Lost and Found - 1. Chapter 1

He looked himself over in the mirror, pleased with the reflection. “Tall, lean, and lookin’ good,” he thought to himself. He’d taken especial care dressing this evening, taking a shower and shaving beforehand. He liked to look good, but especially so when he went out. And tonight, he was going out. He didn’t know who he’d see, and he didn’t much care, but he still wanted to look good. He enjoyed the quick, envious sidelong glances he received when he was “lookin’ good.” He wasn’t looking back, but he did notice them, and it always did his ego some good to get a quick boost like that. He was going out, tonight.

It was Holy Week, and he was going to the Maundy Thursday foot-washing service. He had become a pretty irregular churchgoer in recent years, but he still made a point of going to Holy Week service, and Christmas Eve midnight, of course. He smiled wryly to himself, recognizing that he’d migrated from “C of E” to “C and E” – Church of England to Christmas and Easter. Nonetheless, it was Holy Week, and that still counted for him. He would go and pay his respects to the church, and faith, of his childhood, to the faint rosy-hued memories of years past when he’d been young and innocent, to the time “before.”

He went to a different church each year, not wanting to become a regular anywhere, not really daring to believe anymore. He lived in a big city; there were plenty of Anglican churches in this city – of all stripes and kinds. He had his preferences, but it didn’t much matter during Holy Week; most of the services were similar enough that he could slip into the old memories and old habits despite the small differences that set each church apart.

Tonight, he’d chosen the little church over near “his” park. He’d noticed it often enough when he went to the park to feed pigeons, sit in the sun, relax and people watch. Sitting and watching all the people go by was one of his favorite pastimes. He would often imagine stories for the different people; this one was lucky in love, that one was just coming off a bender, the other young couple was just discovering each other, and the young mother with children, well there was a story behind her, too. He noticed the teenagers, shy and raucous all at the same time. He saw who looked at whom, which teenager was attracted to which girl or boy. And he could tell which teenager was struggling with some hidden sexuality as he watched them carefully steal glances, and then hurriedly look away. People-watching was fascinating – all those stories, all those people, all those secrets.

He put on a light overcoat, it was still a little chilly out at night, and locked the front door behind himself as he went down the front steps. He walked quickly to the little church beside the park, and slipped in the back pew. He’d timed it carefully so that he would arrive just as the procession was going up the main aisle. No one paid much attention to a latecomer, especially if he was diffident and quiet. He took his coat off and folded it on the pew beside himself, picked up the service bulletin and found the opening hymn. He joined in, it was one of his favorites; one he knew from before, and he sang it cheerfully. The music of Holy Week was especially beautiful. It had a quality of schadenfreude that was unique to the Church’s music, a delightful blend of sadness and joy that gave it an ethereal beauty that matched his mood.

The service unwound through lesson after lesson, song after song. The preacher wasn’t bad; he actually seemed to have something interesting to say, a wonderful relief from some of the truly horrendous preaching he’d heard over the years, ranging from fake folksiness to smarmy emotionalism to hateful judgment. He talked about service and the joy to be found in serving others. Somehow, it touched his heart, finding a small, empty space deep inside.

Now the priest was inviting everyone to come up for the foot washing. This was something new! Usually there were the representative dozen people, pillars of the church, who came up front and awkwardly had their feet washed by the priest. Sometimes the church invited a dozen carefully picked poor or homeless people, and then it was the pillars who got down on their knees and washed the feet as a sign of humility. Normally he couldn’t stomach it. To him, it stank of hypocrisy, people washing the feet of other people to whom they would never speak the rest of the year. He saw it as a sign of the church’s failure not its humility. If anything, it witnessed to the lack of humility of the church that necessitated going out to find poor people who wouldn’t be welcomed the rest of the year.

He realized that he was restless in the pew. His fingers had begun to scrunch up the bulletin. And then, he began to notice the other people in the church. He began to people watch. There were all kinds of different people in this church, and they all seemed to be going up front for the foot washing. He saw some of the homeless who frequented the park, redolent in their rumpled, unwashed clothes, perfumed with a faint whiff of alcohol. He noticed couples – men and women, women and women, men and men, old and young – all getting into line. He saw old washing young, and young washing old. He saw the tender care with which each person knelt down and washed the feet.

He felt drawn, pulled by the line that snaked up the central aisle. He slipped off his shoes, pulled off his socks and stood up. He gingerly walked into the line, embarrassed to be walking barefoot in church, confused about why he was up there anyway. The line moved forward, slowly. He began to notice the chant that filled the church, a simple chant repeated over and over. He found himself chanting, too. Somehow it helped. A sense of peace began to fill him. He moved forward, and found himself on his knees, reaching down to take someone’s foot. The scent of lavender wafted up from the warm water as he cradled a foot, washing it gently. A towel appeared before him, held by a young acolyte, and he dried the foot, gently laying it down on the floor. Then he picked up the second foot and began to wash it, too. As he dried this one, he looked up and saw the face of an old woman, her eyes shining as she watched him wash her feet. There were tears in her eyes. As he got up from his knees, he helped her to her feet and she hugged him, her white hair tickling his nostrils as she held him fiercely. She let go and stepped back, smiling at him with a face filled with love.

He moved forward, tuned and sat in the chair. It was his turn to have his feet washed. Someone had already gone to his knees before him; head bent over as he, in turn, picked up the right foot and began to wash it. He noticed a slightly balding spot at the back of the head, where a monk’s tonsure would have gone. And then he shivered as the hands stroked his foot, massaging the scented water into it. His feet tingled, the other man’s fingers gently working between each toe, cupping the heel tenderly. Then he cupped the whole foot in his lap as he dried it, the rough nap of the towel awakening every nerve ending. He put it down and picked up the other one, again focused on the foot, on washing it as best he could. Then he laid that one, too, in his lap and began to dry it. Finished, he looked up and smiled.

It was his volunteer supervisor from the AIDS hospice. Tears began running down his cheeks; sobs struggled to break free. Here was one of the few men whom he respected and admired; a man who gave his whole life to support and nurture people like himself – broken people, abandoned people, people waiting to die. And he was washing feet! He rose to his feet and was enveloped in a hug that left him helpless, crying. Somehow he found himself sitting in a pew, enveloped by other people on both sides, arms around him as he continued to cry. The chant continued to rise around him, spiraling up into the dome of the church. And he wept. He wept for his past, for his hurts and fears, for his isolation. He wept for his lover who had died earlier that year, and for his family who had abandoned him when he had been diagnosed with HIV. He wept for the Church that had turned against him and his friends when they most needed support.

The men on either side continued to hold him as he wept. They went up to receive communion with him, and took him back to the pew with them afterwards. They held him all through the rest of the service, and he realized how starved he had been for a simple human hug, for the warmth of human touch. They laughed with him at the end as he confessed that he didn’t remember where he had left his shoes and socks, and held him tight as he said good-night.

“You come back, now. You’re amongst friends here.”

And he said, “Yes.” He knew he would, he was home again.