Tonight I went to possibly the most beautiful and moving church service I’ve ever attended. We ate a meal together on tables in front of the altar, talked and drank, and then there was the liturgy and readings followed by foot (or hand) washing. Our two clergy, the vicar Nick and Maggie, going around the table with jugs of water, bowls and towels (and a couple of helpful assistants!). I asked myself which it would be for me – hands or feet? Would it make a difference? I felt a bit torn: for me, hands would be so much simpler in many ways but I decided it would not be the same as having my feet washed. And I really don’t think it would have been. To have Nick kneeling and washing my feet so tenderly, I can’t tell you how beautiful and moving and humbling it was. I feel so emotional now thinking about it and it affected the way I experienced the rest of the service too: communion, the stripping of the church, the silent exit. There are so many things I don’t know and am so very unsure of, but belonging in that church is not one of them. Someone I trust said that, at present, Holy Trinity is a cradle holding me. And it is, it is… I am very grateful.