There’s a sacrament we almost forget. It doesn’t shimmer with stained glass or echo through processional hymnals. It doesn’t trend or photograph well. No gold leaf icons, no viral hashtags, no booming preacher voice. It arrives quietly—awkwardly, even—and only if we dare to take off our shoes. Footwashing. That’s its name. But its soul is deeper than ritual. It’s raw. Tender. Earthbound. Holy in a way that most of us aren’t quite comfortable with…