Jesus Goes Viral

This is the fictional sequel to “The Gift of Christmas.”

This is definitely the place for an interrogation. I look up into the warmth of the crackling, florescent lights beating down like menacing rays from a hovering, intergalactic space ship. Couldn’t hide anything in here if I wanted.

Waiting is the worst. I realize my heels are tapping the floor and immediately stop. Then start. I need to distract myself. I push up from the gray metal folding chair.

Nine tall windows line the front wall. I counted. My hands gravitate to my pockets as I walk to the left, to the largest of the oversized glass panes covered with opened white blinds. The principal’s perch, we call it. Currently it reveals a parade of students leaving the building this late afternoon.

This was my second chance. I got it all wrong the first time. My assignment?—Interview and write an article about a person I know. I turned in a paper interviewing Jesus. My teacher said it was superficial, poorly written, and with a person I couldn’t know. I admit it was a last-minute, really bad effort on my part, but I’d protested that I did know Jesus! Just when I thought I’d flunked the paper, she threw me a lifeline: “Get a Christmas interview with Jesus and we’ll see how you fare.” Almost her exact words. Maybe she said it because it was Christmas, or maybe she didn’t think I could. But, I did. Though no one believes me. I walk around the room full of oak, imagining how different it would be if they did.

Dad is a weekend woodworker, so I notice that the dark oak bookshelves intersect with the high ceilings. I run my finger across a line of books with titles I don’t understand. Nothing about Jesus or Christmas. A Native American rug covers the oaken floors and student artwork dots the walls. Family pictures face outward atop what could be an heirloom desk. If it weren’t for the white stucco walls and the horror stories that come from behind the door I’m currently behind, it might feel cozy. Might. Not my first trip here, but never under these circumstances.

I walk to the door to try and listen. Abruptly, it opens, almost smashing my face. I jump back to see my teacher, Miss Hazelnut, followed by my Dad, followed by the principal, Mr. Strong. Oh boy. The whole herd.

Suddenly the large room closes around me. Miss Hazelnut says I should sit in front of the desk Mr. Strong now looms behind. Dad is next to me and she is adjacent to Mr. Strong.

I sit down, facing all those smiling picture frame faces, not knowing what to expect. Dad frowns, but pats my shoulder. A good sign, I guess. He has a manila envelope and a white paper sack. I smell food.

“Matthew, I hated to keep you waiting.” Mr. Strong seems larger than usual. “But some of us had to read the so-called interview you wrote, which, while intriguing, is rather perplexing.”

I simply nod.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m glad you found it intriguing.”

“Matthew, you’re in a lot of trouble. I hope you’re taking this seriously.” He wears the same stern look when putting my friend Joey Romano in detention about once a week. I sort of gulp.

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Strong. I did exactly what I said I’d do. Exactly what I was asked.”

“So you’re sticking to your story that Jesus told you this?”

“Yes sir. He did.”

“Well, it’s a good interview, I’ll give you that. I was rather taken by it even though it can’t possibly be true.”

“Why sir?” Okay, maybe I shouldn’t ask, but . . . “Why can’t it be true?”

“Matthew, even if it were true, why would Jesus come to you?” His tone falls between sarcasm and ‘don’t backtalk’ me. “Why wouldn’t he go to some renowned preacher or teacher?”

“Well, He said He came to keep me honest. So I could keep my word to Miss Hazelnut. About interviewing Him.”

“Really? You do find it odd, don’t you?”

“I did until He explained it. Then it made perfect sense.”

Mr. Strong looks at Miss Hazelnut. She rises, but sits back down. “Matthew, I didn’t tell you to interview Jesus, that would’ve been a global stretch. Your original assignment was to interview a known person in your life or the community, letting us learn details about the person’s personal life.”

“I know, Miss Hazelnut, but you gave me a second chance, a Christmas interview with Jesus. And besides, He is a known person in my life. I talk to him several times a day.”

She purses her lips. “And He replies to you?”

“No, hardly ever. Not with words anyway. But sometimes I feel His presence and other times I just know He’s with me.”

She turns her pouty mouth toward the principal. “I’ve never known Jesus to give a press conference. Have you Mr. Strong?”

Mr. Strong taps some papers together, ignoring her sarcasm. “What about you, Mr. Davies? Do you believe what your son wrote is true?”

“I believe my son, sir. He doesn’t lie. He may have gotten some mixed messages, but clearly that paper sounds like someone who had some kind of a talk with Jesus.”

Miss Hazelnut chimes in, “Mr. Davies, while this is probably the most well-written paper to come across my desk in years, it’s not authentic. It’s fiction! Who has talks like this with Jesus today? I mean, who ever had talks with Jesus? And, the clarity of the sentences and the word choices are dumbfounding.” Her voice stirs with emotion before calmly stating, “I think it could be plagiarized.”

“You think Matthew stole the interview?” Dad has a death grip on the edge of the chair.

“Mr. Davies, Matthew is twelve. He’s in seventh grade. There may be a senior who could write this, but this is college or graduate level material. Maybe even higher.”

Mr. Strong looks over at me. “Matthew, sit on the sofa in the outside office and I’ll call you back in shortly.”

I rise to go, but turn. “I wrote every word of that paper. The views weren’t mine, but believe it or not, I interviewed Jesus.” And then I leave to silence.

From this outer sanctum, I can’t hear anything inside. I walk to the hall and see my friend Tommy standing by the water fountain. He walks over.

“Why’re you hanging around old man Strong’s pod?” He’s shifting the books in the book bag on his back.

“Miss Hazelnut thinks I plagiarized an assignment so I’m in a bit of trouble.” I look around the mostly empty hall.

“Has he seen you yet?”

“He’s in with my Dad now.”

Tommy glares at me. “You’re not in a bit of trouble, pal! You’re in a lot of trouble. What’d you write?”

“I interviewed Jesus.”

Tommy grabs his chest, starts laughing, and stops two guys who just stepped out of the library. “Matthew here thinks he’s in a bit of trouble because he interviewed Jesus.”

The tall guy walks up to me. “Hey, I know you. I was in class when Miss Hazelnut called you a liar for saying you’d interviewed Jesus.”

“She never called me a liar.”

“She didn’t believe you and neither do I!” He hits my shoulder with the palm of his hand.

“I don’t care what you believe. I know what happened.” My voice is an octave higher.

“Is Jesus speaking to you now?” He taunts me. “Jesus speaker!” He points at me laughing. “Who you going to hear from next, God Almighty?” Mr. Strong comes rushing out of his office.

“What is all this noise? Matthew you’re supposed to be on the sofa. The other three of you, get going before I give you detention.”

They take off fast. Tommy looks back and shrugs.

Mr. Strong guides me by my shoulder. “Aren’t you in enough trouble, Matthew? Trying to make it worse for yourself?” I head to the uncomfortable sofa, but Mr. Strong says, “Back in my office. We’re ready for you.”

Dad turns as I enter. He looks like he did when I gave my brother Jeffy a mud bath four summers ago.

“Matthew,” Miss Hazelnut sits on the front edge of her seat, “if you wrote this piece, tell me, I understand your premise of how God created the galaxy–I disagree, but I understand–but what is this about Jesus and God ‘riding intergalactic flows?’ And it’s floes, with an e, by the way, not flow, with a w.”

“Oh, sorry. I just wrote what I heard.”

“Why is that in here, Matthew? I’m not familiar with the Bible, particularly, but I’ve never heard this story before.”

“I know! Me either. I thought it sounded really, really cool and that’s why I included it.”

“The point, Matthew, is where did the information even come from?”

“From Jesus. Everything came from Jesus.”

“So, he told you he and his Dad traveled around on intergalactic floes, even though he could probably traverse the entire galaxy in the blink of an eye?”

I look at my scruffy brown shoes. “Yes, ma’am. He said they had a lot of fun.”

Her sigh is pure disgust. “Mr. Strong, see why I’m so upset? This is some sort of forgery or religious promotion by Matthew and perhaps others.”

My dad leans forward. “See here, Miss Hazelnut. I understand you may not believe this paper. It’s difficult to understand how Matthew could write something so profound, but I know he didn’t copy this. From anywhere! And no one worked on it with him.” He looks at me, pleading. “Fess up now if this isn’t one-hundred percent your project, son.”

Everything seems to stop. I look at Miss Hazelnut and Mr. Strong, their expressions so stern, absolute in their belief. I turn away and look my dad square in the eyes. “Dad, I swear, I wrote that paper, and I wrote it all by myself.”

“I believe you did, Matt. Good job.”

“So, that settles it for you, Mr. Davies?” Miss Hazelnut’s voice actually cracks.

Dad kind of wiggles his eyebrows up and down and says, “What would satisfy it for you?”

“There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to consider that. In the meantime, Matthew will receive an F on the assignment. He’s clearly broken a code of conduct!” She sucks in significant amounts of air. “Mr. Strong?”

The tall wiry principal, unlike his name, has glasses shoved atop a wild mane of brown and white hair. “Yes, yes, most possibly,” he says. “Consider the truth of this, Matthew. I’ll reduce the punishment for the truth. Plagiarism is a serious ethics charge.” Expectation fills his eyes for a few brief seconds as he watches me. “Perhaps we should meet again.”

I nod and look down. Dad rises, but doesn’t reach to shake hands. He offers the white bag to Miss Hazelnut. “I stopped and bought us some scones on the way. Perhaps the two of you will enjoy them while you talk.”

“That isn’t necessary,” she says.

Dad ignores her and nudges me in front of him. I rise and we turn to leave. “Mr. Strong,” Dad nods toward the Principal, “I agree that we should meet again.”

——————————–

Silence rests on us like a morning fog as we head to the car. It’s hard not to feel sorry for myself. Jesus’ visit is probably the greatest thing that’ll ever happen to me, but I can’t prove it. The only person who can is as near as my breath, but might as well be on Pluto. I should’ve come clean with dad the night I saw Him. But, he wouldn’t have believed me. I sigh. Jesus, I could use some help here.

As soon as our seat belts snap in the car, Dad says, “Matthew, there are many ways to be in touch with Jesus. I’d like to know how it happened?”

Jesus, I start praying, give me something Dad will believe. Please! I know Dad thinks I’m stalling and I guess I am. “Dad, me and Jesus have a . . .”

“Jesus and I,” he corrects me. “Matthew, how did you write that remarkable paper when you use seventh grade grammar?”

“Dad, Jesus and I have a special relationship. I asked him questions and He helped me write what He wanted me to hear.”

“And He told you how He and the Father created the universe and that heaven is outside of time?”

“Yes sir. How else would I know?”

“I don’t know Matthew. It’s hard to grasp. As Miss Hazelnut stated, Jesus doesn’t generally give press conferences.”

——————————

That night I prayed about what to do, and my biggest fear. “Lord, an F would give
me a C in the class and I guess I deserve that. I didn’t do things right the first time, and only got a second chance because of Miss Hazelnut. But, what If Mr. Strong expels me because he thinks I plagiarized my paper? Please help me, Jesus?”

I don’t know why I do this, but I reach for my computer lying against my bed. Sitting up, I open it and squint as the dark room floods with light. Hope Mom or Dad don’t come in. I Google Jesus pictures and browse through tons of brown haired, mostly white, anxious looking or meditating Jesus’s.

Nothing looks like the real Jesus—relaxed, handsome, and with a beautiful smile. He wasn’t
fretting about the world, He was just with me. I eliminate all the posed and serene photographs and choose a picture of Baby Jesus. That’s what Christmas is about anyway. One by one, I pull up my social media—Facebook, Instagram, Twitter—and I post Baby Jesus. Under it I write: I’m in 7th grade and wrote a paper about a Christmas interview I had with Jesus. He actually spoke to me, but no one believes me. Now I may get expelled. Do you believe Jesus speaks to us today? I attach my story.

After Mom awakens me the next morning, I take my shower and head to breakfast. At the table, Dad is quiet. No mention of my paper. Jeffy is jabbering about a girl who hits him with a ruler, which would normally incense Dad, but he just tells him to defend himself. Mom keeps after Jeffy to eat with his mouth shut.

The phone rings and Mom answers it. “Hello.” Long pause. “What? . . . uh huh . . . uh huh. . . Are you certain? I’m not even sure I know what that means.”

She turns to me, not at all happy. Must be the school. “Oh dear, Lord! Really?” She’s frowning at me. “Okay, thanks for calling.” She hangs up and looks at Dad before walking to me. “What exactly have you done?”

“I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

“Joey’s mother, Marilyn, says you’ve gone viral.”

I suck in my breath and look down. Such a tiny, short-lived thing I did before going to bed last night I’d forgotten. I look up at my cereal and blueberries. Dad is going to kill me. Could I possibly go viral in less than eight hours?

“What’s this all about, Matthew?” Dad is stirring around his eggs, looking at me.

“I ya. . . I uh, I posted my paper on line last night before going to bed.” I gulp. “I’m sorry. It never occurred to me that more than just a few of my friends would see it?”

“Matthew, you’re a smart boy. You knew exactly what might happen if you posted that paper!”

“No, honest!” I look to Mom. “Has it really gone viral?”

“You tell me!” She shoves her phone in my face.

I check Facebook. 17.1K “likes” and over 11K comments. I actually gasp. Seeing my reaction, she pulls her hands to her mouth. I check Instagram and Twitter. Thousands of hits and rising as I watch. What have I done?

I look at Dad. “I can’t go to school today. I’ll be in all kinds of trouble.”

“How many hits?”

“Over seventeen thousand just on Facebook.”

“You’re going. And I don’t want you responding to any of them. Do you hear me?”

“Yes sir.”

“What should I do, Dad?” Tears form in my eyes. “I really, really didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Dad has pushed his plate aside and hands me his phone. “Pull up your Facebook account.”

It isn’t a request.

His eyes widen as he reads. “Matthew,” he finally says, “what you wrote isn’t honest. You make it sound like you could get expelled because you wrote about Jesus. That may be partly true, but it’s mostly because the paper is written above your ability. Not because of content. Do you understand? Miss Hazelnut and Mr. Strong will think you’re trying to instigate something. And frankly I’m wondering myself.” He holds his hand to his mouth. “The numbers keep rising.”

“What do I do, Dad?”

“Ride it out. Pay the consequences. There’s no time to discuss this now, but this evening we will.” The words are kind compared to his scarlet face and gruff voice. He walks his mostly uneaten food to the sink. “If your teachers see this, tell them what you told me and prepare to be expelled. I want you telling the truth, regardless. That’s non-negotiable.”

“Yes, sir.”

——————————-

Since phones aren’t allowed at school, my friend Joey is the mouthpiece. No one would’ve known what was happening if he and two buddies hadn’t come nonstop blabbing to me in home room about the post that is likely going viral. “Twenty-eight thousand and counting!” He’s smiling and carrying his laptop.

“Please, guys, just drop it, okay? I’m in so much trouble.”

“You’ll be famous, though,” says Joey, trying to lighten my mood.

“I don’t want to be famous, okay. Just drop it. I mean it. You want me to get expelled? Drop it now!”

“Okay, okay.” Joey slaps the laptop shut.

“We don’t want you expelled,” says Bryan, “but, it’s not going away regardless.”

Those words prove true. The principal calls me to his office during math, about 11 a.m.

Tell the truth. Tell the truth. I say it a hundred times as I shuffle along the gray tiled floors lined with black lockers. When I get to the office, I just stand and look at the door knob. I see Miss Carolyn, the secretary, through the glass pane and she eventually waves me in.

“Hi Matthew,” she smiles as I enter.

“Hi Miss Carolyn.” I look at my feet.

“You nervous?”

“Yes, ma’am. I don’t know what’s happened in my life lately.”

“You’d do well to just tell the truth. Mr. Strong is a good man. But if you lie to him, there’ll be no saving grace for you. Know what I mean?”

I nod.

“Wait here. I’ll see if he’s ready for you.”

I pace across the room a few times before the door opens. “Come on in. He’ll see you now.”

I walk past Miss Carolyn, wanting to turn and run.

Mr. Strong motions me to the obligatory folding chair in front of his desk. Nice comfy-looking cloth chairs rest against the wall, and I wonder if anyone ever sits in them.

“Matthew,” he starts, not hesitating. “You continue to put me in a bind.”

I sort of nod, knowingly.

“Did someone put you up to posting that story, Matthew? Maybe someone in your family? And I warn you, I want the truth.”

I scoot to the front of my chair. “Mr. Strong, I can’t believe you think that. My family is really upset. So, no! Mom and Dad found out this morning and told me if I was called to your office to tell the truth.”

He looks as thoughtful as the Jesus pictures. “I believe you. But, Matthew, you and I both know you didn’t write that story. You don’t have the intellectual capacity. You must tell me how it happened.”

I wish I could stop, but I start to cry. “Mr. Strong, I swear I wrote that story. Why can’t anyone believe me? Supernatural things happened all through the Bible. Does everyone think Jesus just disappeared, that supernatural things don’t happen today? Jesus gave me the information and He helped me remember it and write it. I’m sure of it.” I sniffle through my words. “I know I’m not that smart either, Mr. Strong, but I was so proud to write that paper.”

“Matthew, how did you do your research?”

“I didn’t do any research. All the material was given to me. Honest.”

“And no one prompted you to put it online?”

“No sir. I’m sorry I did that?”

“And what about the fact that you’ve misled people into believing you may be expelled simply because no one believes you? No mention that the story is written in almost literary prose!”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Strong. I kind of got in an argument about it in the hall yesterday, right before you came out. I think I just wanted to see if anyone believed Jesus still spoke to people today.”

“Well, Jesus didn’t tell me not to expel you, so you’re expelled for a week, even if you come to your senses. Personally, I don’t believe you acted alone. If your parents have a problem, tell them to take it to the board.” He stands up. “Call someone to come and get you.”

——————————————

Except for eating, I’m stuck in my room for a week. No phone, but at least I can keep my laptop. Dad was angry when he picked me up, yet he understands this is a phenomenon I can’t control. He didn’t ask me to take the post down, probably because it makes no difference. It’s like wildfire. Been shared all over, uploaded to blogs, to websites, even personal pages. I’ve seen it on tech and political blogs. Completely out of my hands. He’ll allow me to watch, but I can’t respond.

The number of hits has risen to an unfathomable 1.1M, as in million, and counting by 4 p.m. I pace back and forth in my small room. I Google, “What is considered viral?” Two million hits used to be considered viral. Today it’s five million. At this pace . . .

Dad’s pissed I posted my paper, but I think he likes that people are taking my side. A few have mentioned separation of church and state, but they’re quickly reminded of the law. And the law says students can write what they choose, if it’s within class guidelines.

When Mom gets home from work, she throws her purse on my bed, ranting. Her favorite disc jockey was speculating why a local boy would get expelled for writing a story about Jesus. He apparently called the school. Got a “no comment.” The ringing phone all afternoon might’ve been him. Or the neighbors. Geez, I wonder who else might get wind of this?

Dinner is pretty much a row. The television blares the evening news; Dad’s upset I was expelled without a promised second meeting; Mom’s distressed because the neighbors are calling; and Jeffy’s in heaven. Not literally, but his big brother is becoming famous, and by extension, he’s in the whirlwind, floating. It also takes the pressure off him.

None of us have spoken about all the particulars of the fiasco. I figured that was about to change, when the phone rings as we are clearing the dishes. The local NBC affiliate’s prime showman, weatherman, and interviewer, Charming Mel, or rather Mel’s assistant, wants to talk to me on the phone. Dad says no. “Look,” he says, “it’s true my son was expelled because of a paper he wrote about Jesus, but it wasn’t because of the subject matter, particularly, although that was part of it. The biggest problem was because it was written much more intelligently than a seventh grader can write. So, there’s no story here.”

The assistant counters, “But your son claimed to interview Jesus.”

“Yes,” says my dad, “but people talk to Jesus every day.” He hangs up and turns to us. “That should put it to rest.”

We all sit with gaping mouths. “You shouldn’t have said anything, Doug. He’ll quote you,” says Mom.

“Not much of a story there according to what I said.”

But Dad is wrong.

“It’s Charming Mel!” Jeffy is pointing to the television above the kitchen island not fifteen minutes later. Dish rags fall to the counter as we scurry next to my brother. Mel is surrounded by a group of Christmas return shoppers in a mall. After telling them that I am now expelled (Dad shakes his head) for writing an interview about Jesus, he proceeds to read them this paragraph from my story:

“Jesus sat there, like a regular guy, except for a magical quality surrounding Him. I saw the holes in His hands and the love in His heart, one no more present than the other. “I’m always with you, Matthew,” He said, “each morning when you pray or just at times when you need me.” His gaze empowered me with love and almost overwhelmed His presence. He didn’t come just because I was desperate for an interview, but because His love was too persistent to ignore my need. He feels the same about all of us.”

