There’s a very beautiful post at Blessed with a Burden, which I’m quoting perhaps one week too early:

I was about to sit on the side of the bathtub the other night to bathe Jessica.  As I took off my sandals to sit on the ledge of the tub she looked at my feet and said, “Mommy, your feet are dirty, let me wash them.”  At first I looked down at my feet which had been all over Bellevue Mountain that day, and said, “No way Jessi!  They are way too dirty…I’ll wash them.  You don’t need to.” 

Then she looked up at me and said, “No, I want to.”  And insisted that I let her.

After seeing her persistency in wanting to wash my feet, I somewhat reluctantly let her.

As soon as she began, my heart fluttered as I saw Jesus.  I saw Jesus, Beautifully and clearly in her and what she was doing.

… I prayed over where their feet had been.

Where had those feet been and what had they known? They’re the feet of a child whose life has been hard and who maybe, possibly, somehow could have been a restavek (in Haitian Creole: servant in another family’s home, essentially child slavery).