Invisible Jesus
When I was very young, so young that I don't even remember the start of it, I had an invisible friend. I know -- tons of little kids had invisible friends. But my invisible friend was Jesus, the one and only son of God who lived up in the clouds but came to talk and play with me throughout my early childhood. The most amazing thing about having Jesus as my invisible friend is that everyone believed in Invisible Jesus! My mother had died when I was a baby and my father was in Viet Nam, so my three sisters and I were mothered by my maternal grandmother, a beautiful woman named Naomi. When Naomi asked who was I playing with and what were we talking about, I would explain that Jesus was my invisible friend, and she would smile, and nod, and perhaps wonder a bit about what would become of me.
Let me tell you: having Jesus as your childhood invisible friend has some real downsides. First, he had a very strong preference for doing the Right Thing, but was not always on point. Once I took my grandmother's favorite red lipstick and completely colored in the back window of her 1960 Lincoln Continental. Where was invisible Jesus? Not there until after I was crying in my room with a sore butt, when he both consoled me and wondered aloud what the heck was I thinking?
This would be how things would mostly go with invisible Jesus and me.
Naomi had a little pet parakeet named Perky. But he was always called Perky Bird. Perky Bird would fly around the house, perch on Naomi's shoulder or up on the curtain rod, call out "Who's a good boy?" and "Roland V!" which was both my grandfather and uncle's name. I don't know if I loved Perky Bird; he was just part of the family. Until one day he was cold and dead in the bottom of his cage with his feet sticking up in the air.
Other than the story of my mother's death, something I couldn't remember at all and if you asked me had no particular feelings about, this was my first death. We put Perky Bird in a shoe box, covered his almost weightless body with an embordered handkerchief, and buried him in the back yard.
Then I began to pray. I think I was about four years old. I knew a lot of the bible stories, about how Jesus died but came back to life after three days. So I prayed and prayed. I talked to invisible Jesus and told him how happy I'd be when Perky Bird came back from the dead. After three days, I went out with a little garden shovel and dug him up.
I have no memory of the next part. Naomi tells the story that I had grabbed my younger sister Shelly to share the miracle, and that she saw us out the kitchen window kneeling next to Perky Bird's grave and puking our guts out.
But I remember Naomi telling me gently that God and Jesus didn't work that way, and that death was something that we all had to suffer with, but that we also know that when our loved ones go away from us in death, they go to God and live with him. And also, dimly, that night, a memory of her holding my small hand in her big warm hand and saying that "Four years old is just too old to be peeing the bed!"
When I was six years old, my father came back. Since he hadn't been killed in Viet Nam, he'd started searching for a wife, someone who'd be willing to raise up four little girls who weren't hers, and he finally found her. She was tall and rawboned with blue eyes and thin blond hair. My father had brought several women for Naomi to inspect, and this one got the nod. They married and spent six months on their own, getting to know each other better. In August, the four of us, my sibs and I, moved from Texas to California to be with them. Invisible Jesus came with me.
I don't have many other stories of Invisible Jesus. I talked to him and he came to my dreams. It was cool to be able to see him. I didn't tell my new friends about him, but I was known for being a goody-two-shoes. My dad, who'd picked up the habit of drinking a six-pack or two of beer every evening after work, would tell me all that Jesus stuff was just stories. Stories to make the people be afraid of the priests and give money to the church. My new mom would be hiding in the kitchen doing dishes, or around in the dining room folding laundry. I would come sit by her and sigh, and she'd lay her hand on my head. We wouldn't talk but maybe we didn't have to.
It's been so long ago that you'd think I wouldn't remember. But I do; I remember Invisible Jesus' laugh, and the way he would nudge me with his shoulder when I was sad. As I walk my sixtieth year, in the midst of this unending pandemic and on the cusp of apocalypse, I go to church looking for Invisible Jesus. The congregation praise Jesus and sing songs of worship. They study the bible. The raise their hands in the air, feeling something. I don't. It feels empty to me. Invisible Jesus was real and alive. He laughed and played with me and told me that I was a good person. When I talked to Invisible Jesus, I knew that everything was going to be ok.
