Some Musings on the Sons of God

Ann Gamble

Shopping with cart full of preschoolers
requires focus.
Deafness to the clamor—
“Can we buy this?”
“Can I get out now?”—
I steer the wigglers
through crowded aisles
to the next item on the list.
But then the eldest exclaimed,
“Mama!
The hole in my shorts is big enough to fit my penis through!”
So I looked.
And lo and behold,
It was.

Of course it was Wal-Mart’s busiest hour of the week.
Of course the woman walking by at that moment
was wearing a T-shirt that read
“What Would Jesus Do?”

Snatch a pair of shorts (not on the list) from the rack we were passing
(coincidence, or proof of the existence of God)
Laugh
Laugh nervously

A deep breath (or is that Buddha).
What would Jesus do?

What would Jesus’s mother do?

The carols say that the baby Jesus did not cry.
Did the child Jesus climb on the furniture? Dawdle?
Sing a song forty times while the Mother of God cooked dinner?
Did he stick up for the kid that the other kids picked on?
“Your friend Jesus shares his toys!”

Did the young Jesus test the size of every hole?
(Did the Blessed Mother mend his clothes right away?
Could She get stains out?)
Was he vocal at mealtimes? “What? Falafel again?”

My kids play super hero, and I picture them on a dusty desert street.
Cool Slim, Circular Saw, and Jesus the Kid
lean on the railings of the boardwalk.
They speak politely to the ladies pushing strollers,
chew on blades of grass.
Slim spots a bicycle thief, and he and Circ vault the railing,
run the guy down before he can ride away.
The Kid picks up the broken lock and lectures the would-be crook:
“How would you feel if someone took your bicycle?”
Another victory for the forces of good.