When Mel finishes, everyone sighs together. And then he asks: “So, should this boy be expelled from school for saying he interviewed Jesus?”

Absolutely not,” all agree. “Of course not! No!” And then Mel asks if any of them have had encounters with Jesus. A few say, “Absolutely,” and others say “Yes, but in less dramatic ways.” But all agree that Jesus does in fact communicate with people in many ways today.

Since I’ve been officially grounded and confined to my room, I am only downstairs because of the dishes. I try not to show my feelings, but the words and the emotions of these strangers are like lightning striking every nerve in my body. Tears begin to flow.

Mom throws her arms around my shoulders. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. We know you didn’t mean for all this to happen. It will be over before you know it.”

“No. no. . .” I stammer. The three of them gather around me as we miss the end of Mel’s wrap up.

Dad says, “You’ve made some mistakes, Matthew, and you’re learning some very hard lessons.”

“Mom, Dad, those people—they understand what happened. They believe me!”

——————————————-

I think the next day will be easier, but when I’m downstairs scarfing potato chips, the phone rings. NBC pops up on the screen. I put my hand to my mouth. Two more rings and I grab it.

“Hello.”

“Hello. This is Jeremy Stewart with NBC in New York City, I’d like to speak with someone about Matthew Davies.”

“I . . . I’m the only one home.”

Are you allowed to talk to me?”

I hesitate. “. . . I’m Matthew.”

“Well, hello, Matthew! I guess you are home since you’re expelled.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please, call me Jeremy.”

Jeremy is a very nice man. I’m practically dancing in place as we talk. And I can’t wait to tell Joey. Ten minutes into the conversation, I realize I have a dilemma—how do I tell Mom and Dad when I’m supposed to be in my room? Definitely not allowed to use the phone, except for emergencies. Still, before hanging up I assure him I’ll explain what he’s said to my parents and he gives me his private number.

When Dad comes home, I’m lying across my bed reading a science book, trying to keep up with the school work I’m missing. It’s time I tell him some of the particulars of my Jesus interview, which is a good way to slide into the conversation I had with Jeremy. “Dad. We need to talk.”

He looks very thoughtful. “Should I sit down?”

“Yes, sir.”

I pull into an upright position. “Dad, remember on Christmas Eve when you distributed Jeffy’s Santa presents?”

He has squashed down into a bean bag near the window. “A very memorable night, Matthew. Yes, I remember.”

“That was the night Jesus came to me.”

Dad smiles kindly. “I figured that, son. You were very emotional.”

“That night He told me all that stuff in my interview.”

“I’m glad you’re telling me.”

“I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, but it felt so personal.”

Dad pushes up from the chair and sits next to me on the bed. “Thanks for telling me something that was very private, Matthew.” He pats my back. “You can trust me, you know?”

“I know Dad, and I know all this seems crazy, things happening that are completely out of control.” I look away from him, afraid I’ll cry. “I just want you to believe me. I did talk to Jesus and He told me everything in that paper.”

“Matthew, I do believe you. Your paper is wonderful. And, yes, things are seemingly out of control. Much of it because you put your paper on line last night, which is why you’re grounded.”

“I know.”

“But maybe the worst is over. We can’t prove Jesus spoke to you or even that you wrote that paper. Seems no point in fighting your being expelled.”

“Dad, there’s one more thing.”

“Okay, son.”

“Don’t get mad, okay?”

“Can’t promise you that, Matt. Let’s hear it.”

I start to swing my feet. “I went downstairs to get some potato chips after lunch and the phone rang. I went over to check it out and it was from NBC.” I look up at him. “I answered it, Dad.”

He is shaking his head. “Matthew, you know how I feel about them after that gratuitous interview Mel did last night.”

“Dad, it wasn’t Charming Mel. It was Jeremy Stewart from NBC in New York City. He gave me his private number.”

“Oh dear Lord, the problem is growing!”

“They want us to come to New York.”

Dad just stares at me. “Why?”

I hand him a piece of paper where I’d written as much information as my hand and brain could coordinate. “They want me to talk to two women, Cara and Terri something.”

Dad looks over the paper. “They want you to be on What’s Up at Nine with Cara and Terri Ann?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you even know who they are?”

“Not really?”

“They host a very successful early morning talk show. Been on for years. They’re smart and sassy, somewhat southern ladies with a lot to say about everything.”

“That sounds good.” This is going much better than I anticipated.

“Why did you write Dennis Quail’s name? Isn’t he your favorite late-night talk show host?”

“Can you believe it? They want me to talk to him, too!”

“Why, exactly? He’s late night. I can almost see you on What’s Up at Nine with Terri Ann, your Grandpa’s favorite, by the way. But why would Dennis Quail want a kid on More at Midnight?”

“I don’t really know, Dad. He just said Mr. Quail would be very courteous and he thought I’d have fun, maybe play a game with him.”

Dad gets up and walks to the window. “You are twelve-years old and NBC New York is calling you. This is unbelievable.” He turns around and I think I see a tear in his eye. “Maybe this is fate, Matthew. We might not be able to get your teacher and principal to believe you . . .”

He stops and shakes his head. “Let’s pray about this tonight, son. I don’t want us to do something stupid.”

—————————————

I love New York! A limousine picked us up at the airport and has now delivered us to The Tower, a hotel the driver says is a five-minute walk to Rockefeller Center where NBC lives. I can’t believe we’re here. Can’t believe Dad said yes. Can’t believe I flew. Can’t believe I rode in a limo! The limo driver is really nice. He told us funny stories about Dennis Quail and the More at Midnight show, and is now carrying our luggage.

Zigzagging color blocks in tan and brown and black, all my favorites, cover the hotel floor and grab my attention as we walk in. Marble walls and marble everything surround us. I spot a white sofa, a leopard sofa and a huge big crystal chandelier. Mirrors and statues and flower arrangements are everywhere. All things I’ve seen before, but never like this. I follow Dad to the front desk and turn around. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. Mom would love it. Before we left, she smothered me in kisses and said she’s with us in spirit.

While Dad checks in, I check my phone. Over eighteen million people have ‘liked’ my post and it’s still going. Mega viral! Millions have responded. Dad called Jeremy the same evening he and I talked, right after our pastor stopped by. Dad seemed changed somehow, like he was ready for me to tell the world I’d interviewed Jesus. Maybe it was all the encounters people on line were saying they’d had with Jesus. Maybe it was something my pastor said. I don’t really know.

The coolest thing was, after Dad spoke to Jeremy, he passed the phone to me. I Facetimed with two NBC bigwigs. They were testing me, Dad thought, wanting to see how I responded to questions and maybe even to see if I’m likeable.

I roll my carry-on next to me. Mom packed my best clothes and I even got some new shoes. It just happened so fast. NBC wanted me now while the story is ‘fresh.’ They convinced dad it was a human-interest story most people would love. “Not everyone will support your son,” Jeremy told Dad and Dad told Mom, “but they’ll respect him in our studios. I promise you that.”

In our room, we rush around, putting things away and changing clothes so we can be at the studio in about an hour. We’re on the 52nd floor. It’s like overlooking the world and I can’t seem to move from the window. Mr. Quail would like us to be there as early as possible, Jeremy said. They’ll have food and pretty much whatever we need. “Bundle up,” he had said, “it’s cold.”

Dad is nervous, I can tell. But I’m not. I’m excited to tell my story to someone who can’t expel me. We leave the building with directions to Rockefeller Center. The bustle of people on the streets almost takes my breath as much as the twenty-degree weather. Blurred and covered faces scramble past us on the wide sidewalks. What’s the rush? I wonder, shivering, looking back at a guy in shorts and a t-shirt.

Oversized store windows have more glitter and lights than we have in our whole town. I keep looking up, amazed at the skyscrapers. A guy is screaming into the air as we pass him. Horns are honking, people are chattering. Even with ear muffs, the noise is overwhelming.

People say New York City is dirty, but I don’t see dirt, I see white concrete sidewalks and streets, glass, lights, tall buildings, taxis, and suddenly, flags flying everywhere. Rockefeller Center!

Dad has his gloves off and is taking pictures before we even cross the street. “Son, this is probably one of the most recognizable and prestigious addresses in the world.” It’s funny to hear it like that. Knowing it and seeing it are two different things. Because seeing it, I understand perfectly.

A level below us is a beautiful, sunken skating rink and a statue Dad says is Prometheus, a legendary Greek Titan who brought fire to mankind. Skaters glide along as if no one is watching but above the rink scores of people take photographs. In the light cold breeze, the parade of flags flap the colors of Oklahoma, South Carolina, France, Belgium . . . “The flags represent the world,” says a man next to us.

A giant with a long beard is carved over the entrance to 30 Rockefeller Center. Beneath him is this quote: “Wisdom and knowledge shall be the stability of thy times. Isaiah 33:6.” Dad says the carving looks more like a Greek God than the prophet Isaiah.

We sign in and one of the show’s junior producers, Heather, takes us to a room set up just for Dad and me. It’s near Studio F where More at Midnight is broadcast. Tons of people come in and out to meet us, to put makeup on me, bringing food and warm drinks. Jeremy stops by. Heather takes us to Studio F where I sit in the chair I’ll sit in shortly, just to get a feel for the room. “Feeling weird or anything?” Dad asks.

“Not really. I love it.” I swing my feet smiling.

We go back and eat some more and finally it’s show time.

Mr. Quail had a late appointment so I didn’t get to meet him, but his introduction of me is great.

“What do you do when you’re twelve-years old and get expelled from school? Most kids might get to watch More at Midnight, but this kid gets to be on the show! You’ve probably read about him because he’s all over the Internet. He claimed to interview Jesus at Christmas, and he wrote a fascinating story about that encounter.” (People clap) “Last we checked over twenty million people have hit his post! Are you kidding me? That’s more people than watch our show! (Laughter) Anyway, the school had threatened to expel him and finally did day before yesterday. (Everybody boos) I know, I know. It’s terrible, isn’t it? Ridiculous! Anyway, he’s here to tell us what he liked best about interviewing Jesus. Let’s hear it for Matthew Davies!”

Everybody is cheering and clapping and some people are standing. I think I’m kind of smiling, but I can’t be sure. If knees actually knock, I think mine are.

Mr. Quail jumps up.

I shake his hand and walk past the desk to the chair, trying to look away from the lights.

“Thanks for coming, Matthew.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Quail.”

“Hey, Matthew, I’ve got a reputation here! I’m a young guy. No Mr. Quail. It’s Dennis.”

I grin. “Okay, Dennis.”

“So, Matthew, tell me about interviewing Jesus? What was that like?”

It was really, really cool. He was so good to me.”

“How’d you know what questions to ask?”

“I didn’t know. I should’ve been you. You’d have asked better questions.”

Dennis waves his hands. “Oh, no, no. Not me. I’m not questioning God. Nope.”

“Do you talk to Him?”

“I. . . I do. Yep, but it doesn’t always go well.”

“Why not?”

“He’s like, ‘This is it, Dennis. The last straw! Now straighten up before I zap you.’ You know, he’s all over my butt.”

I laugh out loud. “Nah, He doesn’t really talk to you like that?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Actually, I think He does.” He looks kind of serious.

“Well, I’m going to talk to Him for you.”

“Hey, I’d really appreciate that.” Then he laughs and says, “I’m supposed to be interviewing you! So, what did you learn in this interview you think all of us should know?”

“Mostly I learned that Jesus doesn’t judge us as much as we think He does. He loves us so much He gave up His life for us. He’s really a brave, cool guy.”

“Yep, He was very brave. So, what’d you like about Him the most.”

“The way He listened to me. I mean, He really understood me and wanted to help me. And He did, even though I got expelled for doing what I said I’d do.”

Dennis wisecracks, “You need to pray about that,” and the audience laughs.

“I did pray and I ended up here.” The audience now erupts in laughter and applause.

“Well, God works in strange ways, they say.” He’s shaking his head. “So, how long you expelled for, buddy?”

“I think a week.” And then I hesitate. “Unless they see this.”

He laughs really big. “Okay let’s give them something to really get mad about.”

“Will you come and help me get back into school?” I’m sitting forward, on the edge of my chair.

“Uh, Matthew. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kinda busy. But I wish I could. I just thought it’d be fun to play a little game called ‘What to do when you get expelled.’” The audience claps and cheers.

“How do you play?” I keep my eyes fixed on Dennis, away from the camera.

“This afternoon we asked the audience what they’d do if they were expelled. You and I are going to guess the top six answers.” He nods as if to say, “Okay?”

A man with a deadpan look, holding an oversized silver bell in one hand and what looks like a silver wand in the other, walks out mid-stage. Dennis shakes his head. “Pay no attention to him.” He shoos him with his hand, then looks at me. “You go first.”

“Okay, hmm, what would people do if they were expelled? I think they would watch television.”

Ding! The man rings the bell by hitting it with the wand, then screeches: “Number 2 answer!”

It’s hilarious and I sit back and laugh. Dennis pokes my hand. “Now it’s my turn. I think it’s listen to music. That’s what I’d do.”

Ding! “Number five answer.”

“Go Matthew.”

“Study.”

Ding. “Number six answer.”

“Go to the movies,” says Dennis.

Loud bong from behind the curtain. Dennis turns around wide-eyed. “What? Can’t believe nobody said that! Go Matthew.”

“Play on my computer.”

Ding. “Number 1 answer.”

“Okay, I say, talk on the phone,” says Dennis.

Ding. “Number three answer.”

“One left, Matthew,” says Dennis.

“Have friends over.”

Ding. “Number four answer! Matthew wins!” says the announcer. Ding. Ding. Ding.

“Okay, okay, Matthew won, but not by much.” Dennis high fives me. “That was fun, huh?”

Yeah, that was fun, Dennis.”

“We’re going to break now, but I want to thank you for coming on, buddy. We loved having you. You’re a good sport.” He looks into the camera and says my name like I’m a celebrity: “Matthew Davies, everybody! Catch his amazing story on line, where everything is sold!” Then he looks at me. “Will you come back sometime and tell us what the school thinks of your new-found fame?”

“That’d be great.”

“Good luck, Matthew! By the way, you should move to New York where you can get away with a whole lot more stuff.”

I laugh and it’s over!

There are lots of goodbyes and hugs as we leave the dressing room. I’m wound-up and want to walk to the hotel, but Heather says we need a driver. “You’re a celebrity now, Matthew. People will recognize you. We’ve got to take care of you.” She sort of combs my hair with her fingers. “Here’s the deal.” She looks at Dad. “Tomorrow’s show starts at 9 a.m., but we need you to be here at 7. The driver will meet you in front of the hotel at 6:45 a.m., and Janice, another junior producer, will take you to your dressing room. There’ll be a breakfast set-up. Does that sound okay?”

Dad says yes and she escorts us to our driver.

——————————-

“Wow!” That’s all I can say the following morning as I open the curtains to a sun that seems to fill me as well as the room. And the magnificent view of New York makes me feel like an eagle, observing the world as I soar above it all. Thank you, God!

“Don’t get used to this life, Matthew. For sure, this is here today and gone tomorrow. Literally.”

“But, it’s so cool, Dad. Just think, if I hadn’t written that story none of this would’ve happened.”

“Get a scoot on Matthew. Our driver will be here shortly.

———————————

The What’s Up at Nine dressing room is smaller and not nearly as nice, but serves the same function as the More at Midnight room. Our producer, Janice, tells us Terri Ann wants to meet me before the broadcast. And sure enough, in a few minutes a very petite and pretty lady walks in. I’m eating a pastry and Dad is reading the New York Times.

“Hey guys.” She hangs by the door. “Am I disturbing anything?”

My dad drops the paper and gets up, beaming. “Hi, Mrs. Johnson. So nice to meet you. My father is your biggest fan.”

She smiles. “That’s nice to hear. Nice to meet you too, Mr. Davies. But from now on call me Terri Ann.”

“I’m Doug,” he says, “and this is my son, Matthew.” He points to me.

“Matthew!” She’s so cheerful. “Saw you last night. You were great!”

I swallow my pastry fast. “Really, you think so?”

“Yes, I do. May I come in and sit down?”

“Oh please.” Dad rushes to her side like he can help her walk in. “I’m so star-struck I’ve forgotten my manners.”

She sits by me on the sofa.

“I don’t want to make this long,” she pats my back and smiles, “but I just wanted us to meet, Matthew. I was quite taken with you last night.”

“Thank you.” I put the pastry on its plate and consider licking my fingers, but don’t. Dad watches us from his chair like he’s watching basketball.

“So tell me? How’re you doing, getting expelled and all?”

“I . . . I’m okay. Being here has helped.” I wipe my hands on a napkin. “A lot of people still believe I’m not telling the truth, but I’ve read so many encouraging posts, it’s hard to be too discouraged.”

“I’m glad you told the truth, Matthew. There’s one thing I want you to know about me before you come on.” She hesitates and holds a curious expression. I lean in. “Jesus has spoken things to me through the years and I’ve been criticized for saying things about Him that I believe, too.”

My eyes light up. “Really?”

“Yep.” Her easy manner draws me to her. “Just stick to the truth and pray. Ask God to guide you and He will. I promise. Sometimes I think He’s not listening, but He always is. And I’ve had enough experience to know that in the end, things really do work out for the best.”

“I trust Him,” I say, so thankful she believes me I have tears in my eyes.

She leans in and hugs me. “Let’s just have fun and tell the truth today. Okay, Matthew?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m ready.”

Janice is beside me as I wait for Terri Ann and Cara to announce my entrance. Cara came by my dressing room, too. Like Terri Ann, she is pretty and nice.

“Our next guest is adorable, don’t you think, Cara,” I hear Terri Ann say.

“He is. Many people may have caught him last night on More at Midnight. He’s a nice, very articulate young man,” says Cara.

“You know,” says Terri Ann, “I can empathize with Him. I’ve been criticized for my faith through the years and he’s taken quite a heavy hit at a tender age. If you haven’t heard, he’s the seventh grader who says he interviewed Jesus on Christmas Eve and got expelled for writing up his interview for a class. His dad says he got expelled, not so much for interviewing Jesus, but because the paper was so well-written they thought he’d plagiarized it. I spoke to him back stage and I don’t think he’s remotely capable of cheating! (she sounds outraged) After posting his paper on-line, it went viral. Good for him!”

“Welcome Matthew Davies,” says Cara as she and Terri Ann and the whole crew clap and yell.

I walk in and Terri Ann gets up and motions me to a stool beside her.

“So, welcome, Matthew,” says Cara.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“No ma’am’s today, Matthew.”

I grin, “okay.”

“So over thirty million people have hit your post. That’s pretty mind-blowing.”

“I know! I keep meaning to Google it, to see what percentage of people that might be on the Internet. I’m really grateful. I think Mr. Quail helped me last night.”

They both laugh. “Mr. Quail? Dennis might’ve helped you, but I don’t know about that Mr. Quail guy,” says Terri Ann. “So, how lucky are you to have had an interview with Jesus?” She jumps right in.

“I know! It’s the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. Even better than all this.”

“I read your story and was very impressed.” She’s as personable here as in the dressing room.

“Thanks.”

“I also want you to know that Cara and I had a team of researchers read your paper. I mean, a whole bunch. Then they went looking for something similar, something you might’ve copied. To prove to people you didn’t cheat. And guess what?”

I almost can’t talk. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” She lays her hand atop mine. “They found nothing! How ‘bout that?”

She gives me a high five. “I knew they wouldn’t,” she adds.

“Me too,” says Cara.

I’m grinning. “I hope my teacher hears that.”

“So, Matthew, can we talk seriously here for a minute. Cara and I don’t usually get too serious, but being expelled is serious and interviewing Jesus is serious.”

I nod.

“So, how did it happen? You know I’ve spoken to Jesus many times and it’s usually through my heart, but a couple of times He was right there telling me what to do. I didn’t see him, but I knew He was guiding me. Was it like that for you?”

“Kind of.” I hang my head and tears well in my eyes.

“Oh,” says Terri Ann, “Matthew, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay. It’s just that I’ve been holding something back for a while.”

Terri Ann and Cara look at each other.

“About the interview?” Cara looks a little nervous.

“Yes.” I rub my eyes. “There’s stuff I haven’t said.”

“Why not, Matthew?” asks Terri Ann.

“Because until I met you, no one ever told me in person they’d had a similar experience or even sympathized with me about it. Well, besides my parents. But it’s hard for them to understand.”

“Aww.” Terri Ann pats my hand again. “I don’t want you saying anything you don’t want to. But if you have something to tell us, we’ll listen.”

“It’s about the interview.” I’m watching the camera.

“Tell us about it,” says Cara.

Everyone in the studio becomes quiet, almost reverent.

