Title: Leader and Servant
Author: Alice Philemon (Miriam, civilservant37)
Email: shorty_doowop@hotmail.com or moogoesthecow@comcast.net
Rating: G.
Summary: How an ordinary person's life changed when she met the President. Perhaps the
first in a series.
Spoilers: Definitely through the end of Season 2, but Season 3, just to be safe.
Disclaimer: I don't own either of the Drs. Bartlet, or any of their daughters, or the Secret
Service, or the Bible, or the Catholic Church, or the Uzi brand of machine gun, or Notre
Dame or Georgetown. I do, however, own the person through whose eyes this narrative is
told.
Archive: Yes, please! Just tell me where, so I can come see it.
Author's Note: This piece takes place in a church, so there will be a religious element, but
it exists to serve the general message of the piece. This vignette is quite possible the start
of the series. I haven't quite decided yet. Feedback generated from this story will be a
factor in my decision, so even if you don't like it, please say so.
I loved the sensation of church. I always had; the smell of wood, wax, and incense; the
dimly lit hall of marble; and the sound of a priest's exhortations formed some sort of
divine presence that touched the depths of my soul.
I didn't know that the President was going to be at that Mass. I don't know if I would have
gone if I had known. But there he was, entering with Dr. Bartlet, the First Lady, Zoey and
Ellie, two of his daughters, and nine members of the Secret Service. The First Family and
seven of the Secret Service agents sat down in the first row, front and center. I was in the
row behind them, flanked by two Secret Service agents.
The Mass went on without incident. Through the recounting of the first Passover, no
crazed assassin burst through the cathedral's doors, Uzi spitting angry drops of metal.
Through Paul's message of servant leadership, no national crisis came up that would have
caused the President to leave the Mass. Through the tale of the Last Supper, no episodes
of the President's multiple sclerosis took place.
So went the Mass, and so came the washing of the feet.
As the wooden chairs and silver basins filled with water were pulled from the church's
wings, I wondered absently whether the Secret Service would allow the First Family to
participate in this Holy Thursday tradition. As it turned out, I didn't have long to
speculate.
The entire population of the front pew, including seven Secret Service agents and the First
Family, stood up and made its way to the chairs. Then my row stood up and crouched in
front of the chairs, holding the towels inside the basins of water. I looked up to find out
whose feet I would be washing.
The feet, as it turned out, belonged to the President of the United States.
Struggling through and ultimately winning the fight to keep my composure, I washed his
feet as best I could. I rubbed them vigorously with the sopping towel, remembering not to
wash his feet too harshly. I hoped that I appeared reverential. The President put his socks
and shoes back on and smiled as he motioned for me to take the chair. I obliged, and then
I removed my shoes.
The President of the United States washed my feet.
Through the rest of the Mass, I felt a pressure to look good in the eyes of the President. I
was extra attentive all through the Mass, I sat and stood in all the right places, and I
pronounced all the Latin perfectly.
When Mass and the subsequent prayer service were over, I gathered my coat and bag. I
didn't expect what was coming next.
"Excuse me?" A familiar voice asked. For the second time that night, I looked up and saw
the President.
"Hello, Mr. President," I replied in a shaky voice.
"I like to know the names of the people I serve. What's your name?" he inquired.
"My name is Patricia Floyd," I answered, not quite believing that I was conversing with
the leader of the free world.
"I almost became a priest, did you know that?"
"I didn't, sir, though I think you would have made a good priest. You're very good at
leading people."
"I have a degree in theology from the College of Notre Dame. You go to school, right?
You're around Zoey's age, it looks like. What's your major?"
"I go to Georgetown, Mr. President. I'm majoring in political science; your daughter is in
a few of my classes. You inspired me, you know. You made me believe that the
government is of the people."
"Thank you very much, Patricia Floyd. I needed to hear that. I hope that you will continue
this country's fine tradition of leading the people by serving the people. In order to lead
wisely and fairly, you must always be aware that you are in their service. Remember Paul's
letter to the Ephesians, chapter five, verse twenty-one: 'Be subject to one another...'
Tonight, I sincerely enjoyed being subject to you."
"I will remember that, sir. Thank you."
I was subject to the President of the United States. And then, he was subject to me.
