I didn’t realize dust could be so stubborn.

Dust finds its way anywhere anytime, but I thought it would at least adhere to the law of gravity. Alas, I was mistaken. The other day I spied the underside of one of my bookshelves and was alarmed to find a thin layer of gravity-defying dust. It quickly fell victim to my dust rag.

Sometimes that’s what grief feels like, too. It crops up in unlikely places. You learn where to expect it, and you figure out how to tend to it. But every now and then it surprises you. Writing an innocuous email brings tears to your eyes. Your breath hitches, and you sit for a while in the company of your trusty tissue box. Dust clings where we don’t expect, and so does grief.

A quick wipe with a dust rag doesn’t do much for grief though.

One of my first sermons that went well was about grief. A parishioner said it sounded like I had experienced deep grief myself. At the time, the sermon came from carefully listening to others grieve. But since then, life has taken a few downward turns. The kind of turns that strip your soul bare, scrape it raw and wrap it in sandpaper.

For me, one of those turns was suddenly becoming disabled a few years ago.

Maybe you, too, are left with a bubbling spring of grief that will flow for the rest of your life, the constant companion you never asked for.

How do I find my footing when there’s no dust rag to wipe grief away?

Washing others’ feet is a symbol of service, humility and love for Anabaptists. It’s traditionally practiced during Holy Week. Jesus washed his disciples’ feet before the Last Supper.

As a kid, I got dirty feet playing outside, but as an adult I’m far removed from the dusty roads and worn sandals that make washing feet a daily practice. It’s symbolic for me now — and difficult to do as a disabled person. Washing hands instead hasn’t lessened how meaningful it is.

In the past year, the meaning behind foot washing drifted in a direction I didn’t expect. I’ve come to associate foot washing with grieving. In particular, grieving with.

This came into focus after I left a church environment that had become deeply harmful to me. When I turned in my keys and walked out of the building the final time, I had planned to shake the dust off my feet — another symbolic gesture from Jesus’ time — but I forgot. Overcome with pain, anger and broken dreams, I wiped my tears and rode into the night, dust still clinging to my shoes.

With trepidation, I eased my way into a new congregation. The pastor told me how important foot washing was to the community during Holy Week. I was glad to experience their traditional Love Feast with foot washing and hand washing.

Several months later, I got involved on a Sunday morning, expressing my gifts publicly with accommodations for being disabled. People welcomed me more warmly than I dared hope, as though being disabled was the most normal thing in the world. So normal, in fact, that my accommodations weren’t even worth mentioning. Instead, the response was an enthusiastic, “More please! And can I be involved next time, too?”

Tears of relief rolled down. I looked at my feet, and I could almost see where the congregation’s loving embrace had washed away some of the dust.

I couldn’t shake the dust off by my­self. I needed someone else to wash my feet. I’ll need it again this Lenten season. Grief, like dust, clings. Yet we do not grieve alone.

For the dust of life that no rag can clean, may the basin and towel be a balm for your soul, as it is for mine.

Monica L. Miller (she/her) is a disabled person and former Mennonite Church USA pastor living in Goshen, Ind.