“It wasn’t just a heart thing or a voice inside my head, it was real. Jesus came to me in a long white gown with a gold sash. He was glorious. Really, I don’t know how else to describe Him. We sat in the family room and ate my dad’s Christmas Santa cookies on the hearth, green and red with gold sprinkles, the most garish cookies ever. Rudoph and Santa and elves.” I laugh at the memory, but light tears roll down my cheeks. “Jesus said they had too much sugar.”

“So, you actually met Him?”

I nod. “It was the most astounding thing. He came to give me the Christmas interview my teacher told me to write. To keep me honest.” I wipe my tears with the back of my hand. “He held me and told me how much he loved me. Loved all of us. That was the whole point of the interview. And then when I wrote the paper days later, He brought words and events we talked about to my mind. Words like intergalactic floe and vector. No way, could I have remembered it all, but somehow I wrote it.” Cara hands me a tissue as Dad walks onto the set.

“Matthew, why didn’t you tell us?” He walks up and hugs me. “We would’ve believed you.” The camera pans to him.

“Dad, remember the Christmas cookies that materialized on the mantle? You asked how I’d made them appear since the plate had been empty.”

“I remember it perfectly, Matthew.”

“I didn’t do anything. Jesus and I had eaten all the cookies. They were gone. Then, when your back was turned I saw a flash of light on the mantle and the cookies just materialized.”

Dad looks stunned, dizzy. “You okay?” Terri Ann places her hand on his back.

“Honestly, I don’t know.” He’s holding on to the edge of the table we sit behind. “That’s a lot to take in. I don’t want people to think badly of Matthew, because it sounds so extraordinary.”

“I know Dad, but then Terri Ann and I were talking about being honest in the dressing room and I just had to tell the whole truth. Don’t you think that’s best?”

“I certainly hope so son. The world may be on your side, I just hope our small town is.” The camera moves out.

“Cara and I are on your side, Matthew,” says Teri Ann. “I totally believe you. God can do anything! Besides, there’s not another story like yours anywhere.” She and Cara and the crew are clapping and yelling again. “Cara, I think viewers should write in and tell us what they think about this.”

Cara shakes her head. “Absolutely!”

Terri Ann hugs me. “How ‘bout it folks? Do you think Jesus made a very special appearance to a very special boy on Christmas Eve because He wanted to get a message of love to us all on the most sacred of days?” She winks at me. “Doesn’t sound so far-fetched to me.”

—————————–

Arriving home after any kind of trip is memorable in our house, but today Mom has made a small banner that runs from the staircase to the dining room wall. ‘So proud of our Number One Son!!’ She kisses Dad and hugs me way too long. Jeffy chants my name, wanting me to give him a hug. I pick him up and realize how heavy he’s getting. Kissing his head, I set him back down.

According to Mom, the whole town is up in arms. People are taking sides, with me at the center of the storm. Mr. Strong had called earlier and wanted to speak to Dad. He sounded haughty, Mom said, but resigned. “I’ll call him in the morning.” Dad has his arms around Mom. “He’s probably threatening a lawsuit or something equally confrontational.”

“I don’t think so.” Mom rubs his arm. “Give him a call. Put my mind at ease.”

Dad kisses her cheek.

“I’m proud of you, too.” It’s embarrassing how she flirts with him.

Dad watches, as I take my bag upstairs. Jeffy follows to start getting ready for bed.
“You look fatter on television,” he says. I stop and swat him with my suitcase. “Thanks for the encouragement, little brother.”

Dad yells at me a few minutes later. “Matthew, I’m calling Mr. Strong. Want to hear this conversation?”

Actually, I don’t want to hear it ever, but I drag myself down and plop onto the sofa. Dad dials the phone. No answer.

“Dad, can I be called in front of the board of education and expelled for a longer period of time?”

“Matthew, I think we may fare better with the board than we did with Miss Hazelnut and Mr. Strong.”

I give a sigh of relief and rise to go upstairs when the doorbell rings. “Answer that, honey,” says Mom.

As I shuffle through the foyer, I realize it looks somewhat naked without all the Christmas decorations. I swing back the front door.

“Mr. Strong.” The last person I want to see.

He looks at Mom’s banner, ‘So Proud of Our Number One Son!!, then at me. “I’d like to speak with you and your parents, if you have a minute,” he says.

I invite him in. “Dad,” I yell, “it’s Mr. Strong.”

Dad invites him back to the family room and directs him to his big chair. Mom, Dad, and I scrunch onto the sofa behind the coffee table.

“Mr. Davies, I was surprised you played this out in the public arena.”

“We didn’t pursue the interviews, Mr. Strong. When Matthew’s post went viral things escalated quickly. My wife tells me we’re still getting calls from television shows.”

I look at Mom and she nods, smiling.

Wow! I hope it’s California next time!

“Tell me why you gave Miss Hazelnut a bag of Christmas cookies the other day that look exactly like the ones Matthew described on television this morning?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Dad sets back, his hands on his knees. “I handed her a bag of scones from Lillie’s Deli. I thought our meeting would be more amicable and we could share them.”

“There were no scones, Mr. Davies. Just the Christmas cookies Matthew mentioned.” He raises his eyebrows. “It seems very suspect.”

“Let me get this straight.” Dad now leans forward. “You’re saying the cookies Matthew described on television were the cookies in the bag?”

Mr. Strong nods.

“That’s not possible, sir. I buy those scones a lot, and I watched them bag the four I handed to Miss Hazelnut.” Dad scoots to the front of the sofa. “Those green and red Christmas cookies came from Kroger’s. They would’ve been inedible by now.”

“The cookies were fresh, Mr. Davies.”

“Well, I . . . It’s impossible, Mr. Strong.” His voice is slightly raised. “That’s all I can say. And I’m telling you there were scones in that bag. Call the deli. They’ll tell you I picked them up that day. Call Kroger’s. I’m sure they’ll tell you they haven’t made that cookie since Christmas.”

“Perhaps . . .”

“Wait just a minute.” Dad reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a small red note pad. “I put all my receipts in here a week at a time.” He opens the pad and the receipts waft onto the coffee table. Sifting through them, he finds what he’s looking for! “Aha! Here it is. Lillie’s Deli. Four scones. Same date.” He walks it to Mr. Strong.

Mr. Strong scrutinizes it and shakes his head. “I saw four red and green Christmas cookies with gold sprinkles in a bag from Lillie’s Deli. I even ate one. I don’t know what’s going on, sir.”

“Maybe it was Jesus again!” I interject myself into their conversation.

Mr. Strong looks at me, more mesmerized than mad. “I’m beginning to wonder.”

“Then we’ve accomplished something.” Dad seems to have calmed. “A lot of strange things have evolved around my son lately. Supernatural things no one can explain. Two things you should know: we’re an honest family and Matthew’s an honest boy.”

Even my insides are smiling, but I just look between Dad and him.

“There’s another reason I’m here.” Mr. Strong looks down. “Timothy Hartwell, the superintendent of schools,” he looks back up, “his mother is Pamela Jacobs. She was Matthew’s Sunday School teacher when he was in grade school. She says there isn’t a dishonest bone in Matthew’s body.”

My eyes light up. She was my favorite teacher ever!

“Matthew thinks a lot of her, too.” Dad winks at me.

“Tim thinks we’ve been too harsh with Matthew. He read Matthew’s paper and like Miss Hazelnut and me, he can’t explain it. Unlike us, he’s willing to believe in miracles.”

Dad slaps his knees with his hands. “That . . . that’s wonderful!”

“What does it mean,” asks Mom.

“It means, we’ll see Matthew in school tomorrow. Miss Hazelnut agrees.” He rises. “We’re not fighting with the school board, Mrs. Davies. And, truly, I don’t know what to think. If What’s Up at Nine did a search for stories and articles similar to Matthew’s and found nothing, perhaps there’s nothing to find. It’s beyond my understanding.” He steps forward. “I’m sorry to bother you all this evening. I know it’s been a busy day.”

Shaking hands first with Dad and then Mom, he extends a hand to me. “Let’s put this behind us Matthew.”

“Yes sir.”

He is barely off the porch when we start hooting and hollering. Dad gives me a hug. “All things work together for good to those who love the Lord.”

Mom is mussing my hair. “We’re so proud of the way you’ve handled yourself through this, Matthew. No one could’ve done better. That’s why Jesus chose you.”

“Do you think He chose me? That this worked out the way He wanted?”

“Remember the story book frames, Matthew?” Mom has cupped her hands around my face. “How God looks down at us through time into the frames and sees our yesterday’s, today’s, and tomorrow’s. You taught me that in your story.”

“Jesus told me He tries to redirect us if we’re messing up, but He doesn’t interfere if we don’t listen for His voice.”

“You listened, Matthew. You not only met Jesus, but you got on a world stage and told God’s children about His love. I think he’s so proud of you. Just like us.”

That night I regale God with the events of the past two days as if he weren’t watching. “Thank you, Lord, that I could write a paper that touched so many people. And thank you that I was able to be strong and not cry too much especially. I had so much fun and I’m just grateful that you chose me.” My heart swells with the love and presence of God as I pray.

Matthew.”

I hear my name, not outwardly, but in my heart, and sit up. “I choose those who have a humble and grateful heart. Those who accept my Word and my love like a little child. Before I chose you, I chose another child, Mary, to give the world the greatest offering it would ever receive—My beloved Son. He is the true Gift of Christmas.”

I cry as the presence of God fills the room, but I slowly drift off to sleep.

I awake before my alarm or Mom comes into my room. In my drowsiness, I reach over and press around for the buzzer. What’s that? I sit up, rubbing my eyes. I see it and my eyes almost fall from their sockets! “Mom! Dad!” I grab it and run from my room.

“Jesus is so much better than Santa!” I’m practically screaming as I collide with Dad, heading into the hallway from his bedroom.

“How’d you know?” says Dad. “I just got a text.”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

“We’re going to California! Your ratings were through the roof and they want you on the coast!” He hugs me.

I pull from him and my mouth flies open. I hold up the red and green Christmas cookie, tears covering my cheeks.

Mom and Jeffy walk into the hall. Dad gets on his knees and I join him. He presses his head to mine. Mother touches the cookie, mesmerized. “Looks like we’re having Christmas all year this year.” She joins us on her knees.

Dad pulls Jeffy into the group as he begins to pray. “Dear God, we are humbled by the miracles we’ve experienced. Help us to follow your guiding hand. To always believe that all things are possible with You. Through the wonder of the blood of your Son. A gift we will never understand, a price we can never repay, a sacrifice that rewards us with your presence . . . ” I crunch into the cookie, my heart completely overwhelmed with the love and the wonder of Jesus.

 

Thanks for reading Matthew’s story. If you missed Matthew’s interview with Jesus, see The Gift of Christmas, December, 2017

The Gift of Christmas

Since several thousand readers have read and enjoyed The Gift of Christmas, I’ve posted it again as my Christmas classic. It’s worth a re-read or to pass on! And I’ve written a sequel. Find out what happens when Matthew’s interview goes viral. It’s a touching holiday story that is crazy and fun. Posting in a few days. Merry Christmas everyone! kcs

I should be snuggled in bed, but as my family sleeps, I tiptoe downstairs, the smell of stale popcorn and pine guiding my footsteps as much as the soft Santa nightlight and dying fireplace embers. I walk past the poinsettias lining the foyer, past the big wreath hanging over the wooden nativity, and finally stroll under the mistletoe atop the arched doorway leading into the family room. Our nightly gathering place seems eerily serene without the twinkling lights and the family din.

Like a Christmas thief, I slink into Dad’s big oversized chair where I have a bird’s eye view of yuletide magic–the chimney embers fading with the night from the stocking-adorned brick fireplace, and nestled beside it, a ceiling high, ornament-bright, Christmas tree.

One of Mom’s small china plates, decked out in green and red cookies and flanked by a glass of milk, awaits Santa on the hearth, left by my little brother Jeff, or Jeffy, as I call him. Colorful presents with sparkles and bows spill well past the Christmas tree, topped by a drooping, oversized star balanced above the popcorn strings our family threaded at the dining room table.

Jeffy loves Christmas. Makes him the happiest kid on the planet. Me, I like it. Mostly because I get toys and stuff, but also because I like watching my brother have fun. Sometimes I feel cheated there’s no Santa for me. Oh maybe to some extent, but I’m too old for Santa, really. Twelve. Not too old for the Christmas spirit. At least that’s what Mom says.

I close my eyes, thinking I’ll sit here until Dad comes down to eat his cookies and distribute a few Santa presents, but my stomach rumbles at the thought of the cookies, probably the largest and most garish I’ve ever seen. They must scream “buy me” to mom’s who want to impress six year olds like Jeffy or to Christmas greenhorn’s, if one exists on the planet. Still, the cookies are for Dad, and I promise myself not to eat them, even as I think about it.

I rise from the chair and immediately fall back. In the dim light of the embers’ shadows, a man sits on our sofa!

I pull back and gasp! He isn’t Santa by a whole lot of belly inches, and he just sits there smiling like he’s at home, one arm propped up on a sofa cushion. I try to regroup and immediately stand. Stepping to the side of Dad’s chair, I prepare to run. That’s when I notice his clothing—a long white robe with a gold sash. I’ve never seen anyone dressed like this. I’ve never seen anyone who seems to . . . to glow.

“I hear you want to interview me.” The stranger scoots to the front of the sofa, clasping his hands atop his knees, looking for all the world like he belongs here.

“Are you serious? How did you just materialize out of . . . ? Who sent you?” I laugh, nervous. “It was Joey, wasn’t it? I’ll get him for this.”

“No, Joey didn’t send me. He’s in St. Petersburg with his parents and sister, Leah, for Christmas.”

I grab hold of the chair back. “How did you know that?”

“I know everything, Matthew.”

“Is this a joke? How do you know my name?”

“No,” the man says. “It’s not a joke.”

The interview. It was for an assignment. Our teacher told us to interview and write an article about someone we knew, and, okay, I fudged. I waited until the last minute, so I made up a discussion I had with Jesus. She said it was unacceptable, because we were to interview someone alive, someone we knew. And besides, my questions were totally superficial.

“I do know him,” I had argued. “Give me one more chance.”

Her look spoke an emphatic “No!” But when she turned from me she said, “Get a Christmas interview with Jesus, and if it’s decent, we’ll see.”

“Maybe you’d like to interview me now,” he says.

What kind of a get-up is a robe and sash, even for Christmas Eve? Is he supposed to be some kind of fit, new-age Santa—or Jesus?

“Wh. . .who are you?” I stammer. Afraid to stay, afraid to run, and especially fearful Jesus is here because I lied. About him! Whoever he is, the man’s aura has an undeniable sense of calm, love, and every good thing simultaneously, so much so that I cannot help but stay. love-1221444_1920

Could this be . . . “Is it really you?”

“Yes, I’m no new-age Santa,” he answers my unspoken sarcasm.

As he holds up his hands, I see the faint light through the puncture wounds in his palms, and my lower lip drops. Jesus? Two steps forward and my misgivings vaporize. Obvious holes!

My knees sort of buckle and a nervous tick I sometimes get over my left eye comes upon me. “Wait, I’ll be right back!” I run to get paper and pencil, afraid he’ll be gone when I return, but he isn’t. He’s smiling, telling me how he loves to spend time with me. In fact, he says he loves that I talk with him every morning and sometimes during the day.

“So, what did you want to ask me?” He settles back like there’s no place he’d rather be.

Guess I’m really going to do this. “Well, for one thing, I need to know about Christmas. I mean, I know the Christmas story about the angels, the manger, the wise men and shepherds coming to see the baby Jesus. . . uh, I mean, you.“

Jesus points to my paper and pencil. “You don’t need those.”

I toss them by my chair.

“You’ll remember every word of our conversation until you’re very old,” he says.

His eyes seem to burn into mine and I can’t stop gazing at Him. The need of his touch is so overpowering, I rush to the sofa as He arises. The fullness of His white garment and His ample arms fall around my shoulders like rings of love. I bawl like a baby, for what reason, I have no idea. When I pull away, he kisses one of my cheeks and then the other. “We are brothers, you know. Always talk to me.”

“It’s so good to see you in person.” I dry my eyes on my baggy tee shirt. “Millions of people would love this. Why me?”

“Only a handful of people have ever claimed to interview me, and since you didn’t, and you need to, I thought I’d keep you honest.” We both laugh.

When I sit down in Dad’s chair, he asks, “So what’s your first Christmas question, Matthew?”

“Well, tell me about the beginning, before Christmas, before everything,” I say, feeling the need to pinch myself, but ignoring it.

That’s easy. The beginning was before the world began. When there was just Father and me.”

“Wasn’t that lonely?”

“Oh no! Regardless of what we’re doing or where we are, Father and I love. And since we’ve created everyplace we go, we just enjoy our creations.” He actually flashes a mischievous grin, but I am too awestruck to return it.

“Did you live in heaven then?”

“Oh yes, of course, we needed a place to live.”

Of course he lived in heaven. What a stupid question.

“There’s no such thing as a stupid question.” Once again he answers my thoughts.

My eyes are as saucers. “What exactly do angels do? Are angels around us now?”angels in the air wallpaper - Copy

“Oh yes, angels surround us.” He gestures around the room and actually nods a couple of times. “Angels guide, engage, and protect my people—from themselves, from each other, and especially from Satan, the evil one. Angels have many wondrous attributes, one being their astounding beauty.”

I consider these glorious creatures, and finally say, “I know my questions aren’t really about Christmas; there’s just so much I want to know.”

“They are about Christmas.” His eyes twinkle like that other patron of Christmas. “You’ll see how it all works together.”

“Okay, then, tell me about when you or rather God, or, um, when humans were created?”

His eyes move heavenward and his body relaxes. “One day Father decided to create special beings he called people. They would have hearts and be in our image, and they would love us as we loved them.” His smile literally casts more light into the room. “So, day by day we began establishing what you know as the universe.”

“What about the people? Adam and Eve?” I ask.

“They’re coming.” He grins at me. “But first we had to create an environment they could live in—planets, moons, atmosphere, sun, stars . . . every vector in the galaxy had to be planned.”

I sit forward, riveted.

“Layer upon layer, we crafted, over more years than you can fathom. We were creating out of that deep vacuum spoken of in Genesis. ‘The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the deep.’ He spreads his arms. The blackness was our blank canvas.”

The incredulity of His words nearly dwarf His presence.

“We set things up strategically, making sure it would all work together, and then, Bang! everything materialized as Father intended. He even fashioned a way we could ride intergalactic floes.” He smiles at what must have been a beautiful memory. “In that very beginning we had so much fun.”

I shake my head, mesmerized, so happy to be sitting here.

“Even for us, this was new. The Bible says that a day is as a thousand years, but that’s really just a number because before man, time didn’t exist. Suffice to say, your beginning is not Our beginning. And, time as you understand it began when the first humans, Adam and Eve, bit into the apple in the Garden of Eden. The first sin.” He stops. “Are you getting this?”

I nod. “Time began after Adam and Eve and sin.” I repeat his words. “An amazing statement. So many amazing statements! This will blow my teacher away.”

When he smiles, I admire the soft halo about his body, his aura, so calming.

“Because the essence of Father and I are love,” he continues, “we never even postulated Sin in the Garden. Everything was perfect, almost as magnificent as heaven. Blue-green rivers, and oceans with crystal crests, glistening mountaintops, and long, lush valleys, and the blueness of an uninterrupted sky, dotted by perfectly visible galaxies, deficient of structures and pollution and even mankind.”

“It’s hard to imagine.” My thoughts race through my narrow band of travels. “Was it anything like Alaska?”

Jesus laughs. “Much nicer than even that. However, sin caused even the atmosphere to change. Father had given Adam and Eve only one small, now-famous tenet: Do not eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.” He lowers his head and I suspect that happens each time the Tree comes to mind. garden-of-eden-1803805_1920

“That Tree had to exist, because human beings had to be given a choice to obey Father. Or not. I remember Him saying, ‘I cannot force my will on them. I want them to love me simply because I love them.’ And, if not for Satan’s deceptions, it would have worked.” Jesus looks away, remembering, no doubt, that time when Earth was paradise.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“Oh no. It’s okay.”

I shrug, not sure it is. “Can I get you anything?”

“Actually, I’d love something to eat.” He looks toward the kitchen. “Just something simple.”

I walk to the hearth. “How about some Santa cookies?”

He eyes me shyly. “Speaking of forbidden fruit. Those are for your dad.”

I walk the plate to him. “He’ll understand.” I make a face at the dollops of color. “Do you even want them? They’re heavy on icing.” Setting it on the sofa cushion, I go back for the milk.

He eyes the cookies. “The essence of Christmas,” he says, dryly.

“They’re awful looking, aren’t they?”

He takes a bite.

“One thing I don’t understand,” I say, setting the milk on a table by the sofa. “You said time didn’t exist. I thought time had always existed?”

