The Holy Household Chore | Elizabeth E.
You can't play martyr until you've washed the dishes.
You're missing out; the plates are still sitting there,
The soapy rag has dropped from your hand,
and everyone's already started the game.
I'm Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha!
My name's Florence Nightingale!
I'm being Saint Elizabeth.
But you're still you; the cutlery's still dirty.
It seems a lack of nerve is what's holding you back,
Preventing you from earning your badge and moving up in the world.
Don't hold on, just plunge into the water
with your sponge and dishsoap;
Then you can resurface with your duties done,
and begin to play the game.
When it comes time to roll the die
Look the others in the eye because
Therein lie the secrets of martyrdom.
A twitch of the lid, a merry twinkle in the pupil…
Someone casually hiding the evidence:
Are those soap suds they're brushing off?
On occasion it's hard to see the outcome;
Just because you've finished the washing up
doesn't mean you're free to run amok.
There are rules, you know, so follow them
closely;
Just look at what happened to Saint Augustine!
Someday you'll realized that this gets more serious
That eventually the stakes rise and gurgle and
force themselves out of the drain
to meet your rubber-gloved hands.
What you do when this occurs is completely up to you,
But please remember:
You can't play martyr until you've washed the dishes.
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