Author: Alice Philemon (Miriam, civilservant37)
Email: shorty_doowop@hotmail.com or moogoesthecow@comcast.net
Rating: G.
Summary: How an ordinary person's life changed when she met the President. Perhaps the
first in a series.
Spoilers: Definitely through the end of Season 2, but Season 3, just to be safe.
Disclaimer: I don't own either of the Drs. Bartlet, or any of their daughters, or the Secret
Service, or the Bible, or the Catholic Church, or the Uzi brand of machine gun, or Notre
Dame or Georgetown. I do, however, own the person through whose eyes this narrative is
told.
Archive: Yes, please! Just tell me where, so I can come see it.
Author's Note: This piece takes place in a church, so there will be a religious element, but
it exists to serve the general message of the piece. This vignette is quite possible the start
of the series. I haven't quite decided yet. Feedback generated from this story will be a
factor in my decision, so even if you don't like it, please say so.
I loved the sensation of church. I always had; the smell of wood, wax, and incense; the
dimly lit hall of marble; and the sound of a priest's exhortations formed some sort of
divine presence that touched the depths of my soul.
I didn't know that the President was going to be at that Mass. I don't know if I would have
gone if I had known. But there he was, entering with Dr. Bartlet, the First Lady, Zoey and
Ellie, two of his daughters, and nine members of the Secret Service. The First Family and
seven of the Secret Service agents sat down in the first row, front and center. I was in the
row behind them, flanked by two Secret Service agents.
The Mass went on without incident. Through the recounting of the first Passover, no
crazed assassin burst through the cathedral's doors, Uzi spitting angry drops of metal.
Through Paul's message of servant leadership, no national crisis came up that would have
caused the President to leave the Mass. Through the tale of the Last Supper, no episodes
of the President's multiple sclerosis took place.
So went the Mass, and so came the washing of the feet.
As the wooden chairs and silver basins filled with water were pulled from the church's
wings, I wondered absently whether the Secret Service would allow the First Family to
participate in this Holy Thursday tradition. As it turned out, I didn't have long to
speculate.
The entire population of the front pew, including seven Secret Service agents and the First
Family, stood up and made its way to the chairs. Then my row stood up and crouched in
front of the chairs, holding the towels inside the basins of water. I looked up to find out
whose feet I would be washing.
The feet, as it turned out, belonged to the President of the United States.
Struggling through and ultimately winning the fight to keep my composure, I washed his
feet as best I could. I rubbed them vigorously with the sopping towel, remembering not to
wash his feet too harshly. I hoped that I appeared reverential. The President put his socks
and shoes back on and smiled as he motioned for me to take the chair. I obliged, and then
I removed my shoes.
The President of the United States washed my feet.
Through the rest of the Mass, I felt a pressure to look good in the eyes of the President. I
was extra attentive all through the Mass, I sat and stood in all the right places, and I
pronounced all the Latin perfectly.
When Mass and the subsequent prayer service were over, I gathered my coat and bag. I
didn't expect what was coming next.
"Excuse me?" A familiar voice asked. For the second time that night, I looked up and saw
the President.
"Hello, Mr. President," I replied in a shaky voice.
"I like to know the names of the people I serve. What's your name?" he inquired.
"My name is Patricia Floyd," I answered, not quite believing that I was conversing with
the leader of the free world.
"I almost became a priest, did you know that?"
"I didn't, sir, though I think you would have made a good priest. You're very good at
leading people."
"I have a degree in theology from the College of Notre Dame. You go to school, right?
You're around Zoey's age, it looks like. What's your major?"
"I go to Georgetown, Mr. President. I'm majoring in political science; your daughter is in
a few of my classes. You inspired me, you know. You made me believe that the
government is of the people."
"Thank you very much, Patricia Floyd. I needed to hear that. I hope that you will continue
this country's fine tradition of leading the people by serving the people. In order to lead
wisely and fairly, you must always be aware that you are in their service. Remember Paul's
letter to the Ephesians, chapter five, verse twenty-one: 'Be subject to one another...'
Tonight, I sincerely enjoyed being subject to you."
"I will remember that, sir. Thank you."
I was subject to the President of the United States. And then, he was subject to me.