“When earth was created, its axis rotated, which humans eventually hypothesized, then used as a gauge. However, in the early period, earth and the galaxies that surround it didn’t subsist in time as you understand it. They lived in God’s time, which is really outside of time.”

“It sounds plausible; it’s just mind blowing.” Something implausible—watching Jesus eat a cookie! He lifts the plate in my direction.

I shake my head.

“Go ahead,” he says. “You’re hungry.”

Two of three cookies are left. “I’ll have one,” I say, walking to retrieve it. “Since you don’t get my way very often.”

“I’m always here, Matthew. Holy Spirit alerts me every morning when you pray or when you need me. Just like with the interview.” He wipes his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve just like me. “But, you’re right, I don’t often come in the flesh. Speaking of flesh, let me explain the ‘time’ thing in a way you might understand.” He sips the milk and sort of swishes it in his mouth. “That Rudolph cookie was a little heavy on the sugar.”

I can’t believe He said that, and I’m sure I wear a stupid look. It’s just that He’s such a regular guy.

“Father created time all at once. One day it didn’t exist, the next, it did. Imagine a storybook with picture frames that continue through every second of every day. Except that this storybook has players—people—who are writing their own script. And while Father set the storybook in motion, he didn’t dictate what would happen in each frame, which serves as the seconds, hours, and years of a person’s earthly history. Father and I can look down into the frames and see what you’re doing—past, present, and future. If you’re making a huge mistake in June of next year, We set things in motion that could counteract the consequences of that wrong choice, always encouraging you to act in your best interest. Yet if you don’t listen, we don’t interfere.

I nod, trying to imagine Jesus and Father God peeking down into my life as it fast forwards like movie screens on boxcars

“And really, that’s the simple version,” he says. “Because, the fervent prayers of a righteous person can reverse anything.”

“That explains so much. I never understood it when people would say, God . . . well, You . . . knows our yesterday’s, today’s, and tomorrow’s.”

“I’m glad it’s clear to you.” He breaks the second cookie and brings me the largest half.

“Thank you, Jesus.” I bite into it. “But there’s another thing that isn’t clear.” I am chomping through my question. “You said time didn’t begin until after Adam and Eve sinned. I would’ve thought time began when you created earth.” I swallow hard.

“Time wasn’t needed then. Like heaven, earth was a Paradise outside of time. Adam and Eve were pure and Father actually walked side by side with them.”

His tone becomes more serious. “It’s difficult to understand the holiness of God . . . ” A thoughtfulness comes over him and he hesitates. “God is detached from evil and sin; if you dwell in it, you’re separated from Him. And all mankind dwells in it. The Apostle John wrote that God is light and in Him there is no darkness.’ That’s true. We are moral perfection. Our hearts—our very beings—are light and love.”

“After Adam and Eve became creatures of sin, Father was daily confronted with the thing He abhorred the most. Sin not only brought death into the future generations of his precious creation, but they were lost to him forever. He had to find a way to redeem them.”

His Christmas cookies gone, Jesus walks the dish to the fireplace. I wonder what Mother would think if she knew the Messiah, the true King of Christmas, had eaten Rudolph and half an elf on our best china.

“Mankind had no future.” He looks at the empty plate. “They were now as devoid of God as this plate is of cookies.” He places the china on the hearth and returns to the sofa. “To redeem mankind, Father came up with the time/frame concept, which put earth on a different plane, if you will, from heaven. Father no longer walked with man, but He could teach them about goodness and sin through ‘time.’ He did this by creating the laws of the Ten Commandments, which no one could fully obey. Not the Jews of latter day or the Gentiles of today.”

“But there was icing on God’s plan of salvation. It wasn’t sugar coated like those cookies, that wasn’t possible. Sin had to die. And the only thing pure enough to remove it had to be as light and as white as a Christmas snow.”

“Enter you!” I pump my fist in the air. “Christ Jesus.”

He nodded. “As mankind’s Messiah, I was born to a woman and became human. My birth was prophesied throughout time in the Old Testament and revealed in the New Testament: God’s sinless Son would shed His blood for Godless men.”

“I’m sorry, Jesus.” I hang my head.

“Don’t be sorry. Be happy.” His tone is gently firm. “Now Father sees you through a filter of light, forever forgiven, and, once again, God’s friend. The New Covenant covering of my blood redeems all people back to Father, if only they believe.” His voice softens. “Back to a holiness and love they previously couldn’t comprehend.”

“The gift of Christmas.”

“Yes,” He practically whispers.

“Jesus.” I whisper, too. “Thank you for Christmas, and for coming.”

“You’re welcome, Matthew.”

“Help me to be more like you.” I wrestle tears as I crawl down the sofa and throw my arms around his neck. “I’m so glad you came tonight.”

He kisses the top of my head as his arms encircle me.

“I love you so much,” I say, tears covering my face. “I know you love me and I’m just grateful for all you’ve done.”

“I know you are, son. I love you more than you know.”

I pull my tee-shirt up to wipe my eyes and nestle into his chest. “Thank you for all this, but I have one more question.”

“Okay, that’s why I’m here.” He strokes my hair.

“Tell me what happened that first Christmas in heaven, before you came to earth as a baby? I know the Christmas story of your parents, Joseph and Mary, and your birth, but what was it like in heaven—before you left?”

I feel a chuckle in his chest. “Well, first of all, we had a feast. Everything in heaven begins with a feast. The archangels Michael and Gabriel were there, other angels, the Seraphim and Cherubim. Father. It was grand. We love parties in heaven. Don’t let anyone say otherwise.” I pull back, beaming, to look at his face. Something about a heavenly party makes me smile.

“But, it was bittersweet,” he says. “I would be a fetus for nine months, not separated from Father, but not walking with Him either. And when I did surface, I would be a baby.lightstock_55067_xsmall_user_2435152

“But, I was excited to go, and Father wanted me to go. As I mentioned, He was anxious to have His beloved people in heaven and that couldn’t happen until we liberated them.”

“I’m grateful you came.” I pull back again to look at him. “But if you had been my best friend, I’d have said, ‘Don’t do it!'”

“And I would have said, ‘Get thee behind me Satan.'” He sort of laughs and I try to remember the story he refers to.

“I said that to Peter,” he says, “one of my best friends. He told me I couldn’t die for mankind.”

“The disciple Peter. I remember now.” I nuzzle back into his arms feeling more acceptance and love than I’d ever known. “Glad you didn’t listen.”

“Even back then, I knew you’d feel that way.” He rubs my back and continues, “I longed to become human, and believe me I’d seen the future through time in the storybook frames, so I knew it would be agonizing. But, like Father, I wanted those who loved us to reside with us.” He tilts my head up and smiles at me. “But, yes, I had reservations. I was, after all, the Son of God. I sat on a throne, exalted. Seraphim sang above me, ‘Holy, Holy Holy, is the Lord of hosts, the whole earth is full of His glory.’ And the building shook when I spoke and it filled with glorious smoke. It still does.”

“Wow! That sounds awesome.”

“I guess it is, but it isn’t some fantastic ritual. No. It’s a testimony to who we are and it portrays the pureness, the holiness of God.”

I pull away and crawl to the opposite end of the sofa, to see his face. “I can’t imagine going from heaven to earth. That’s backwards. No wonder you had reservations.” Facing Jesus, I pull my feet up in front of me. “You left a throne to be born in a barn, with a carpenter for a father. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s a long way from being the Son of God.”

“I would have done anything.” Jesus leans forward and rests his hands on his knees.

“Actually, you did everything possible–designing the universe, leaving heaven, dying horribly.” A thought escapes my mouth: “But you got to choose your own mother.”

Jesus lowers his head and laughs. “Well, that’s only partially true. I agreed, but Father chose Mary. She was amazing. A perfect mother. Always knew exactly what to do. Even today, Father allows Mary’s vision to be seen around the world. People adore her, and so do I.”

“Matthew!” My dad calls from the stairs. “Do I hear you in there?”

“Dad!” I look at Jesus, stricken.

Jesus leans over and squeezes my foot. “Your interview is well complete.” He winks at me. “Now you understand, Matthew. Everything Father and I did, we did for you. For all of you. I love you, little brother. Merry Christmas.”

“I lov . . . “ My mouth flies open as Dad walks in. It is now officially Christmas morning.

“What are you doing in here?” He shuffles into the room in his slippers and pajamas. “Do you know what time it is?”

My eyes move from one corner of the room to another. His aura, His glow! He’s gone. Jesus! Be cool. “Hi, Dad.”

“Did I hear you talking to someone?” He’s carrying a poinsettia that he sits on the hearth.

I look at the opposite end of the sofa and glance around the room again, crestfallen. “I was talking to Jesus.” I shrug.

Dad sort of laughs as he looks at the empty cookie plate. “I suppose Jesus ate the cookies?”

“As a matter of fact . . .”

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

So glad I couldn’t. “No. Not really”

He walks over and musses my hair. “You still feeling cheated because you’re too old for Santa?”

“No!” I practically scream. “I have something so much better than Santa.” I look away, missing Jesus already, trying not to cry. “Jesus visited me tonight.”

“Well, I’m glad.” He stirs the fireplace embers with a poker. “I just wish he’d left me a cookie.”

“Really, that’s what you care about?”

“Hey, bud, I’m just joking.’ He puts a log on the burning ashes. “I don’t care that you ate the cookies.”

“I don’t care about the cookies or the presents. I just wish people would think about who Jesus really is and what He did for us.”

Dad brushes his hands together as he sits in his chair. “You really have been thinking about this?”

I nod.

“Want to talk about it?” He leans back, his eyes fully fixed on me.

“Do you believe Jesus is like us?”

“Well . . .” my Dad hesitates. “He’s God, but He came to earth in an ordinary way to an ordinary family and worked an ordinary job for thirty years before starting His ministry. So, yes. I think He’s like us. And I think that was the whole idea. Now we know the person advocating for us in heaven has been here and done this just like us.”

“Can we do something special for Christmas this year? Something to honor Jesus for coming to earth as a baby.”

“Do you have something in mind?” Dad leans forward.

“Can we just love everybody? Maybe not say negative things about not even one person. Try to love even the people we don’t like.”

Dad walks to the sofa, sets beside me, and puts his arm behind my shoulders. “I think you’ve finally outgrown Santa,” he says. “I’m very proud of you. After what Jesus did for us, the least we can do is love those who are sometimes unlovable.” He hugs my shoulders.

I nuzzle against him. “Did you know God and Jesus sometimes get their feelings hurt?”

“Well, I never thought about it, but it makes sense,” he says.

I put my head on His shoulder. “The Virgin Mary was an awesome Mother. Did you know that?”

“Well, she does get a few accolades.” He pats my shoulder and chuckles. “I’m beginning to think maybe you had a real conversation with Jesus.”

“He’s real, Dad.”

“I know.”

“Do you love Him?” I ask.

“With all my heart.”

“Good. I want you to be in heaven with me.”

“You sound pretty sure you’re going.” He musses my hair again before pushing up from the sofa and walking back to the hearth. I follow behind him.

“I know I’m going to heaven, Dad, and I know how much Jesus loves me. He even knows I lied to my teacher about His interview, but He didn’t scold me. He actually helped me.” The poker is fixed in his hand.

“You spoke to Jesus about that?” His voice rises as he jabs at the small flame.

I shrug. “Well, yes. Sort of.”

“That’s good.” He’s cradles the poker and faces me. “One thing I hope you always remember, Matthew–Jesus is always with us, whether we see Him or not. And for all the cookies and presents in the world, the love of the Father through His Son Jesus Christ is the real gift of Christmas.”

“I know, Dad.” Tears flood my face and I throw my arms around his neck. “He did so much for us.”

“He certainly did, Matthew.” He hugs me tight. “I don’t understand what happened tonight, but I think I like it.”

A chime from the hearth alerts me and I raise my head from Dad’s chest. Nothing. Suddenly, as I’m wiping my tears, a startling light my dad can’t see moves up through the roof. Momentarily spellbound, I quickly compose myself and point behind him. “Look, Dad!”

Dad turns and grins at me. “How’d you do that, Matthew?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Well, someone did.”

I laugh enthusiastically, loving the fact that the cookie plate is now piled with those awful green and red cookies. Loving Jesus.

“So, how’d you do that, Matthew?”

I look at my dad, wanting him to know the truth, but knowing he can’t accept it. “Some things a guy keeps to himself,” I say. “You taught me that.”

“That’s true.” He turns around and picks up the plate of cookies, offering me one.

“I got an elf,” I say, holding it for him to see.

He looks at his. “I got Santa.”

“That’s fitting,”

I crunch into my cookie and look up, up, wanting desperately to see Jesus, wishing I could see heaven. Choking back tears, I am humbled and overwhelmed, like I’d wished on a star and received every Christmas miracle imaginable. I silently pray: “I’m so grateful you made me an honest boy, Big Brother. Thank you for coming tonight . . . and for coming before. And, Jesus, thanks for the cookies, too.”

“So, you ready to help me set out Santa presents?” Dad has already downed his cookie and sort of glows in the shadow and warmth of the flames.

“Dad, I can’t believe I was so upset about Santa when I had Jesus all along.”

Dad puts his hand on my back. “I love you, Matthew. Merry Christmas.”

Merry Christmas, Dad. I love you too.”

 

The sequel to this story will be up in a few days. Discover Matthew’s troubles and triumphs when he turns in his interview of Jesus. You will love it!

What comes next is better

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! The last three months of the year, I need all the energy I can muster. Now this!

“That tooth has to come out,” my dentist had said.

Since last winter, I’d had more health issues than I cared to recount: sinuses, eyes, lungs, shingles, fibromyalgia, even depression from all the problems. As soon as one ailment lessened, another surfaced. And now dental work. Maybe that tooth would just supernaturally fall from my mouth.

My first experience with the supernatural was probably around age five. Mother took me to see an old man (probably in his 50s) who prayed warts away. The ugly knobs lined my fingers and fell across my knuckles. They were gross even at my age and short of seeing a doctor, I’d have done anything to be rid of them. My peers assured me I’d gotten them from frogs, although I had no proclivity for amphibians. Since my brother did, I figured I’d gotten them by some sort of relational osmosis.

Mother and I drove to Toler, Kentucky, a bend in the road, and a short jaunt from where we lived. I didn’t know the wart healer, though I’d heard of him. Mother explained the details so I’d be excited, not nervous: “He’ll pray a special prayer and the warts will slowly disappear over time.”

The warts didn’t fall off in front of me as I’d secretly hoped, but over the next couple of weeks, everything she said happened. No doctor, no grandma mixing weird, foul-smelling concoctions. Just Brother Whachamacallem praying.

I wished things could happen that easily today. Now, it seemed I needed restorative spackle, superglue, and duct tape for all the appointments, tests, and procedures I had with my eleven doctors. I was beginning to feel like the Israelites in the desert, following the cloud of the Lord. Except, unlike the Israelites, it didn’t feel like a guiding cloud—it was a dark cloud and it was trailing me.

So, my dentist made me an appointment with an oral surgeon because the back tooth somewhat hooded the tooth to be removed. The day of the extraction, I met the surgeon and was immediately put to sleep. He didn’t know me, didn’t mention that it may be a difficult extraction. Afterwards, he sent me home with eight pills, standard instructions, and a couple of stitches over a big hole. 

When the anesthesia wore off, pain raced into my neck, my teeth, and inside my mouth. My back tooth had an intense ache that medication and no amount of instruction could fix. About 6 PM, distraught and teary, I called the oral surgeon’s answering service and was put through to him.

If he was terse, I was pathetic. Hazy in my thoughts and ill-composed questions. I asked if the back tooth, which hurt to even touch, might be diseased. Why did my upper mouth feel like it had been raked. Was infection spreading? I’d never had pain like this.

“I’m not giving you any more pain medication!” he said emphatically.

I was blindsided. I hadn’t asked for pain meds though the two pills I’d taken weren’t working. I was more concerned about infection and if an Emergency Room visit was imminent.

I would be better in the morning, he assured me, when he could see me.

I hung up completely unraveled. He had shown no compassion and little concern for my well-being. And he treated me as if I was an addict. Surely there are easier ways to get drugs! But, addiction was a problem in West Virginia and he didn’t know me.

The rest of that evening and late into the night, the pain escalated and I cried myriad prayers. “Lord, help me to be resilient, and kind. Because frankly I don’t feel kind.” Then, “Lord, just heal me. Jesus died so I can be healed.” Finally, “Forgive me, Lord. Pain makes us empathetic, strong. Jesus endured. Help me to do the same.” My prayers ran the gamut.

I had resigned myself to two extremes—I would deal with the pain or the pain just might kill me—when an exceedingly manipulative, self-absorbed notion ran through my head: “If you really loved me, Lord, you’d heal me.”

I wished I could take it back. It wasn’t even how I felt. But, at that moment, having whispered the most contrived prayer of the night, I received grace. My pain went from 10 to 0, instantly! Beautiful Grace. Thank God for the mysteries of heaven and what Jesus did at the cross. As to my tiny role—I had spouted a litany of affected, nonsensical prayers, sprinkled with some faith.

Sobbing with relief, I thanked God and woke Alan to share the good news. It was 2:30 AM.

I’d like to say that’s the end of the story, but later that day a mild pain kicked in. The extraction horror—the unbearable pain—was miraculously gone! The socket pain, however, was pushing full throttle.

Befuddled, I prayed: “Lord, why heal me half-way? Why heal one pain and not the other?” And, “What was that pain-free night all about?”

I questioned God the way I did when, in my teens and twenties, I pushed Him away. Yet He never gave up on the five-year old who believed warts would vanish. Then and now, I expected Him to be predictable, like a mother, not considering the Bible, which pretty much establishes His un-predictability!

It was just hard to comprehend a partial move of God considering the time I’d poured boiling water over my hand (see Angels Amongst Us) and He’d completely healed me thirty dreadful minutes and two prayers later. From removing warts to finding Alan and me a new home (see House of Grace) many of my past appeals had been answered. Thoroughly. I expected more of the same.

I expected the expected.

I got the unexpected. He went off on a tangent. From Isaiah 43:19. “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”

God showed me this scripture, this principle, through a sermon by Pastor Steven Furtick that I knew was meant for me, and really, for us all. Our expectation of God mustn’t rely on our history with Him: we can’t look back to clarify the present. And while we’re at it, we can’t second-guess God today.

Our relationship is ever evolving.

I’ve asked God for many things—haven’t you? Asked Him to shape me, guide me, make me  more like His Son. Maybe this incomplete healing wasn’t incomplete at all. Maybe it would help accomplish exactly what I’d prayed for. He’d still performed a miracle. Not exactly how I’d envisioned, but the worst pain had vanished. God had blessed me in this wilderness!

Consider St. Paul’s declaration in 2nd Corinthians: “Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake, for when I am weak, then I am strong.” Unlike St. Paul, I don’t welcome adversity. I’m too 21st Century reliant on comfort, which may be why blind eyes and graves seldom open anymore. But I can, when I’m weak, let God take over.

It’s an extraordinary thing when God intervenes. You know in your “knower” that the Divine has touched you. Sometimes it evens translates through a warm glow, tingles, or a presence. But, with physical pain, at least in my two cases, pain just left my body. All at once. That’s pretty spectacular, too.

Must I  question the ‘why’ or even the ‘how’ when I know Who?

I realized I’d been looking at the cloud that was trailing me the wrong way. I’d seen a threat, when really, it was akin to the cloud of God’s glory that blessed the Israelites. They didn’t always see their blessing either. They grumbled even when they’d seen a feast of miracles. Yet everything they needed was in that cloud: water, food, shoes and clothes that never wore out. Military supremacy. I too had endured some pretty tough enemies. I too had grumbled. Still, God had brought me through.

Dental pain might be a stretch for many to see the hand of God at work, but dental pain, which kicked in my fibromyalgia, was a nightmare. (With thanks to my dentist for helping me through) I declare it my final trial in the succession of misfortunes that have loomed over me for months. I am grabbing hold of God’s promise in Hebrews 10:23. “Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful.”

Yes, “He is faithful.” Yet, He doesn’t relate to me like he did my five-year-old self, or even the woman I was last year. He wants—no! He expects me/us to grow. What’s in front of us will always take us to greater heights if we’ll let Him work through us. God’s faithfulness is shown through a litany of saints—from Abraham, King David, and Queen Esther to Ruth and Naomi and St. Paul.

So it went with them, so it goes with us: What comes next is better!

Sure, they all went through the wilderness, and we will too. Just remember St. Paul’s “When I am weak, then I am strong” declaration. Lean on God. I mean, give it up. Press!

My best days are still in front of me. Even at my age, I believe that. Just because I can’t see, touch, or even understand what He’s doing at times, doesn’t mean—has never meant—He isn’t ever-present. His methods may change, but I anticipate, with joy and gladness, with awe and conviction, what God will do in my future. And I will remember His past faithfulness and His promises—to me and to the saints who went before me. I will stand on His Word with prayer and thanksgiving, knowing His promises are true. And believing with certainty Roman 8:18. “What we suffer now is nothing compared to the glory He will reveal to us.”

