I don’t think about my son’s legs anymore. But there was a time when they consumed much thought, active care, worry and despair. My son was born with spina bifida and club feet. His little frog shaped legs had to be straightened through serial casting – that is a “series” of castings, 16 to be exact – between his birth and the time he was 20 months old.
Unlike most toddlers, he didn’t clutch my hips with his legs because of his paralysis and his legs hung heavy and limp when I carried him. As he grew they became more weighty in more ways than one; they became a health risk. Finally at some point in his early 20’s, (funny I can’t even remember when,) he had them amputated.
I regret not saying good bye to those legs.
When the woman came to me at the foot washing station in church on Maundy Thursday, raised her pant legs and uncuffed the velcro of the brace around her calf, memories flooded back. Tears were in her eyes for this vulnerability she was revealing and tears were in mine for her trust and remembering.