The man up the street has collared my son again
and talked a mile a minute about
the sin of homosexuality,
and about how Jesus, in his teachings,
was really big on hell.

My son walks in, distressed and questioning.
Of course.
An adult is emphatically telling him
that what he is being taught is wrong,
and that there will be hell to pay.

We talk.
I pray in my head as we talk.
He leaves.
I sit and think.

Anger.  Disbelief.  Anger.
Here we are again.

I sit until I am calm, sort of.
Then I get up and go back into the kitchen.
Jesus is there, standing at the kitchen sink,
a towel wrapped around his waist,
washing my dishes.

My dishes don’t know what to make of this,
being gently washed instead of rudely scraped
and thrown into the dishwasher.

I lean against the counter.
“He is crazy,” I mumble.
Jesus scrubs.  “He is afraid.”

My anger flares up like a flame,
then dies down as I watch the hands
methodically washing,
carefully rinsing,
stacking dripping dishes.

Jesus, in my kitchen, doing what needs to be done.
Doing the next right thing.
Washing the dishes.
Needing someone to dry.

I grab a towel.

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