Friday Morning Shift

I walk into the baptistry 
In our modest, midwestern temple 
Eager to fold fluffy towels 
Into their honorable offerings. 

Someone is already there 
Creating the holy folds. 
The temple president  
In white (including his name tag)— 
Stands at the counter 
Smelling as clean as the dawn of creation. 

Of all the many services 
Particular to his calling, 
This act nearly brings 
Me to my knees in gratitude. 
This—THIS!—  
Is the restoration of all things. 
This is the foot washing 
Of the 21st century. 

For this leavening witness 
I would wave again my handkerchief 
Shouting “Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!”