Please don’t tell me this image of my son is inappropriate. He was inappropriate whenever he thought it could get him a laugh. This image portrays him beautifully.

On this day in 2008, we had 12 people from the Raleigh area visiting. They were in the living room, going through photos, in the kitchen helping with food and cleanup, on the deck, in the hot tub, in the back yard … And they took turns going in to see Mike. His best friend, James, was the sentry, only allowing in two or three people at a time, shooing everyone out when Mike looked tired.

Their cars filled the driveway and spilled out onto the side of the street, which is a small back road on which people are usually pretty careful.

As some friends and I sat in the living room going through music for Mike’s approval. He had given us a list of songs he wanted played at his memorial service, but we wanted a bigger playlist for the reception afterward. Music and food were the two greatest passions of Mike’s life. I was trying not to think about what the playlist was for when someone knocked loudly on the door. I opened it to see an angry woman, bleach-blonde, overweight and with too much makeup. Way too much makeup. And she looked mad.

“What the hell are all these cars doing parked out on my road?” she demanded before I could ask what was wrong.

“First of all, it’s a public street and the cars are pulled off to the side, ” I told her. “Secondly, they won’t be here but a few more days. See, my son is dying and his friends have come to say goodbye. You’ll have your road back soon.”

I started to close the door, savoring the guilt and shock on her face.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “Is there anything I can do?” I told her she could be sure to drive carefully and quietly closed the door.

I never raised m y voice.

Maybe I should feel a little badly about how I treated her, but as she drove away, I saw a bumper sticker on the back of her car that read, “Honk if you love Jesus.” When I walked around the neighborhood a few weeks later, I saw the car in a yard, and on the fence at the front of the property was a sign that said something about the family loving Jesus.

It always bothers me when people use Jesus as a weapon. Most of the people who ask whether my son was working when he got sick identify as born-again Christians. Like Jesus ever asked for a co-pay or an insurance card or turned anyone away who was poor and sick.

The fundamentalist Christians I grew up among tried to teach me that it was OK to lie, cheat, steal or even kill, as long as it’s for Jesus. I never understood that, even as it was pushed on me throughout my childhood and adolescence, so hypocricy is something I just can’t tolerate, and using Jesus as a weapon is hypocrisy. You can’t be a Christian and believe it’s OK to harm people.

Anyway, I enjoyed the look on that woman’s face when she reailzed what a jerk she’d been. She never stopped back, although another neighbor came by later to ask whether everything was OK.

“I noticed all the cars and thought something might be going on, so I said a prayer for y’all,” she said. She checked on me a couple times after Mike died to make sure I was OK.

Mike woke up an hour or so after the woman left, so we related the story to him. When I told him I’d used the “Dying Kid Card,” he let loose a good belly laugh. It would be his last.

On this day 17 years ago, we had just two days left with him.