I had Jesus over for dinner on Tuesday and his pronouns were
they, them, and theirs,
she, her, and hers,
we, us, and ours.
She took this picture of me in the kitchen,
then she told me I didn’t really have time
to post it on Instagram.
I did it, anyway.
We made pancakes.
It was Fat Tuesday.
We laughed a ton—
it had been a while since we’d all been together—
it was so damn good to be together again!
They came bearing gifts like
berries and homemade pickles
and microbrew beer.
He told jokes and wore yellow-rimmed glasses
and plays Wordle and we teased each other.
She was in third grade and had long green hair,
she was one and she cut her pancakes in little squares
so she could eat them more easily,
she had just learned to walk,
she was retired from her life in the theatre,
and wandered out to the kitchen
where the griddle was hot,
and I put a fresh cake on her blue plate,
and she commented how nice it was
to have a meal made for her for once
because she’s used to having to cook for herself
and everyone else all the time.
They’re vegans.
We made almond-flour pancakes
with applesauce in the batter and no eggs.
She said we didn’t have to do that,
but we said we wanted to,
and, besides, we all thought
the vegan pancakes were better, anyway.
He’s a mother and a professor,
an animal lover and a dog-walker,
a graphic designer and a bagger,
a middle-schooler and a musician.
They’re going on a cruise, him and her,
just the two of them—
their first time in the Caribbean—
a music festival on a ship,
and he only has to play two shows the whole time.
She knew who The Mavericks were
and loves them.
She was the first one there
and the last one to leave.
She helped us do the dishes
after the others had gone and
we gave her a ride home.
She speaks Spanish.
Denmark and Greece and Texas are in their blood.
Russia and Ukraine, too.
She asked if we could have a moment of silence.
We paused to remember
two years of mask mandates,
five days of war,
millions of deaths,
hundreds of thousands of refugees,
multiple fears, and
one brave hope.
She said that was the quietest this bunch had ever been together
and we laughed again after the silence.
And that’s how we made me believe again
that Jesus could be
she and he,
and them and us—
because at our pancake dinner on Fat Tuesday
they showed me that
Jesus could also be
me and mine—
because somehow…
and I can’t explain it…
I need them to be me
if they are going to become we and us and
we are ever going to be
my All in All.
…………………………
I had Jesus over for dinner on Tuesday and his pronouns were
by Troy Cady
