By Kaitlyn Lapsa
Today I can’t receive the Eucharist, but I can wash my hands.
I can wash my hands, outstretched and open to cleansing waters.
I can wash my hands, welcoming the time to pause and choosing to nourish myself with love over fear.
I can wash my hands, holding the most vulnerable among us both in prayer and concrete action.
I can wash my hands, knowing the power of participating in a collective act of loving care and protection.
I can wash my hands, following the One who washes my feet.
Today I can’t receive the Eucharist, but I can wash my hands.