This Thanksgiving, as we reflect on the past and look to the future, as we see the fruit of our labor and the goodness of God, let us consider that our thankfulness and faithfulness have been and will be rewarded. Now and in the world to come.

I am so thankful for the blessings God bestows. I know you are too.

Be blessed and Happy Thanksgiving!

     Karyn

In His Presence

This fictional story was inspired by a sermon by Christine Caine.

One late October night, wind with pelting rain blustered outside, seeming for all the world like March. Being extremely tired, I didn’t even read my Bible before lying down, just flipped the light and nodded off. Unusual for me. The next thing I remember is being abruptly awakened by someone tugging my arm, trying to pull me from my bed. Leave me be! I twisted face down into the nest of linens.

I was dead weight. Yet they managed to elevate my lifeless body and then bury my face into what must’ve been an armpit. As frightening and as chilly as it should’ve been–wind whipping my legs and tousling my hair–I wasn’t scared or cold or anything really. Except aggravated.

In a short while, my feet bumped the ground and a blinding light fully aroused and startled me, so much so that I covered my face with my hands. “Where am I?” I faced my sleep-napper and pulled my hands away, but the light drew them back to my face. “What’s going on?”

A kind voice spoke. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in heaven.

Heaven? Seriously, heaven? Somewhat dazed, but still unafraid, I desperately wanted to view my surroundings and the person speaking.

“You’re about to learn something that those who seek God must fully understand, and you must pass along.” The voice was that of a man.

Me? I thought. Why tell such an extraordinary thing to me? Still, as curious as I was, I was more interested in seeing heaven. I peeped through slits made by my fingers, my eyes getting used to the light. Much better. “Is it okay if I look around?”

“Of course,” he said. “It just takes a few seconds to acclimate.” Seeing that I wasn’t fearful, he stepped closer. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Paul of Tarsus.”

I’m not sure what struck me more—the scenery as my eyes embraced every nuance of my bright and stunning surroundings or the seeming fact that I was conversing with the inimitable St. Paul—apostle, evangelist, and author extraordinaire. The man who penned most of the New Testament. Yet, even St. Paul couldn’t pull my gaze from the dazzling and contrasting vistas before me, like dropping into a fantasy. I twirled about, gushing. “Wow! So this is heaven?”

“Yes. You’re getting the abbreviated, back door tour. The country-side of heaven. Most people don’t come in this way, but the impact is nonetheless stunning.”

“I see you’re still the master of the understatement.” A silver sash complemented his pure white robe and his full face had an easy smile.

He laughed. “I’m glad you’re impressed.”

We stood near the edge of an iridescent road shimmering like golden diamonds. Yet it wasn’t opaque. Beneath the pavement, multi-hued earthworms wiggled and squirmed, and strange yet beautifully colored flowers whose petals popped beneath the highway’s glassy golden surface, could clearly be seen.

If that wasn’t peculiar enough, a crystal-clear brook near the road splashed across large and small rocks with jutting crystals and multiple striations, and with something resembling lips etched into their grooves! The rocks gurgled and chattered to the brook, the brook to the birds, the birds to the butterflies, and the butterflies to creatures unknown to me, flying over and around the brook.

I twirled around, trying to take it all in, and that’s when I saw the ocean. It laid beyond the brook and moved with one gentle wave as it glistened and caressed a shore that treasured its touch. The saturated sand seemed to sigh as it slipped underneath the great ocean’s embrace and then it would scurry back out. Under, over, and out. A happy game of water tag where I could see each individual grain, each drop of water, leaping, playing. How is this possible?

I turned to St. Paul, completely enthralled. “Is Jesus here?”

“He is with us, as He is omnipresent. In fact, He just asked me to bring you to Him.”

My hands quickly covered my heart, now beating so wildly I hoped it wouldn’t jump from my chest. “Here? Jesus wants to see me here?”

He smiled. “Of course, that’s why you’ve come.”

As I gazed about, spellbound, trying to grasp what was happening, trying to take in the grandeur, I pointed to the large, beautiful homes hovering near billowy clouds in the sky. “Do you live in one of those?”

He waved past me. “I live way over there.”

I tried to imagine living in one of these hovering mansions with an amazing view of talking brooks and birds, golden roads, and playful sand. And, really, I couldn’t imagine it. It seemed more like a perfected Alice in Wonderland fantasy than heaven.

I turned back to the Apostle. “I’m so grateful to you, St. Paul. You’re one of my heroes—the prisons, the torture that you endured for us all. My favorite of your letters is the one to the Romans. I bet I’ve read it a thousand times.” I hoped I wasn’t rambling.

Paul smiled humbly. “Thank you. I was dogged back then. If I couldn’t convert you, I would pray and fast for days. If nothing changed, I reluctantly moved on. Peter would tell me to dust the sand from my feet and go, but I always remembered.”

“Remembered?”

“The martyrs. My second chance.” Paul’s eyes filled with tears. “I was responsible for the deaths of many saints, you know, but Jesus gave me a lifeline. Afterwards, I memorized every martyr’s face. That, along with the hope of Christ, gave me the passion to try and convert every unsaved person.” He sort of gulped and then smiled. “But I’ve met the martyrs here! Every one of them.”

As I touched the great man’s shoulder, he dried his eyes and took my hand. “Are you ready?”

“To meet Jesus?”

He nodded.

Now somewhat fearful, I wasn’t sure, but returned his nod.

“Let’s do it.” His face was beautifully lit from his tears.

My feet lightly arose from the pavement, an amazing experience. I was so bleary-eyed before, I didn’t fully conceive that I was flying, even as my body weight had seemed to evaporate. Now, warm air rushed through my hair and filled my nostrils, my pores, and my lungs. I inhaled, riveted, as all sorts of multi-hued creatures, many of them foreign to me, flew with us and past us.

Shimmering light swirled about, dueling like swords of flashing diamonds. It reflected off every bird’s feather and blade of grass, off every splash of water and butterfly wing, producing colors alien to my eyes. Quickly, we came upon a knoll where thousands of blooming flowers and grasses in breathtaking hues birthed an enchantment of fragrances that blessed all my senses.

Stunning though it was, as I looked beyond us, a soft golden light held my gaze. I fixated on the light’s allure–like nothing I’d ever experienced–blissful, alive, captivating. Its radiance attracted every living thing toward it, including St. Paul and me.

A beautiful white stallion was enveloped by the light and was surrounded by hundreds of people, and what appeared to be angels, although I had trouble differentiating the two. The people were smaller and without wings, though some of the largest angels were wingless, too. Large and small creatures, some with four heads and six wings, some with many eyes, surrounded the soft glow and bowed to the ground. As we drew nearer, I realized the hum I heard from the distance was the glorious chants of the Cherubim and the Seraphim: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty; the whole earth is full of His glory.”

The reality of those words . . . the fragrance. His aura took my breath and I stopped mid-air. Paul smiled at me. “No one can resist Him. Well, not in this place anyway. Many resist Him on Earth.” He motioned to me. “Come. He awaits.”

It is Jesus. And he waits . . . on me. Tears came to my eyes and a knot formed in my throat.

As we floated to the ground, the great throng of angels and people parted. He stood no more than fifty feet in front of us, talking and smiling like a regular person. Anxiety filled me, realizing I would soon stand before my Creator, the Being I prayed to and listened for, and hoped to one day see. As we strolled in, my knees were giving way and my eyes were now fully moist. I measured each footstep. “Slower, St. Paul, slower.”

My senses tingled as we moved into what felt like a sunbeam’s shaft of goodness and light, where hope and mercy and love, and every good thing seemed to reside. “Worthy is the Lamb,” the Cherubim chanted, “who was slain, to receive power and riches and wisdom . . .”

My body hairs stood up like porcupine needles. The glory, the love, was so superior to anything on Earth that as Jesus’ aura fell over me, I almost couldn’t stand. I turned to St. Paul for comfort, for stability, for words, but he simply placed his hand on my shoulder and nudged me in front of him. Immediately, I saw the feathery wings and the glowing garments of the living creatures who stand before Him.

Then I saw Jesus . . .

and fell.

Tears flooded my face, not because I wanted, but because I was overcome. Breathe! I could not move in the presence of such amazing grace, my spirit discerning how completely deficient, insufficient, pathetic I was in the presence of such Holiness, power, and love. Oh please, I prayed inwardly, Dear Jesus, don’t allow me to be swallowed into the belly of the earth where I belong. Please let me do this thing it seems I have been commissioned to do, I am honored to do, I am resolute to do.

Except I could not speak or move or stand.

Since my eyes were the only things available to my will, I opened them. In my prostrate position, I saw His toes and His sandals, and the hem of his robe, and I tried to reach out to touch it like the woman in the Bible with the issue of blood, but I was paralyzed.

“Don’t be afraid.” He spoke so tenderly. “You won’t be swallowed up. You’re a vessel of light.“

“But, I am nobody.” My body trembled. “I don’t preach or teach or sing or do anything that should put me in your presence, Jesus. I wish I did.” I placed my face into the pulsating grass and it tickled me. “And my past. My past still haunts me.”

“It’s all insignificant. You mean everything to me.” He touched my hand, bidding me up, and I looked into his beautiful face, full of compassion and warmth. Not one hint of judgment. My trembling began to subside and I awkwardly stood up beside him. He put His arm around my shoulder and the white stallion neighed and bowed. “Not now, Bountiful,” He said, and I realized the horse was trying to allow Him up. Can’t believe I’m here. Maybe I’m dead?

Jesus nodded to the horse and waved to the people and angels before motioning me back through the meadow away from the crowd and toward a mountain. St. Paul had disappeared and Bountiful pranced in the distance, keeping pace with us. As we walked along, Jesus picked two flowers, a tall, cactus-like species I had never before seen. He looked over and smiled. “You’re not dead,” He said. “You’re just visiting.”

After what I’d witnessed, I was afraid to speak, though Jesus had given my fear no reason to surface. As we neared the mountain of multi-colored trees with shades of scarlet and purple, I seemed to float in the fragrance of empress trees and sweet-smelling pines, of jasmine and lavender. Even frankincense.

Jesus spoke and pointed His hand and at once an ocean appeared, exactly where the meadow ended and the mountain began. Exactly where we stood! My lip dropped. I had been almost drooling from the aroma’s and now I stood before a moveable, playful, and superior version of sea, sand, and sky that even my dreams could not improve upon.

“The ocean relaxes you. Let’s sit over there,” he motioned to two chairs facing the waves, “where we can talk.” Spectacularly-speckled silver and gold birds, with purple ribbons flowing behind them flew down to meet us and wrapped and unwrapped their ribbon-like wings around Jesus’ arms and even the strands of His hair.

He laughed and put his hands out, not waving them off, but caressing them as each flew to touch Him. “It’s their way of loving me,” He said, amused by these magnificent creatures. Afterwards, we sat in white linen arm chairs, and the birds gathered around us, cooing as birds often do. Sometimes cooing, “Hallelujah.” Sounding like chimes with an English inflection.

I was nearly trance-like when he turned his chair sideways. “So, what do you think of what Paul said?”

Knowing exactly what He meant, but still somewhat nervous, (I was in heaven with Jesus!) I tried to speak. “I . . . I’m not sure but what . . .” I shook my head.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m no closer to you here than sometimes when you pray.” He paused, an encouragement for me to answer intelligently.

“I. . . I don’t know,” I heard myself say. “St. Paul said I would be told something all seekers of God should know, and that I should pass on.” I twirled my thumbs around each other, nervous. Maybe I should just try praying. I bowed my head. “Jesus, more than anyone, you know I want to fulfil my purpose, to be part of your bigger plan.” I should just stop here. “But it never happened for me. I developed no particular gift and have little, if anything, to offer.” I sighed, and closed my eyes tighter. “I am nobody. No one thinks of me as a great person of God, or listens to me, or heaven forbid, thinks I’m someone with a calling.”

“Everyone has a calling. You’re my special child. I wish you and others knew how very special each of you is to me. But hear this–most of the time, you’ll never know the impact you’ve made. People will decide for themselves. Those who belong to me will listen.” He touched my knee. “Open your eyes. You mustn’t miss anything I have for you.”

I obeyed, blinking, knowing what He said was true, but equally believing it was useless to make the Deity who created me understand that I was nobody. I want to be a somebody, but I’m not.

He picked up a handful of sand. “Did you ever imagine sand would spill through your fingers and dance in your palm? Would glisten like tiny sunbeams and the grains would seem so individual?” He caressed it in his palm. “It’s alive, you know.”

I actually did know, as I’d read somewhere that the trees and the sea and all things bowed to Him, so having seen the sand’s magnificence, I suspected it too may be alive.

Again, I nodded.

“What would you most like to say to me?” he asked.

His face was so pleasant. Even his hands and his hair had an aura, a sereneness that defied human understanding. I should just pray again. Instead, I looked square in His eyes. “At one time, I had a million questions for you. Now, I seem so insignificant compared to this glory, what does it matter?”

“It matters. And you matter.” He opened his hand and the sand in his palm wiggled like tiny pets. “These heavenly grains of sand need water. They constantly move toward the shoreline, a sort of dance that causes them to shimmer. The water isn’t only their dance partner, but their lifeline.” He tossed the sand to his side and a gentle wind settled it back to the ground. Lifting his palm toward me, he said, “See here.”

I stretched to see that one teeny grain of sand had stuck in His palm.

“When it’s all by itself, it has no luster. You can’t even see that it wiggles. Though you thought you were seeing just a few grains in my hand, there were thousands, wiggling and shimmering.” He smiled, delighted. “This tiny grain needs the others to move it toward the water. Their connection is what creates this visually stunning seaside carpet,” he waved his hand outward, “and moves them triumphantly toward their life force.”

His gentle voice and the ambiance had soothed my soul. I nestled my bare feet into the sand, closed my eyes, and felt the warm hypnotic breeze.

“Doesn’t that feel great?”

I finally felt relaxed. “Feels like the best body and foot massage I’ve ever had.” But my mind was still working. “Am I like a grain of sand?”

He leaned forward in his chair. “You and others were created to have symmetry, to be devoted to one another, just like the sand. To love one another. But unlike the sand, you also have a role, a purpose, created specifically for you. And when you fail to complete your part, it becomes harder for others to perform.

“Come, let’s walk down the beach,” He said.

I arose and He put a hand on my shoulder. “Visualize a movie with several characters missing from the cast. Others would constantly be improvising because of the missing actors. Imagine the confusion.”

Far from Earth’s turmoil, with magical sand massaging my every step, I said, “I . . . I think I understand. Basically, we are grains of sand moving toward our life force—You!”

“That’s true.” He stopped to pick up a seashell.”However, don’t miss the part where you’re moving forward together.”

I picked up my pace, to look back at Him.”I know. But, what about the missing characters in the cast? Does some of the sand not perform?”

He slowed His gait. “No. Only humans disrupt the process.”

“I’m sorry, Jesus.” We continued on. “I want to be part of that moving-forward group, but I feel like one of those missing characters sometimes, like someone disrupting the process.”

“I know you believe this, but it isn’t true. You are Christ-centered and moving toward Me. That’s why you’re here.”

I stopped, holding onto His words, wanting to bawl. “Really, what I do is enough?”

He reached over and put the seashell in my hand. “Listen to this.” I fumbled as I found the open-shell side and placed it to my ear. I heard these words, “Not everyone in the body of Christ can be the mouth, the nose, or the eyes. Someone has to be a toe, a finger, a shin, a cell . . .” The voice faded out. “Wow! Do all shells in heaven do this?” I handed it back.

He laughed. “No, I wanted this to be a special remembrance for you.”

We walked again and Jesus became serious. “Everyone can’t stand out for the world to see. But I see. I see every heart and how the Body connects. I see who loves, who gives, who nurtures. And what you do is as important as the evangelist or the singer. Do you realize through love you can affect one person who can have a huge impact on the world? Or even in your own family. One person loving or praying, or believing for me to direct their path, can affect changes in the atmosphere, in the spiritual realm, that you can’t begin to imagine. You are not just making a difference on earth, but in heaven and also in hell.”

He touched my hand. “Let’s turn around.” I notice that His robe wafts in the same direction as before. The breeze at His back.

“After you go home, you should read 1st Corinthians, Chapter 13, often. ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become as sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.’ Remember those verses?”

I nod.

“Everything passes away except for love. Mighty forces are moving and fighting all around you.” The wind whips up at His words. “You feel the tug sometimes, don’t you? Certainly you see the chaos.”

I nod as the sudden brisk breeze blows my hair.

“And, I know you hear my voice because you’ve responded. People read what Paul wrote about love and use it at weddings, as they should. But to affect real change, you mustn’t participate in conversations, in actions, in anything contrary to love. That means no gossip, forgiving, giving people the benefit of the doubt, no cheating, taking the furthest parking spot, loving the loveless. So many things. ‘Love bears all things, believes all things, endures all things . . .’ It’s a tall order, I know.”

I can’t believe I do this, but I interrupt. “What about purpose?”

“That’s exactly what we’re talking about.” The breeze has quietened. “People want to change the world, but not themselves. They compete with one another, not complete each other.” He sighs. “And everyone wants a platform. I suggest a platform of love. ‘Love never fails.’” His words are strong, but His voice is gentle. “Remember these verses?—‘Whether there are prophecies they will fail, whether there are tongues, they will cease, whether there is knowledge it will vanish. . . ‘ Nothing is eternal except love.”

He walks over to the shoreline, directly in front of our chairs. “How beautiful is this water embracing the sand?”

Breathtaking. “It’s a scene I’ll never forget.”

“This is how it is if you walk in love. This is where you’ll find My presence. You are one of the precious grains of sand by my side, anointed with living water.” He walks into the wave, covering His feet. “Living in love—living here at the water’s edge—will drench you in the peace and power you need to overcome, to live supernaturally, and to complete your purpose.”

He lifts His wet robe and walks to the chair. “Do you understand?”

I shake my head. “Yes, Jesus. I think I finally do. I’m just impatient, I guess.”

He nods knowingly. “When I was born on earth, I was no less God than I am today. Yet Father held me back for thirty years before my ministry began.”

“Wow! I never thought of it that way.”

“He knows your heart and your abilities and He already has forces in motion. When your fullness in love and understanding and His timing finally collide, that’s when supernatural changes can lift hearts and lives, can break chains and move mountains.”

I shake my head. “That’s awesome! There’s so much we don’t comprehend as humans.”

“It’s true. Plus, it’s difficult living in today’s world. The enemy ignites so much anger and division he’s tearing even the ‘body of believers’ apart. This is what I want you to remember above everything. Apart from each other, you are disadvantaged. But together, you are majestic. You are a part of the Bride of Christ, my church, the body that must shine to the world in order to bring the world unto Me.” He opens His arms, seemingly bidding the universe to come. “There is only one way to do that. Love.”

Suddenly Bountiful bounded up the beach; Jesus arose and stepped toward me. My time with Him was over. I didn’t want to say goodbye, yet I’d been blessed much more than I deserved. I stood and held on to Him as Bountiful bowed by His chair. Tears fell from my eyes and He brushed them away. “This has been very good,” He said.

I nodded. “I know. I just don’t want to say goodbye.”

He patted my shoulders. “I am always with you. Pray to me. I love you, remember this.” Then He turned and stroked Bountiful’s beautiful full mane before mounting him.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see St. Paul. Jesus waved to us and pulled on Bountiful’s reins, turning the beautiful stallion. He trotted along the flawless shoreline as Jesus’ hair wafted in the gentle breeze. I watched, nearly breathless, hoping to never turn away.

St. Paul came to my side. “Ready to go?” he said.

My eyes trailed Jesus, along with the soft caress of the breeze. “No. I want to stay forever.”

Rinnggg! The alarm jars me. I rub my eyes, throw the sheet back, and jump up.

“Jesus!” I scream, as I frantically search the bedroom, scurry into the living room, run around the sofa, almost tripping over a rug, and walk dejectedly back to my bed. I know St. Paul was here and that I was with Jesus.

I plop onto the bed and eye my Bible on the nightstand. Opening it, I fumble for my glasses and place them square on my nose. My eyes move to these prophetic words, “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love . . .” Tears flood my face.

I feel stunned, validated, loved. St. Paul, Jesus. It was real, wasn’t it?

I walk to the mirror over my dresser. My Creator revealed Himself to me, showed me my purpose, and really, every person’s purpose. Unbelievable. Pulling a tissue from its box, I gaze into the mirror.

