There is singing as we slip in the back. We’re late, which is normal for evening services. The cows can only be milked so fast and we can only start so early.
The congregation is singing, “Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Savior…”
Our bench soon fills with other farmers, also late with still-damp hair. The Pastor stands. Words fill the sanctuary. “Jesus, on his last day…” And the tale repeats. The story of our redemption. The God who took our sin and our shame and our everything onto himself.
Then we’re walking the long aisle to the front, tipping back the cup, tearing off a piece of the bread. Remembering Him.
Poured out and broken.
We’re walking back when I’m reminded. I’ve been at the church for four years and still I forget. The men and women separate and I’m pressed to my side. The men descend to the basement and the women climb the steps. They take turns kneeling in front of each other. Shoes slip off feet. Hands dip into basins. Water splashes and towels dry.
My cheeks burn. I’m a farmer’s wife. I haven’t had a pedicure. My toenails are ragged. I’m not careful when I shave. My right foot has a bruise in the shape of a cow’s hoof.
The other women, their feet don’t bother me, but mine? I want to keep them hidden in shoes.
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