For COVID reasons, our church is using tiny plastic cups to distribute wine for communion. This is tacky but understandable. There are always a few drops left at the bottom of each cup no matter how thoroughly we empty it.
My mother tucks our cups into her purse after the service, dodging the trash can set out for them. She will not throw away Jesus' blood.
When we arrive home, she fills a silver mixing bowl with fresh water and rinses them gently, the drops of wine turning the water a faint pink. She disposes of the six cups unceremoniously once they're clean—they were just vessels, now stripped of their importance.
The bowl she carries carefully into the garden, kneeling down in the dirt. After saying a short prayer, she pours the wine-stained water into the grass—she will not let the blood of Christ go down the drain. Better to bury it.
My father shakes his head and says, "If Jesus knows when to get in the wine, he knows when to get out." But he bows his head anyway.
My brother asks her why she doesn't just lick out the cups. This goes resolutely unanswered.
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