A chime like that of an angel’s harp halts my blubbering. Suddenly I hear: “For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known. And now abide faith, hope, love, these three, but the greatest of these is love.” It’s from Chapter 13 of 1st Corinthians. What Jesus suggested I read.

Breathe . . . breathe.

I smile, crying and laughing, and gazing, just gazing into the mirror. Jesus is real!  At the Cross He gave me a gift I cannot repay and He asks almost nothing in return. Certainly nothing of comparison.

Now He offers me another gift–of supernatural living, of walking with Him, of knowing Him. In exchange, I offer Him myself.

I will swim in the wake of His presence by the ocean of His love, and I will give Him what He asks. Three words. Simple words.

I know you’re here and you hear me, Jesus.

I choose love.

 

 

 

The day I learned fear

There’s a scream that if you hear it, you’ll never forget it. Afraid that whatever caused it may be coming for you. I was a child when I heard a scream like that and it paralyzed me. Pain and terror sounded across our small corner of the world like a war-time siren that caused me to hush breathing. I can’t describe it. The best I can do is tell you what I remember, as close as I can.

It was a typical Sunday. Daddy was home, the only day of the week we usually saw him for more than an hour or so, and we had company. It was sunny and bright, a beautiful day. We were on the patio behind our house in Hardy, Kentucky. A couple and their young son visiting.

I don’t remember if they were staying for dinner, I really don’t remember them much at all. People came and went when I was growing up and it’s difficult to put faces and families together sometimes. Yet, I loved our revolving door of company. This day, I remember my mom and dad and the other couple talking and laughing, while I listened. I remember their young son tagging along after my brother and both boys avoiding me. No problem. I was a couple of years older and enjoyed the adults.

The boy was younger than my brother Ric (Ricky) by a year or so, I’d guess. Probably no more than three-years-old. The two had wandered up the hillside behind the house, not out of sight, probably looking for rocks and stuff, as boys sometimes do. No one paid much attention. Dad had cleared and planted much of the hill and we considered it part of our yard. Ricky and I were always roaming that mountain.

The two youngsters, I suspect, were headed back down and Ricky must’ve been in front, the younger boy perhaps dawdling behind. The turn of events that began this nightmare unfolded in less time than it took to write this sentence, in the time it takes to skim a rock across a lake. It lasted over a period of probably ten or fifteen minutes. Yet, even in my remembrance, it feels like hours. That ordinary, peaceful day that turned into tragedy.

If the boy fell, no one saw it, we only guessed it much later. Our first attention to him was the scream. We turned and watched him upright, trying to fight something off, watched him fall to the ground his arms flailing, his little legs kicking. He tried to get up, screaming, nightmarish cries, like something horrible had a hold on him. I can’t remember where Ricky was, but our dad and his dad were already racing up the mountain.

Adults can process things faster than children and maybe from their taller perspective they could just see better. But, the two men seemed to know what was happening. By the time they reached him, the boy had given up the fight to his invisible antagonists.

My dad scooped him up, his tiny arms now mostly limp. About halfway down the mountain I heard the buzzing, saw the halo of yellow jackets swarming. They were mostly on the boy, moving in that vibrating stop and go motion that makes them seem more animated than real. But, they were on the men too. Angry bees still fighting for their ground nest the youngster had obviously fallen or stepped into. The women were now screaming, concern for the boy, not because yellow jackets invaded.

Someone yelled, “Turn on the shower,” as the men dashed across the hilly slope and toward the patio. Mother ran into the house as the boy’s mother cried through terrified tears. I think I was crying too.

The adults rushed into the house and Ricky and I fell in behind them, but yellow jackets buzzed here and there and we stopped at the kitchen hallway. We could hear the running water, hear his mother crying, hear the men loudly talking.

Scared and curious, I finally made my way down the hall and peered into the bathroom. The two dads stood fully-clothed in the tub, shower water drenching them all, picking bees off the boy. Swearing occasionally. The boy’s mother talked to him, adding her tears to the cascading water as she reached through the downpour to pet him. Dead bees floated and live bees tussled in the tub and on the puddle-flooded floor where the open shower water splashed as the men struggled to save innocence from anger. And where bees still flew about. The men were as soaked as the boy. Their eyes as determined and stunned as they were fearful.

Until that day, I’d never seen terror in my father’s eyes, never heard fear in his voice. Until that day, I’d never felt such fear. Mother, I think, was on the telephone to the hospital.

I don’t remember hearing the boy make another sound. I just remember the men dripping as they ran through the hallway and kitchen as though a deadline was imminent. The boy’s dad holding him to his chest. The two men and the boy, along with his mother, then got into the car and peeled out of the driveway.

Mostly, for us, it was over.

Mother was left to deal with Ricky and me, her two traumatized children, a house strewn with water, and full of dead and angry yellow jackets.

How fast things can change.

I don’t remember praying that awful day. My brain, I think, stopped. Stunned. I’d like to think I’d asked Jesus to comfort and heal the boy. A tiny prayer is all I could’ve mustered at about six or so years of age in that state.

When Dad came home later that night, he had redness and swelling, but refused comfort or care. Doctors were with the boy, he assured us, his voice quavering. They thought he’d be alright. I’m pretty sure that last part was for Ricky and me. Apparently, there was a critical period and he wasn’t past that yet. When he passed it, he’d be out of the woods, a terrible analogy.

That very night, Daddy sped up that hill with a wide, determined stride, clenching a can of kerosene. I cried, not wanting him to go, afraid he’d be attacked. But he went. Poured toxic oil straight down into the yellow jacket’s nest. He didn’t say much afterwards, but he was visibly shaken, and I’m pretty sure he cursed a few bees.

I know my parents prayed for the boy because that’s what we did. Not outwardly for my dad, but my mother and her mother next door. I feel sure they prayed for my brother and me, too, so thankful we’d been spared.

After that day, I changed. Probably forever. Certainly, the way I looked at that mountain was altered. Until then, I’d had no reverence for it or the critters it might hold. Until then, I was pretty much fearless.

Yet, God was with us. As the events unfolded that tragic day, they seemed choreographed. Everyone had a purpose and role, except for Ricky and me. Certainly, we saw the power and love of God revealed. Two dads putting aside fear, plucking the boy from atop a yellow jacket’s nest, having wisdom about choices, being repeatedly stung, yet not flinching or complaining. Fearless to my way of thinking. Heroic.

I’m fuzzy on the part that came after that day, but here’s my vague recollection: Mother, I think, called daily to check on the boy, even as we went about our everyday routine. And then one day, he was okay. He’d survived. We were thrilled. He was “as good as new” she said, or some such cliché Mother’s use to reassure children.

All was right in my world again, except that I’d learned fear. Learned that a footstep could compromise my family. That my playground wasn’t quite safe. That parents can’t always protect children. That children can die . . . Fear teaches many things.

As I’ve aged, I’ve put that fear to both good and bad use. Certainly, there’s a healthy fear–that keeps us from engaging in certain behaviors, that alerts us to screams. However, for me, the comment that most helped put fear into perspective was spoken by Franklin D. Roosevelt at the start of World War II. He said: “There is nothing to fear, but fear itself.”

Living is dangerous. Ask the person with a broken leg or a broken heart. Makes no difference.

Some people hide from life, addicted to  comfort. Afraid of failure, of losing a position, of emotional pain, of bees. They fear the reality and the philosophy of life and living and God. They’re tuned into the “What about me” and “I deserve what I want” mantra that plays in every theatre and venue across our nation.

The Lord knows I’m a prime offender. Some of my excuses: My fibromyalgia might flair, I’m too old, I can’t travel that far, people are cruel. What if I fail? “Do not lose heart,” St. Paul says in 2nd Corinthians, “even though the outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day.”

Sure, I could step into a yellow jacket’s nest, yet if I don’t take that chance, I’ll never play on the mountain. And I’m not ready to quit hunting wild flowers and dancing in the rain, though I act it at times.

In 2nd Timothy we read, “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” Let’s take God at His word! No, He doesn’t protect us from all the world’s ills, but He is there with earthly and heavenly angels, gathering us to Himself. Just like He did with that little boy. Never leaving or forsaking, never putting more on us than we can bear. He gives us what we need to show the dedication, obedience, and fearlessness of His Son. Sometimes in the worst of circumstances.

I want to be a person who runs to help.

As Christians, our life is not our own. It was bought with a price. We are God’s change agents in this world. Let’s get out of our recliners and start acting like we believe His Word and His promises. 1st John states: “There is no fear in love, but perfect love cast out fear, because fear involves torment. But he who fears has not been made perfect in love.” Perhaps, more than at any time in history, God needs us to put fear aside, to show the world the love, the passion, the hands of Jesus Christ.

I only have one life, and I’ve seen how fast it can end. In church we sing, “When we all get to Heaven what a day of rejoicing that will be,” and then wail when it’s our turn to go. Living isn’t just about the here and now. It isn’t so much about yellow jackets or even heartbreak. I know this sounds harsh. But, it’s about preparing our hearts for eternity. A very long time compared to this life.

We are spiritual, ever-lasting beings, not made for this world, but for the world to come. If we really believed God’s Word, wouldn’t we be more forgiving, more giving of our time, our money, and our heart? We may not know what tomorrow holds, but we know who holds tomorrow. It was heart-wrenching watching that little boy suffer the yellow jacket’s stings, but, oh, how much worse the tragedy, if he stopped climbing mountains.

 

Just Do It!

As I was searching my brain for a new blog, (this one) the word love kept rolling around in my head, even as I tried to ignore it. Then one night I got a fortune cookie that read: “Your meaning of love is special. Why not share it.”

Seriously?

I have a Christian friend who thinks God speaks to her through fortune cookies, so I glanced heavenward and did what I sometimes do. Argue.

“I’m not in the mood for love, Father God! Not in this American meltdown we’re experiencing. Mostly, I feel like Humpty Dumpty teetering on the Berlin wall before it came crashing down. No! Won’t write it.”

Ever argue with the Almighty? Useless.

Let the record show, I started this grudgingly.”

Why grudgingly? I felt the non-love, even though I disliked both presidential candidates. Like many of you, I’d seen more random acts of pettiness, childishness, and political hyperbole, than I had random acts of kindness or love. So, love was not the emotion filtering through my heart.

The divisions amongst friends and families—holdover hostility I call it—and some of it unrelated to the election, is unchallenged in my lifetime. In the 1960’s, we were self-righteous, angry, we burned our bras and protested everything from women’s rights, to black rights, to the war in Vietnam. But people weren’t mean. Weren’t mad at each other. I didn’t think my dad was horrible because he was on the other side of the great divide. We were mad at the establishment, the “man,” the police, and many of our universities. In groups, we felt brave, but one on one . . . hey, we were pleasant. This election did not make me bitter, though I have reason to be. It’s made me sad.

And I suppose I could blow off this love assignment by throwing out the most famous piece of love advice ever spoken, and say, just do it! That would be Jesus’ command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Yet, I can’t blow it off. The message of love has never been more serious or more challenging, and as Christians we must do the hard work to search it out. People think “love your neighbor as yourself” is impossible. I’m suggesting if that’s true, it may not be for the reason we think.

Perhaps it’s because we can’t love ourselves.

I recently realized, not exactly for the first time, but perhaps in a different way, that without the aid of a mirror, I have no idea how I look. Yet because of that device, I daily see my reflection. Therefore, I judge my appearance—I pick at it, color my hair, trim my eyebrows, put on makeup, hide it, flaunt it, disguise it, all because my reflection is there for me and everyone else to see.

What if our soul reflected in the mirror? What if our soul looked back and exposed our thoughts and opinions?—Our judgmental tone. Our crass delight over causing someone pain we felt wronged us. Our piety at our rightness. The way we’ve belittled someone who has gotten our dander flying, just enough to set them down a notch or two, not maliciously mind you. What if, as surely as people see our nose and our eyes, they see our soul?

Is there makeup for that?

No erasure or spackle or cover-up can take away the stain of what crawls around inside us, but lucky for us, no one sees. Except for God.

He watches our soul pile up carcasses of crassness, maliciousness, self-righteousness. . . rusting and polluting our thinking, our heart, and our mind. We enjoy our enemies’ demise. We delight in our wins. We eschew the heart-searching tough choices that many must consider when those choices oppose our viewpoint.

“Take the telephone pole out of your own eye,” the Bible says, “so you can see the splinter in your neighbor’s eye.” Yes, please, for everyone’s sake. Take it out!

“Love your neighbor as yourself.” Maybe Jesus was kidding.

Most of us believe the opposite of love is hate, but the late author and Nobel Laureate, Elie Wiesel, a Holocaust survivor, believed it was indifference. And I can’t help but wonder if it is our own indifference we despise as much as the people on the other side of the political spectrum or the loonies on the other side of the family. We want change, but we don’t want to do the hard work to help effect a change we believe in and think we deserve. Maybe it’s time for a little self-examination, introspection, reflection, whatever you want to call it.

The issues are myriad, and they are legitimate, and will never be resolved by name calling and nit-picking. In the past few years, I believe, changes evolved too quickly. We must consider our neighbors (over the mountain, around the lake, across the state line) wherever they are, and whether we like them or agree with them, or not. If we roll over them, it will only be a matter of time until they return the favor. We’re seeing that currently and I suspect if things don’t work out well with the present administration, we’ll be seeing another bulldozer barreling through Washington D.C. in four to eight years. This could go on forever and to some degree, it has.

Today, however, civility is sadly missing. Tolerance, kindness and thoughtfulness are gone from public discourse, and from amongst social media friends as well. Not only do we not ask “what would Jesus do?” we are more likely to witness what Lucifer has wrought. And, guess what? It’s seems to be okay. Many of us emulate the politicians we claim to distain, so therefore, we should well understand why things have ceased to work in Washington D.C. Since it has morphed down . . . or perhaps up. To us.

And like those D.C. hot shots, we are taking the so-called high road because there is only one course of action: ours! We must incite, disprove, refute, disavow, inflate! (Yes, it’s sarcasm.)

I’m not saying there aren’t avenues for causes we believe in, but when we distress others and don’t care about their feelings, our behavior mimics the very things most of us say we deplore and disavow in politicians and the media.

Can we just chill for a minute and realize there may be something else going on?

There’s an evil force at work in the world. It isn’t just in the form of Middle East beheadings of Christians, a nightclub exploding in Orlando, or a cartoonist bombing in Paris. It’s in the ongoing banter you and I witness daily. In the workplace. On Facebook. On Twitter. Around the supper table. On television. If you can’t feel it and if you haven’t seen it on both sides of the political divide, you aren’t paying attention. And guess who that evil is dancing with? Yep. We’re voodoo dancing. The WEE WEE ON YOU dance. The I AM RIGHT dance.

It’s time to quit dancing to the enemy’s tune. Slow it down, look at that person across the political divide and listen to them. No, stop. Listen. Quit using the sound bites unbefitting a child of God. Quit acting like one of those Neanderthal broadcasters. (Sorry) The Bible tells us the real enemy is sowing all this discord. And it’s not Fox News, CNBC, female marchers, political candidates, or even Muslim terrorists! Gulp.

Nope, for all those who oppose us and even for those who want us dead, the Bible says these are not our enemy. “For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood,” St. Paul writes in Ephesians, “but against principalities, against powers, against rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.” We cannot fight evil with our bad ass attitudes and willful mouths. Unless that mouth is uttering prayers. The enemy is spiritual and he and his minions are swarming. If we could see what’s happening around us, we’d be terrified. We’d spend more time on our knees asking God to heal our nation, our hearts, and our neighbors. To guide our President and our elected officials.

There is only one thing that overcomes evil and it has nothing to do with being right or  winning. We have to start dancing to a different tune and praying like our country depends on our prayers. Depends on God.

We’ve proven we can’t come together without God’s help. Certainly, we’ve had time to get over the madness, the rudeness, yet it continues. We are all human beings and we are inter-related. Certainly, Christians believe this. What’s good for you may not always be good for me, but it’s a marriage of sorts. Waltz around the lake a few times, think about edifying your neighbor. No screaming adjectives. Think about how we must sound to God and to the rest of the world— like spoiled brats who must always get our way.

I’ll grant you, we haven’t had good role models in Washington D.C. or even in our communities. We must remember that the D.C. hot shots work for us and as their boss, maybe the role-modeling has to start with me and with you.

So, I guess, for all the reasons I’ve stated, I didn’t want to write about love. Because love is hard work. Love makes us search our hearts for self-hatred and spite that embitters us and keeps us from the dialogues we must have. Love means forgiving when these discussions go awry. Love puts the onus for restoration on you and on me. Not in the shouting matches of television fame, but in the quiet moments when friends and families discuss issues that are breaking their hearts. We must bring God into the discussion, pray, pray, pray, and listen with His heart instead of ours.

In Ephesians, St. Paul writes, “Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but what is good for necessary edification, that it may impart grace to the hearers.”

Translation: Say nothing bad about your neighbor. Just build him or her up and make them shine before those around you, so much so that everyone is blessed. In today’s world that almost sounds funny. Yet, that’s God’s standard.

The next time I witness non-love on Facebook or elsewhere, I’m going to search for something kind that person has posted. Or try to remember something good that person has said. And I will say a prayer asking for God to replace their non-love with love. To keep the enemy away from them.

In First Corinthians, St. Paul writes: “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels but have not love, I have become as sounding brass or as clanging cymbals.” As beautiful and as true as that passage is, and it’s one of my favorites, my thought is that St. Paul must’ve been a prophet. Two-thousand years later, clanging brass and cymbals are what we sound like.

So, what do you think? Is it possible we can love those we disagree with?

We’re Americans. And we come in every color, flavor, and stripe. Let’s show the world we can do this. Better still, let’s show the enemy we won’t let him win. Let’s be the people who really do love our neighbor as ourselves. It truly does just come down to that one commandment.

Jesus had it right all along. Imagine that.

Happy Love Month

Alan & Karyn2

Jesus in 2017: Resolution to Revolution


Happy New Year!

Look forward—that’s the general theme of January. Many of us make resolutions we can’t keep, promising to be more forgiving, and/or throwing out old habits and junk. I quit making resolutions a few years back. Why? Because I never kept them.

The most profound resolution I’ve ever made was over three decades ago. I resolved to try and be the hands, feet, eyes, the very spirit of Jesus on earth. Oh, yes, I’ve failed miserably. But I’ll keep trying.

Why? Because I’m hooked, fascinated, Holy-Ghost filled. Because the premise seems too good to be true: Some two-thousand years ago, Christ incarnate walked the earth as an ordinary man named Jesus. Sent by a holy God, His own Father, who wanted to redeem us, His creation, from sin and death!

The Bible tells us that nothing about Jesus’ appearance was outstanding. He was only thirty years old when He started His ministry, a carpenter prior to that. Probably strong from walking and from his trade. His face was likely ruddy, his hands rough. No one would have pointed to him and said, “Oh look, the Son of God!” Even his name was ordinary for the time.

Today it’s this very ordinariness that makes many people take notice. Because how could someone so nondescript, so common, become the most influential, most celebrated man to ever live. If I were to argue for Christ, I wouldn’t point to his miracles, His amazing sermons and parables, or even His love. No. I would just say, “How could such an ordinary person change the world in such an extraordinary way unless He was who He said He was—the Son of God.” And close behind, how could twelve men, His disciples, mostly laborers, common and uneducated, take the gospel to the world? Further, why were these men willing to be martyred for him?

And if that ancient truth isn’t enough, two-thousand years later, lives are still being transformed because of the Gospel of Christ. Peace, joy, and love transform hearts and minds. A spiritual dimension once unknown opens eyes to the goodness, the mercy, the love, the very person of God. You see your “neighbors” in a new and enlightened way. Supernatural experiences become a reality. Even dying isn’t an issue.

Witness the twenty-one Christian Egyptian martyrs beheaded by the madmen of ISIS. Not one of them renounced Christ. Why? I mean, really. . . Why? They could’ve lied. Thinking about it, I wonder if I might’ve considered lying. There’s a lot of pre-Pentecost Peter in me and I fear I might’ve denied Him, might’ve said, “Okay, I’ll convert to Islam.” And then after the flogging for indecent dress, after the burka and the baptism from hell, I would’ve tried to hold Jesus in my heart as they scrutinized my every whisper. But, not these young, brave men.

I will never forget their images: twenty-one orange-clad heroic souls, their faces calm, some praying, their hooded, cowardly captors dressed in black, leading them as though they were dogs on a short leash. I wish I’d turned away.

How I prayed for their families, and hold that thought . . . how I prayed for their murderers. No, I didn’t pray they would be blessed. I prayed God would reveal Himself to them. (Which actually is a blessing) That He would convict them and they would see themselves the way God sees them. That the Almighty Creator would allow them a glimpse into the hearts of these decent Christ followers and it would haunt their nights and change their own hearts.

