I recall it as vividly as I recall the advancing tide of comfort each time those feet made their way to me during my childish terrors. I'd save space for Miramma's feet, bronzed and bare, planted in the dirt beside her dung-fueled cooking fire. They seemed to anchor the little Bible woman the Preacher and I sponsored from Andhra Pradesh. Broad, they were, their soles thick as buffalo hide from walking from village hut to village hut, talking about her best friend, Jesus. In the end, they couldn't hold her down, our Miramma. Her feet, new and young, tread heaven's streets now. I'd include the Preacher's feet, so often aching, so regularly carrying him where the needs are greatest. My mother's tiny, battle-scarred vessels of mercy. The broken feet of my refugee friend, deeply cratered and oozing; remnants of her desperate trek through the jungle to safety. I don't know if I'd feature in those pages my own bunioned, calloused size nines with their unvarnished toes and roadmap veins. They're not beautiful, or fresh or new, or especially inspiring. They take me where I need to go, that's all, where I've sensed God pointing. Hmmm�perhaps I'll think harder about that book. Beloved Feet, I'd call it. Stories and photos of inspiring soles. Anyone know a good foot photographer? Respond Home |
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