So, why did these martyred Christians not convert to Islam? Because the resolution they made to serve Christ is part of the revolution that Jesus began. People in Islamic countries know the risks, but even at the point of death, they know the benefits are greater. They/We are part of a bigger plan.

We, as Americans, must especially develop a determination, a resolve to be more like brave Christians around the world who stand up to ISIS, other terrorists, and hostile-to-Christian governments. More like those who work tirelessly to spread the Gospel of Christ, to feed the hungry, the thirsty, the poor. Even more like those who pray for those in ministry and in turmoil, and those who are especially forgiving, thoughtful, kind, and generous.

And my resolution, coupled with yours and others becomes the revolution that will eventually change the world and restore Christ to His throne. We don’t all have to die for Christ, but we should all live for Christ.

So as you make your New Year’s resolution, I hope you’ll remember God’s love, His Grace, and His promise: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him will not perish, but have everlasting life.”

Think about what this promise must mean to Christian martyrs, now at an all-time high, around the world. Think about what it meant to those rag-tag disciples of old who followed in the footsteps of Christ, eleven of them martyred.

Most of all, remember the one Man, Jesus, who left a throne in the kingdom of heaven to walk the dusty earth in cloth and sandals, unshaven, unkempt, and at the end, unloved. He died brutally for you and for me and we owe Him everything. Like those disciples who’ve gone before us, let us resolve to be part of the revolution, to spread the Good News of Christ’s coming and of His return.

In January 2017, and always, that’s a resolution worth making. Worth living for. And many think, worth dying for.

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The Gift of Christmas

Merry Christmas everyone!  Until God gives me another Christmas story, I offer this as my Christmas classic! I did some editing and added a few pictures. It’s a precious story about a boy . . . and a Christmas gift explained, perhaps only as Jesus can. I think you’ll enjoy it. kcs 

I should be snuggled in bed, but as my family sleeps, I tiptoe downstairs, the smell of stale popcorn and pine guiding my footsteps as much as the soft Santa nightlight and dying fireplace embers. I walk past the poinsettias lining the foyer, past the big wreath hanging over the wooden nativity, and finally stroll under the mistletoe atop the arched doorway leading into the family room. Our nightly gathering place seems eerily serene without the twinkling lights and the family din.

Like a Christmas thief, I slink into Dad’s big oversized chair where I have a bird’s eye view of yuletide magic–the chimney embers fading with the night from the stocking-adorned brick fireplace, and nestled beside it, a ceiling high, ornament-bright, Christmas tree.

One of Mom’s small china plates, decked out in green and red cookies and flanked by a glass of milk, awaits Santa on the hearth, left by my little brother Jeff, or Jeffy, as I call him. Colorful presents with sparkles and bows spill well past the Christmas tree, topped by a drooping, oversized star balanced above the popcorn strings our family threaded at the dining room table.

Jeffy loves Christmas. Makes him the happiest kid on the planet. Me, I like it. Mostly because I get toys and stuff, but also because I like watching my brother have fun. Sometimes I feel cheated there’s no Santa for me. Oh maybe to some extent, but I’m too old for Santa, really. Twelve. Not too old for the Christmas spirit. At least that’s what Mom says.

I close my eyes, thinking I’ll sit here until Dad comes down to eat his cookies and distribute a few Santa presents, but my stomach rumbles at the thought of the cookies, probably the largest and most garish I’ve ever seen. They must scream “buy me” to mom’s who want to impress six year olds like Jeffy or to Christmas greenhorn’s, if one exists on the planet. Still, the cookies are for Dad, and I promise myself not to eat them, even as I think about it.

I rise from the chair and immediately fall back. In the dim light of the embers’ shadows, a man sits on our sofa!

I pull back and gasp! He isn’t Santa by a whole lot of belly inches, and he just sits there smiling like he’s at home, one arm propped up on a sofa cushion. I try to regroup and immediately stand. Stepping to the side of Dad’s chair, I prepare to run. That’s when I notice his clothing—a long white robe with a gold sash. I’ve never seen anyone dressed like this. I’ve never seen anyone who seems to . . . to glow.

“I hear you want to interview me.” The stranger scoots to the front of the sofa, clasping his hands atop his knees, looking for all the world like he belongs here.

“Are you serious? How did you just materialize out of . . . ? Who sent you?” I laugh, nervous. “It was Joey, wasn’t it? I’ll get him for this.”

“No, Joey didn’t send me. He’s in St. Petersburg with his parents and sister, Leah, for Christmas.”

Oh crap! I grab hold of the chair back. “How did you know that?”

“I know everything, Matthew.”

“Is this a joke? How do you know my name?”

“No,” the man says. “It’s not a joke.”

The interview. It was for an assignment. Our teacher told us to interview someone we knew, and, okay, I fudged. I waited until the last minute, so I made up a discussion I supposedly had with Jesus. She said it wasn’t acceptable, because we were to interview someone current, someone we knew. And besides, my questions were totally superficial.

Oh really! “I do know him,” I had argued. “Give me one more chance.”

Her look spoke an emphatic “No!” But when she turned from me she said, “Get a Christmas interview with Jesus, and if it’s decent, we’ll see.”

“Maybe you’d like to interview me now,” he says.

What kind of a get-up is a robe and sash, even for Christmas Eve? Is he supposed to be some kind of fit, new-age Santa—or Jesus?

“Wh. . .who are you?” I stammer. Afraid to stay, afraid to run, and especially fearful Jesus is here because I lied. About him! Whoever he is, the man’s aura has an undeniable sense of calm, love, and every good thing simultaneously, so much so that I cannot help but stay. love-1221444_1920

Could this be . . . “Is it really you?”

“Yes, I’m no new-age Santa,” he answers my unspoken sarcasm.

As he holds up his hands, I see the faint light through the puncture wounds in his palms, and my lower lip drops. Jesus? Two steps forward and my misgivings vaporize. Obvious holes!

My knees sort of buckle and a nervous tick I sometimes get over my left eye comes upon me. “Wait, I’ll be right back!” I run to get paper and pencil, afraid he’ll be gone when I return, but he isn’t. He’s smiling, telling me how he loves to spend time with me. In fact, he says he loves that I talk with him every morning and sometimes during the day.

“So, what did you want to ask me?” He settles back like there’s no place he’d rather be.

Guess I’m really going to do this. “Well, for one thing, I need to know about Christmas. I mean, I know the Christmas story about the angels, the manger, the wise men and shepherds coming to see the baby Jesus. . . uh, I mean, you.“

Jesus points to my paper and pencil. “You don’t need those.”

I toss them by my chair.

“You’ll remember every word of our conversation until you’re very old,” he says.

His eyes seem to burn into mine and I can’t stop gazing at Him. The need of his touch is so overpowering, I rush to the sofa as He arises. The fullness of His white garment and His ample arms fall around my shoulders like rings of love. I bawl like a baby, for what reason, I have no idea. When I pull away, he kisses one of my cheeks and then the other. “We are brothers, you know. Always talk to me.”

“It’s so good to see you in person.” I dry my eyes on my baggy tee shirt. “Millions of people would love this. Why me?”

“Only a handful of people have ever claimed to interview me, and since you didn’t, and you need to, I thought I’d keep you honest.” We both laugh.

When I sit down in Dad’s chair, he asks, “So what’s your first Christmas question, Matthew?”

“Well, tell me about the beginning, before Christmas, before everything,” I say, feeling the need to pinch myself, but ignoring it.

That’s easy. The beginning was before the world began. When there was just Father and me.”

“Wasn’t that lonely?”

“Oh no! Regardless of what we’re doing or where we are, Father and I love. And since we’ve created everyplace we go, we just enjoy our creations.” He actually flashes a mischievous grin, but I am too awestruck to return it.

“Did you live in heaven then?”

“Oh yes, of course, we needed a place to live.”

Of course he lived in heaven. What a stupid question.

“There’s no such thing as a stupid question.” Once again he answers my thoughts.

My eyes are as saucers. “What exactly do angels do? Are angels around us now?”angels in the air wallpaper - Copy

“Oh yes, angels surround us.” He gestures around the room and actually nods a couple of times. “Angels guide, engage, and protect my people—from themselves, from each other, and especially from Satan, the evil one. Angels have many wondrous attributes, one being their astounding beauty.”

I consider these glorious creatures, and finally say, “I know my questions aren’t really about Christmas; there’s just so much I want to know.”

“They are about Christmas.” His eyes twinkle like that other patron of Christmas. “You’ll see how it all works together.”

“Okay, then, tell me about when you or rather God, or, um, when humans were created?”

His eyes move heavenward and his body relaxes. “One day Father decided to create special beings he called people. They would have hearts and be in our image, and they would love us as we loved them.” His smile literally casts more light into the room. “So, day by day we began establishing what you know as the universe.”

“What about the people? Adam and Eve?” I ask.

“They’re coming.” He grins at me. “But first we had to create an environment they could live in—planets, moons, atmosphere, sun, stars . . . every vector in the galaxy had to be planned.”

I sit forward, riveted.

“Layer upon layer, we crafted, over more years than you can fathom. We were creating out of that deep vacuum spoken of in Genesis. ‘The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the deep.’ He spreads his arms. The blackness was our blank canvas.”

The incredulity of His words nearly dwarf His presence.

“We set things up strategically, making sure it would all work together, and then, Bang! everything materialized as Father intended. He even fashioned a way we could ride intergalactic flows.” He smiles at what must have been a beautiful memory. “In that very beginning we had so much fun.”

I shake my head, mesmerized, so happy to be sitting here.

“Even for us, this was new. The Bible says that a day is as a thousand years, but that’s really just a number because before man, time didn’t exist. Suffice to say, your beginning is not Our beginning. And, time as you understand it began when the first humans, Adam and Eve, bit into the apple in the Garden of Eden. The first sin.” He stops. “Are you getting this?”

I nod. “Time began after Adam and Eve and sin.” I repeat his words. “An amazing statement. So many amazing statements! This will blow my teacher away.”

When he smiles, I admire the soft halo about his body, his aura, so calming.

“Because the essence of Father and I are love,” he continues, “we never even postulated Sin in the Garden. Everything was perfect, almost as magnificent as heaven. Blue-green rivers, and oceans with crystal crests, glistening mountaintops, and long, lush valleys, and the blueness of an uninterrupted sky, dotted by perfectly visible galaxies, deficient of structures and pollution and even mankind.”

“It’s hard to imagine.” My thoughts race through my narrow band of travels. “Was it anything like Alaska?”

Jesus laughs. “Much nicer than even that. However, sin caused even the atmosphere to change. Father had given Adam and Eve only one small, now-famous tenet: Do not eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.” He lowers his head and I suspect that happens each time the Tree comes to mind. garden-of-eden-1803805_1920

“That Tree had to exist, because human beings had to be given a choice to obey Father. Or not. I remember Him saying, ‘I cannot force my will on them. I want them to love me simply because I love them.’ And, if not for Satan’s deceptions, it would have worked.” Jesus looks away, remembering, no doubt, that time when Earth was paradise.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“Oh no. It’s okay.”

I shrug, not sure it is. “Can I get you anything?”

“Actually, I’d love something to eat.” He looks toward the kitchen. “Just something simple.”

I walk to the hearth. “How about some Santa cookies?”

He eyes me shyly. “Speaking of forbidden fruit. Those are for your dad.”

I walk the plate to him. “He’ll understand.” I make a face at the dollops of color. “Do you even want them? They’re heavy on icing.” Setting it on the sofa cushion, I go back for the milk.

He eyes the cookies. “The essence of Christmas,” he says, dryly.

“They’re awful looking, aren’t they?”

He takes a bite.

“One thing I don’t understand,” I say, setting the milk on a table by the sofa. “You said time didn’t exist. I thought time had always existed?”

“When earth was created, its axis rotated, which humans eventually hypothesized, then used as a gauge. However, in the early period, earth and the galaxies that surround it didn’t subsist in time as you understand it. They lived in God’s time, which is really outside of time.”

“It sounds plausible; it’s just mind blowing.” Something implausible—watching Jesus eat a cookie! He lifts the plate in my direction.

I shake my head.

“Go ahead,” he says. “You’re hungry.”

Two of three cookies are left. “I’ll have one,” I say, walking to retrieve it. “Since you don’t get my way very often.”

“I’m always here, Matthew. Holy Spirit alerts me every morning when you pray or when you need me. Just like with the interview.” He wipes his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve just like me. “But, you’re right, I don’t often come in the flesh. Speaking of flesh, let me explain the ‘time’ thing in a way you might understand.” He sips the milk and sort of swishes it in his mouth. “That Rudolph cookie was a little heavy on the sugar.”

I can’t believe He said that, and I’m sure I wear a stupid look. It’s just that He’s such a regular guy.

“Father created time all at once. One day it didn’t exist, the next, it did. Imagine a storybook with picture frames that continue through every second of every day. Except that this storybook has players—people—who are writing their own script. And while Father set the storybook in motion, he didn’t dictate what would happen in each frame, which serves as the seconds, hours, and years of a person’s earthly history. Father and I can look down into the frames and see what you’re doing—past, present, and future. If you’re making a huge mistake in June of next year, We set things in motion that could counteract the consequences of that wrong choice, always encouraging you to act in your best interest. Yet if you don’t listen, we don’t interfere.

I nod, trying to imagine Jesus and Father God peeking down into my life as it fast forwards like boxcars resembling framed movie screens.

“And really, that’s the simple version,” he says. “Because, the fervent prayers of a righteous person can reverse anything.”

“That explains so much. I never understood it when people would say, God . . . well, You . . . knows our yesterday’s, today’s, and tomorrow’s.”

“I’m glad it’s clear to you.” He breaks the second cookie and brings me the largest half.

“Thank you, Jesus.” I bite into it. “But there’s another thing that isn’t clear.” I am chomping through my question. “You said time didn’t begin until after Adam and Eve sinned. I would’ve thought time began when you created earth.” I swallow hard.

“Time wasn’t needed then. Like heaven, earth was a Paradise outside of time. Adam and Eve were pure and Father actually walked side by side with them.”

His tone becomes more serious. “It’s difficult to understand the holiness of God . . . ” A thoughtfulness comes over him and he hesitates. “God is detached from evil and sin; if you dwell in it, you’re separated from Him. And all mankind dwells in it. The Apostle John wrote that God is light and in Him there is no darkness.’ That’s true. We are moral perfection. Our hearts—our very beings—are light and love.”

“After Adam and Eve became creatures of sin, Father was daily confronted with the thing He abhorred the most. Sin not only brought death into the future generations of his precious creation, but they were lost to him forever. He had to find a way to redeem them.”

His Christmas cookies gone, Jesus walks the dish to the fireplace. I wonder what Mother would think if she knew the Messiah, the true King of Christmas, had eaten Rudolph and half an elf on our best china.

“Mankind had no future.” He looks at the empty plate. “They were now as devoid of God as this plate is of cookies.” He places the china on the hearth and returns to the sofa. “To redeem mankind, Father came up with the time/frame concept, which put earth on a different plane, if you will, from heaven. Father no longer walked with man, but He could teach them about goodness and sin through ‘time.’ He did this by creating the laws of the Ten Commandments, which no one could fully obey. Not the Jews of latter day or the Gentiles of today.”

“But there was icing on God’s plan of salvation. It wasn’t sugar coated like those cookies, that wasn’t possible. Sin had to die. And the only thing pure enough to remove it had to be as light and as white as a Christmas snow.”

“Enter you!” I pump my fist in the air. “Christ Jesus.”

He nodded. “As mankind’s Messiah, I was born to a woman and became human. My birth was prophesied throughout time in the Old Testament and revealed in the New Testament: God’s sinless Son would shed His blood for Godless men.”

“I’m sorry, Jesus.” I hang my head.

“Don’t be sorry. Be happy.” His tone is gently firm. “Now Father sees you through a filter of light, forever forgiven, and, once again, God’s friend. The New Covenant covering of my blood redeems all people back to Father, if only they believe.” His voice softens. “Back to a holiness and love they previously couldn’t comprehend.”

“The gift of Christmas.”

“Yes,” He practically whispers.

“Jesus.” I whisper, too. “Thank you for Christmas, and for coming.”

“You’re welcome, Matthew.”

“Help me to be more like you.” I wrestle tears as I crawl down the sofa and throw my arms around his neck. “I’m so glad you came tonight.”

He kisses the top of my head as his arms encircle me.

“I love you so much,” I say, tears covering my face. “I know you love me and I’m just grateful for all you’ve done.”

“I know you are, son. I love you more than you know.”

I pull my tee-shirt up to wipe my eyes and nestle into his chest. “Thank you for all this, but I have one more question.”

“Okay, that’s why I’m here.” He strokes my hair.

“Tell me what happened that first Christmas in heaven, before you came to earth as a baby? I know the Christmas story of your parents, Joseph and Mary, and your birth, but what was it like in heaven—before you left?”

I feel a chuckle in his chest. “Well, first of all, we had a feast. Everything in heaven begins with a feast. The archangels Michael and Gabriel were there, other angels, the Seraphim and Cherubim. Father. It was grand. We love parties in heaven. Don’t let anyone say otherwise.” I pull back, beaming, to look at his face. Something about a heavenly party makes me smile.

“But, it was bittersweet,” he says. “I would be a fetus for nine months, not separated from Father, but not walking with Him either. And when I did surface, I would be a baby.lightstock_55067_xsmall_user_2435152

“But, I was excited to go, and Father wanted me to go. As I mentioned, He was anxious to have His beloved people in heaven and that couldn’t happen until we liberated them.”

“I’m grateful you came.” I pull back again to look at him. “But if you had been my best friend, I’d have said, ‘Don’t do it!'”

“And I would have said, ‘Get thee behind me Satan.'” He sort of laughs and I try to remember the story he refers to.

“I said that to Peter,” he says, “one of my best friends. He told me I couldn’t die for mankind.”

“The disciple Peter. I remember now.” I nuzzle back into his arms feeling more acceptance and love than I’d ever known. “Glad you didn’t listen.”

“Even back then, I knew you’d feel that way.” He rubs my back and continues, “I longed to become human, and believe me I’d seen the future through time in the storybook frames, so I knew it would be agonizing. But, like Father, I wanted those who loved us to reside with us.” He tilts my head up and smiles at me. “But, yes, I had reservations. I was, after all, the Son of God. I sat on a throne, exalted. Seraphim sang above me, ‘Holy, Holy Holy, is the Lord of hosts, the whole earth is full of His glory.’ And the building shook when I spoke and it filled with glorious smoke. It still does.”

“Wow! That sounds awesome.”

“I guess it is, but it isn’t some fantastic ritual. No. It’s a testimony to who we are and it portrays the pureness, the holiness of God.”

I pull away and crawl to the opposite end of the sofa, to see his face. “I can’t imagine going from heaven to earth. That’s backwards. No wonder you had reservations.” Facing Jesus, I pull my feet up in front of me. “You left a throne to be born in a barn, with a carpenter for a father. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s a long way from being the Son of God.”

“I would have done anything.” Jesus leans forward and rests his hands on his knees.

“Actually, you did everything possible–designing the universe, leaving heaven, dying horribly.” A thought escapes my mouth: “But you got to choose your own mother.”

Jesus lowers his head and laughs. “Well, that’s only partially true. I agreed, but Father chose Mary. She was amazing. A perfect mother. Always knew exactly what to do. Even today, Father allows Mary’s vision to be seen around the world. People adore her, and so do I.”

“Matthew!” My dad calls from the stairs. “Do I hear you in there?”

“Dad!” I look at Jesus, stricken.

Jesus leans over and squeezes my foot. “Your interview is well complete.” He winks at me. “Now you understand, Matthew. Everything Father and I did, we did for you. For all of you. I love you, little brother. Merry Christmas.”

“I lov . . . “ My mouth flies open as Dad walks in. It is now officially Christmas morning.

“What are you doing in here?” He shuffles into the room in his slippers and pajamas. “Do you know what time it is?”

My eyes move from one corner of the room to another. His aura, His glow! He’s gone. Jesus! Be cool. “Hi, Dad.”

“Did I hear you talking to someone?” He’s carrying a poinsettia that he sits on the hearth.

I look at the opposite end of the sofa and glance around the room again, crestfallen. “I was talking to Jesus.” I shrug.

Dad sort of laughs as he looks at the empty cookie plate. “I suppose Jesus ate the cookies?”

“As a matter of fact . . .”

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

So glad I couldn’t. “No. Not really.

He walks over and musses my hair. “You still feeling cheated because you’re too old for Santa?”

“No!” I practically scream. “I have something so much better than Santa.” I look away, missing Jesus already, trying not to cry. “Jesus visited me tonight.”

“Well, I’m glad.” He stirs the fireplace embers with a poker. “I just wish he’d left me a cookie.”

“Really, that’s what you care about?”

“Hey, bud, I’m just joking.’ He puts a log on the burning ashes. “I don’t care that you ate the cookies.”

“I don’t care about the cookies or the presents. I just wish people would think about who Jesus really is and what He did for us.”

Dad brushes his hands together as he sits in his chair. “You really have been thinking about this?”

I nod.

“Want to talk about it?” He leans back, his eyes fully fixed on me.

“Do you believe Jesus is like us?”

“Well . . .” my Dad hesitates. “He’s God, but He came to earth in an ordinary way to an ordinary family and worked an ordinary job for thirty years before starting His ministry. So, yes. I think He’s like us. And I think that was the whole idea. Now we know the person advocating for us in heaven has been here and done this just like us.”

“Can we do something special for Christmas this year? Something to honor Jesus for coming to earth as a baby.”

“Do you have something in mind?” Dad leans forward.

“Can we just love everybody? Maybe not say negative things about not even one person. Try to love even the people we don’t like.”

Dad walks to the sofa, sets beside me, and puts his arm behind my shoulders. “I think you’ve finally outgrown Santa,” he says. “I’m very proud of you. After what Jesus did for us, the least we can do is love those who are sometimes unlovable.” He hugs my shoulders.

I nuzzle against him. “Did you know God and Jesus sometimes get their feelings hurt?”

“Well, I never thought about it, but it makes sense,” he says.

I put my head on His shoulder. “The Virgin Mary was an awesome Mother. Did you know that?”

“Well, she does get a few accolades.” He pats my shoulder and chuckles. “I’m beginning to think maybe you had a real conversation with Jesus.”

“He’s real, Dad.”

“I know.”

“Do you love Him?” I ask.

“With all my heart.”

“Good. I want you to be in heaven with me.”

“You sound pretty sure you’re going.” He musses my hair again before pushing up from the sofa and walking back to the hearth. I follow behind him.

“I know I’m going to heaven, Dad, and I know how much Jesus loves me. He even knows I lied to my teacher about His interview, but He didn’t scold me. He actually helped me.” The poker is fixed in his hand.

“You spoke to Jesus about that?” His voice rises as he jabs at the small flame.

I shrug. “Well, yes. Sort of.”

“That’s actually good.” He’s cradles the poker and faces me. “One thing I hope you always remember, Matthew–Jesus is always with us, whether we see Him or not. And for all the cookies and presents in the world, the love of the Father through His Son Jesus Christ is the real gift of Christmas.”

“I know, Dad.” Tears flood my face and I throw my arms around his neck. “He did so much for us.”

“He certainly did, Matthew.” He hugs me tight. “I don’t understand what happened tonight, but I think I like it.”

A chime from the hearth alerts me and I raise my head from Dad’s chest. Nothing. Suddenly, as I’m wiping  my tears, a startling light my dad can’t see moves up through the roof. Momentarily spellbound, I quickly compose myself and point behind him. “Look, Dad!”

Dad turns and grins at me. “How’d you do that, Matthew?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Well, someone did.”

I laugh enthusiastically, loving the fact that the cookie plate is now piled with those awful green and red cookies. Loving Jesus.

“So, how’d you do that, Matthew?”

I look at my dad, wanting him to know the truth, but knowing he can’t accept it. “Some things a guy keeps to himself,” I say. “You taught me that.”

“That’s true.” He turns around and picks up the plate of cookies, offering me one.

“I got an elf,” I say, holding it for him to see.

He looks at his. “I got Santa.”

“That’s fitting,”

I crunch into my cookie and look up, up, wanting desperately to see Jesus, wishing I could see heaven. Choking back tears, I am humbled and overwhelmed, like I’d wished on a star and received every Christmas miracle imaginable. I silently pray: “I’m so grateful you made me an honest boy, Big Brother. Thank you for coming tonight . . . and for coming before. And, Jesus, thanks for the cookies, too.”

“So, you ready to help me set out Santa presents?” Dad has already downed his cookie and sort of glows in the shadow and warmth of the flames.

“Dad, I can’t believe I was so upset about Santa when I had Jesus all along.”

Dad puts his hand on my back. “I love you, Matthew. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Dad. I love you too.” merry-christmas-1872500_1920

Election Protection

 

“Said the night wind to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?” *

Back biting, bickering,
Name calling, worse;
A free-falling election
That feels like a curse.

“Grant us four years?”
Ask both Trump and Clinton,
Yet their endless campaigning
Feels like a life sentence.

From privileged high places,
They dismiss what I see:
The entitlement, the avarice,
These egos that feed.

“We’ll win again!” he says.
She replies right on cue:
“We’ve been winning for years!
You haven’t a clue.”

“I’ll keep foes at bay
And take care of our friends.”
He purses his lips,
As she sighs through a grin.

Meanwhile, America,
Running at high speed,
Oozes joblessness, discord
From a populace in need.

Some working tirelessly,
Others wanting jobs,
Few being satisfied,
Most feeling robbed . . .

By our very government,
Trusted partisan friends.
We’ve forgotten the lesson,
Of the fox with the hens.

“Hear me, oh hear me,”
They say to us all,
“I’m the savior you seek,
I’ll not let you fall.”

A Savior! A Savior!
Now that’s good advice.
Dump Trump and ditch Clinton
Give us Jesus, the Christ.

Of course I wrote this, yet I get that some people actually like Clinton or Trump. So, forgive my honesty, a trait that, in my opinion, neither candidate seems to value, and a trait that I have just ridiculously apologized for.

I remind myself to be kind, that I have dual citizenship—of the United States, but also of heaven. As such, I am beholden to a higher power, a holy God who has instructed me to love, and to pray for our leaders, regardless of feelings. And, truly, the election is good for my prayer life.

My ongoing dialogue with God goes something like this: “I’m sorry to bring this up again, Lord, but I’m wondering if you’ve been tied up over in Syria or the Sudan? Have you seen this, this . . . charade masquerading as an election in America? Have you seen who the populace has put forth as potential leaders of the free world?

“Father, are you there? I’m fearful that, as some people say, you’ve left America because many people don’t want you here. I want you here. Many of us do. We need you! I know it isn’t your style, but won’t you intervene, please? Maybe raise up another candidate? Father, are you there?”

This is somewhat tongue in cheek, but not far from the truth.

God almost always settles me down, reminding me of verses such as this one from Philippians: “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.” The first four words of this verse sum up the way God would have us live. Always. As to the supplication part? That’s easy. “Please, please, God, send another candidate.” Whoops, too late.

And to the thankful part? Surprisingly, there’s a lot to be thankful for in this election: I live in a free country where I can vote; a woman can actually run for president; I’m healthy enough to get out to vote; and I’m not intimidated not to vote. Thank you, Lord.

When I ask God to take away my anxiousness, this verse pops into my mind. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your path.”

My mindset should always be to trust in God, to try and forget the candidates and to focus on God’s omniscience, omnipotence, mercy, and love. I should be more overwhelmed with our Lord than I am with these candidates. What comes across the airwaves doesn’t matter nearly as much as what comes from my heart. I must answer only for me.

The Bible says He called all things into existence, including us. He knows the number of hairs on our head, he feeds the birds of the air, dresses the lilies of the field, and He knows our every thought, past and present.

Our God is aware and He is powerful. However, until the return of Jesus Christ, Satan and His minions rule our planet. Because of this, we must sometimes choose our poison, but never, never doubt that God is on the throne. The plan in place is Divine and it won’t be shattered because of an election, or because God doesn’t step up at this particular moment.

Remember what Jesus said to His Roman henchman, Pilate? “You could have no power at all against Me unless it had been given you from above.” Pilate had no authority over Jesus. Yet Father God let Jesus hang on that cross. What the apostle’s thought was history’s darkest moment, became its greatest hour.

That’s enormous! If nothing else throughout history shows that God has a greater plan, this is it! And just imagine the scene surrounding Jesus in the spiritual realm—legions of great white angels standing with hands on their swords, eyes shifting back and forth between Jesus and the dark forces, knowing this sick scenario had been orchestrated by Satan and his mocking, chanting demons. All the while the light angels continued waiting, waiting patiently for their King to order an attack.

But the order never came.

Significantly more depressing than our election.

I’m not suggesting that there’s a shred of comparison between what Jesus did and this election. Never. Only that God has a plan. Ecclesiastes reminds us, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven, a time to be born and a time to die, a time to mourn and a time to laugh . . .”      lightstock_69198_xsmall_user_2435152

Nothing in the world is everlasting. It is all—we are all—terminal. Whether or not we like this particular moment between Clinton and Trump, history has led us to these two candidates, and to this tenuous time in America. And regardless of what happens, it will not be history’s darkest hour. We’ve already been there.

Daniel says: “And he changes the times and the seasons; He removes kings and raises up kings.” Suffice to say, we are in a season. Regardless of the outcome of this election, the good news is, God is on the throne and Jesus has been raised up. Yes, Satan is bouncing around wreaking havoc, but in the end, it will be God’s will that rises up like the Phoenix from the ashes. Or perhaps, more appropriately, like Jesus from the grave. In one nano-second, God can change things.

Be advised—His ways are not our ways. “For as the heaven are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts,” He says in Isaiah. We don’t/can’t understand His motives. I am reminded of my personal agony after my mother’s horrific bout to the death with cancer and my questioning of God: “Why, why, why?” (See “It’s None of Your Business.”)

And God’s amazing answer to me, in the quiet of night at the top of my driveway: “It’s not your business,” He said.

Such freeing, triumphant words. Words that say, “I, God, am in control. There is a plan. There is a purpose. Believe. Believe.”

So we must do as commanded. Trust and pray. Not for our own desires, but for God’s will to be done. Pray for peace for our country no matter the outcome. Vote your heart. Love your neighbors regardless of their political affiliation or vote, remembering that God will have the last word.

“Said the King to the people everywherelightstock_55067_xsmall_user_2435152
Listen to what I say.
Pray for peace people everywhere
Listen to what I say.
The child, the child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light.”*

 

*From the song: “Do You Hear What I Hear”

Musings: reunions and going home

Deep in the heart of Appalachia are my roots. I don’t often visit the town of my childhood, now less than half of the 6,700 census population of the 1960’s, depleted by time and recession, by men who made fortunes and left. And by people like me, who in their youth, deserted it for college or war or work. I have as much fondness for this town, for this area, as I do for my aunt who still lives there, which is saying a lot.

Like many women, I fancied my alma mater’s all-class reunion as a kind of ‘red carpet’ affair. Hair freshly colored. Finger and toenails polished. Unsightly hair eliminated. A light bronzing of skin. My stylish flat shoes were really for comfort, and my outfit, I hoped, made me look trim.

It’s a process, looking my best. And even given my practiced expertise, I can only look less old and not so lumpy. But, at least I’ve forgone Botox and fillers. For now. After almost 50 years, I ask myself, “Think it’s time to quit obsessing over appearance?”

My answer whispers back, “Maybe next year.”

I wish I could check a preference box: “stay young” or “get old.” But really, aging isn’t that bad. Except for funerals. Things change, of course: the hair, the gait, the bones. Teeth yellow, eyes grow dim. Why had I never stopped to consider what it might be like—getting older? I think I was busy being young, feeling young. Even into my fifties. People say being old is a state of mind. Ha! Mostly, they are young and don’t need extra rest or preparation.

Still, regardless of the added effort, I love reunions—seeing old friends, making new ones—escaping back to that place when the world was kinder, and a smorgasbord of opportunity. Back to when there was still so much time in front of me that “hurry” was just a ridiculous adult word in the dictionary, except when it came to my desire to drive.

Remember dewy, unlined skin. Remember band practice, ball practice, or even P.E. in hundred-degree heat. We easily endured the scorching sun or the bite of snow or whatever the adversity because we were going to live forever. Uncomplicated minds, obsessed with ourselves and our world. Like others before us, we thought youth was only hampered by adults.

Yet parents and many of the adults around us, even the seriously flawed ones, bathed us in the unconditional love and instruction comeuppance that was part of Appalachian nurturing. Teaching us, “Yes, sir” and “no, mam,” sending us home when the sky dimmed low past the one street light that would shine our path, and calling our parents if we scuttled between train cars parked on the railroad track at the swimming pool. I remember swinging with my grandmother and telling her about my day, unaware I would remember it as a highlight of my life. I remember when my boy friends would hitchhike home with nary a repercussion. I remember when as a teenager, I had my very own burgundy and white Nash Rambler and thought I was all grown up.

Seeing old friends brings back these memories like nothing else.

As my husband Alan and I drove up to the old field house, where the reunion was held, it looked pretty much the same. How many times had I walked into this building wearing a maroon and white uniform as a band member and then as a majorette? Memories flooded me as Alan dodged all the parked cars straddling the yellow highway lines. Cars parked cockeyed around the field house, cars in yards, and even up into Sunset subdivision. Just like old times. He let me out near the front of the building. In my imagination, the Wolfpack was playing. My heart sensed the bustle of the crowd I would push through as a program would be thrust in my face—the band tuning up, cheerleaders chanting, balls bouncing. The noise. That blessed cheer: Maroon and white, fight, fight!

“Hey Karyn Cantees! I’d recognize you anywhere.” My vision was interrupted as I approached the door. Thank God for nametags. Mostly I am clueless, recognizing almost no one except Facebook friends whose age progression I have witnessed. And sometimes not even then.

About twenty minutes into the hot September evening, in the un-airconditioned, geriatric building, sweat began to form around my hairline and moved up into my hair. I wondered how we’d ever performed in this heat. How athletes had played. People fanned with paper plates, napkins, the flap of their purse, whatever was handy.

These are my people. Fanning with paper plates.

Bloom where you’re planted, the old proverb goes. I did once and I think I still do. I come alive when I am here. There is no mistaking, this is still home. These people own a chunk of my soul as surely as the Tug Fork River runs north. As surely as God birthed me here.

We aren’t the elite. Language isn’t perfect. Drawls and twangs are thick. Waistlines are sometimes thicker. But love is thickest. I am always smitten. And though Thomas Wolfe said, “You can’t go home again,” I always thought that one day I would. But, then I look around, and see the recession desolation. See how the world has shed its dusty Appalachian coat. A coat that warmed homes in winter and cooled them in summer. Exchanged for a green machine that rolled a grenade into this forgotten part of Appalachia with total disregard. Shattering businesses, mines, hearts, and wallets. And shattering the lives of the loving, hardworking, decent, God-fearing people who live here.

If you don’t know people like this—if you think the best of the world is a Yorkie who will whimper across your grave when you die—you have my sympathy. Appalachian people would die for each other. And many of them died for you. Deep in the recesses of a coal mine. As their young have moved away, this proud, somewhat older population, assemble for funerals the way New Yorkers line up for theatre.

Among the alumni crowd I’m aware of many who are gone. Not just those who have died, but those who aren’t attending this all-class reunion of a school that is no more. It’s Williamson High School, It’s Williamson High School, the pride of every student here . . . People are singing the Hail Wolfpack song. Many of the words I’ve forgotten.

I am at a disadvantage without my younger cousin Cheryl who serves as my memory at events like this. She not only assists with lyrics to old fight songs, but puts names with faces and gives me the history of Sally so-and-so, my classmate Millie’s third cousin once removed who married Jared from the funeral home, divorced him after their only son lost his job in the coal mines, and now lives next door to the drive through pill mill over at Kermit. Yes, this is made up, yet not so far-fetched. But Cheryl is at our old friend John’s funeral in Florida and I am on my own.

People think small Appalachian towns like Williamson, now settled sluggishly between two mountains, are awash in hillbillies and inconsequential lore. We weren’t, of course, on Andy Warhol’s radar; neither Stanley Kubrick or Alfred Hitchcock hailed our stories. Yet our small hamlet was flooded with ethnicity and dialects—mannerisms, customs, food, and language—and the gentility of the ‘old country’ folk who planted solid roots in this rural, faraway land. These Ellis Island immigrants became our merchants, our chefs, our stone masons, our entrepreneurs. And with them came the traditions of Lebanon, Israel, Italy, Greece and others. Each family brought distinctive customs and work ethics, and respect for their new country to our civilized and yes, cultured, little town.

That John’s funeral coincided with the reunion is serendipitous. He loved gatherings. My Aunt Jeanette, ninety years young and holding court five tables across from me in this heat, without a paper plate, was like his second Mama. This kind and decent man, when in his early twenties, once stepped between me and a policeman’s pistol. The bravest thing I’ve ever witnessed.

One weekend night my shoulder-length haired brother, fresh from college, was out for a drive in his new Camaro with two young, Ohio girls who were family friends. A policeman stopped him for passing a car on an unlined road. It was around 1970 and I was visiting from New York, I think. The girls said the policeman had harassed my brother about his hair and took him to jail. John and I arrived at the facility where my brother was detained and I lit into the officer. He pulled a gun and John stepped between us. Policemen then and now don’t take kindly to disrespect.

Some things don’t change, I muse. Like Williamson.

Being here is somewhat like stepping into a time machine. Not because it hasn’t changed. It has. Floods and industry gone awry have taken a major toll on architecture, jobs, and population. But it’s the people—kind, decent, funny, and friendly—who haven’t changed. Maybe it’s because they all know one another, maybe it’s because they know my family or me. Or maybe it’s because small towns just breed folks who are nice. And uninhibited. Like karaoke night at Starters, a local bar and restaurant, where even the less talented sing with the gusto of Tom Jones and are applauded and back patted as if they’d just turned four chairs on “The Voice.”

Where else do you get that? I certainly don’t know. Not today. Not when everyone has their face in a phone. Will let a door slam in your face. I hadn’t even found a seat in Starters before I’d spoken to several people I barely know and as many old friends. My cousin Rod asking what I wanted to drink.

Years ago, I was jumping on my trampoline when the Lord spoke to me. I immediately stopped and sat down. He said a close friend would be moving back to Williamson. Since she hadn’t planned this, I was to tell her. “Lord, are you sure? Was that really you?” It was the last thing my friend wanted to hear, I knew. She lived in a major city, was serving God and making the mark she hoped to make on the world for Him. I was as reluctant as the prophet Jonah about relaying this information. After praying about it, I sent her this email around midnight: “If you’re up right now call me! Otherwise, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I think God is telling me to share something with you.”

At 8:40 AM, she replied: “I can’t believe this!!! When I started up my computer, I was going to send you an email saying the same thing!!! However, I don’t have anything specifically to share… just felt the urge to talk.”

No, she wasn’t giddy over the prospect of moving to Williamson and said she doubted she would. But over a two-year period, God prepared her heart, and she moved home.

Home.

Why did I not want to tell her? Because, really, going home was out of the order of things. Whether home represents the pinnacle or the pit of your life, or something in between, you’ve been there. It’s a stalemate. A do-over. A tied game. An old girlfriend or boyfriend.

Get on your knees and put your ear to the earth. It has been there longer than you, has been trod on harder than you have been trod upon. When I was home long ago, the earth said, “Move along, put on your big girl britches, set fear aside, and go into the world.” No, I did not want to tell my friend to go back to her old boyfriend.

As I have written this, I have wondered where these somewhat disconnected musings would lead me. And not just these, but my life. I put my ear to the earth at the reunion. The earth replied, “This place is your safe harbor. A grown up heart needs nurturing, too.” I realize from my friend that nurturing can simply be about getting back to a kinder and gentler place. God has taken me home as surely as he sent my friend there. Not physically, of course, but with my writing. Back to those whose hearts connected to mine so many years ago.

This verse from the book of Psalms is one I hold out as my own. One that I stand on and believe for. “Those who are planted in the house of the Lord will flourish in the courts of our God. They will still bear fruit in old age, they will be fresh and flourishing.”

God knew where to plant me. Williamson is not, of course, the house of the Lord, but it is as close to heavenly kindness as you’ll find on this planet. At least that’s my experience.

In my older years, I am grateful God has allowed me to still bear fruit, to reach out to those who were once a part of my life, wherever they may be. To thank, to bless and to be blessed by, to cherish, and to say goodbye. He has allowed me to hold onto a piece of treasured history, and to some degree, relive it.

Oh yes, I am still that somewhat vain, crazy girl who graduated in 1967, but more importantly, like you, I am God’s child, and I’m keenly aware . . .

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   Brother Rick and me
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”

Aunt Jeanette and reunion organizer, June.

class-photo-richard class-reunion-pat class-photo-peatross-2imag0109-2 imag0114-4 imag0110

Poem “Walking by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost.

Photo’s: my brother Rick and me; My Aunt Jeanette, left and Reunion organizer, June, right; Senior Majorettes and Cheerleaders-Captains, Me and Deborah, Front: Zshawn, Linda, Sherelene, Mary: Me, my cousin, Pat, and her husband, Ralph: Dave and Richard, in Starters: Linda and me in front of my Nash Rambler: Bobby and Danny in Starters: Suedy, Mike S, me, and Mike M. at Teen Club in the Moose Club.