Maybe I'm just a frightened old woman. Hasn't the world always been frightening? But this world i share with you looks horrifying grim. When I look at our failing ecosystems, at this pandemic, at the droughts and floods, fires and hurricanes, I imagine that my grandchildren and their grandchildren will live short lives in a place of catastrophe and lack.
When I talk to Invisible Jesus now, he is quiet and doesn't say that it's going to be ok. In my dreams, he doesn't laugh. I don't think I could bear it if my dreams were so false. But he lays his hand on my head and I am surprisingly comforted. Originally posted to Dreamwidth, were there are
comments. Dreamwidth comments. Note that ljgeoff can't get into her livejournal account so it'd be better if you left messages over on dreamwidth!
Let me tell you: having Jesus as your childhood invisible friend has some real downsides. First, he had a very strong preference for doing the Right Thing, but was not always on point. Once I took my grandmother's favorite red lipstick and completely colored in the back window of her 1960 Lincoln Continental. Where was invisible Jesus? Not there until after I was crying in my room with a sore butt, when he both consoled me and wondered aloud what the heck was I thinking?
This would be how things would mostly go with invisible Jesus and me.
Naomi had a little pet parakeet named Perky. But he was always called Perky Bird. Perky Bird would fly around the house, perch on Naomi's shoulder or up on the curtain rod, call out "Who's a good boy?" and "Roland V!" which was both my grandfather and uncle's name. I don't know if I loved Perky Bird; he was just part of the family. Until one day he was cold and dead in the bottom of his cage with his feet sticking up in the air.
Other than the story of my mother's death, something I couldn't remember at all and if you asked me had no particular feelings about, this was my first death. We put Perky Bird in a shoe box, covered his almost weightless body with an embordered handkerchief, and buried him in the back yard.
Then I began to pray. I think I was about four years old. I knew a lot of the bible stories, about how Jesus died but came back to life after three days. So I prayed and prayed. I talked to invisible Jesus and told him how happy I'd be when Perky Bird came back from the dead. After three days, I went out with a little garden shovel and dug him up.
I have no memory of the next part. Naomi tells the story that I had grabbed my younger sister Shelly to share the miracle, and that she saw us out the kitchen window kneeling next to Perky Bird's grave and puking our guts out.
But I remember Naomi telling me gently that God and Jesus didn't work that way, and that death was something that we all had to suffer with, but that we also know that when our loved ones go away from us in death, they go to God and live with him. And also, dimly, that night, a memory of her holding my small hand in her big warm hand and saying that "Four years old is just too old to be peeing the bed!"
When I was six years old, my father came back. Since he hadn't been killed in Viet Nam, he'd started searching for a wife, someone who'd be willing to raise up four little girls who weren't hers, and he finally found her. She was tall and rawboned with blue eyes and thin blond hair. My father had brought several women for Naomi to inspect, and this one got the nod. They married and spent six months on their own, getting to know each other better. In August, the four of us, my sibs and I, moved from Texas to California to be with them. Invisible Jesus came with me.
I don't have many other stories of Invisible Jesus. I talked to him and he came to my dreams. It was cool to be able to see him. I didn't tell my new friends about him, but I was known for being a goody-two-shoes. My dad, who'd picked up the habit of drinking a six-pack or two of beer every evening after work, would tell me all that Jesus stuff was just stories. Stories to make the people be afraid of the priests and give money to the church. My new mom would be hiding in the kitchen doing dishes, or around in the dining room folding laundry. I would come sit by her and sigh, and she'd lay her hand on my head. We wouldn't talk but maybe we didn't have to.
It's been so long ago that you'd think I wouldn't remember. But I do; I remember Invisible Jesus' laugh, and the way he would nudge me with his shoulder when I was sad. As I walk my sixtieth year, in the midst of this unending pandemic and on the cusp of apocalypse, I go to church looking for Invisible Jesus. The congregation praise Jesus and sing songs of worship. They study the bible. The raise their hands in the air, feeling something. I don't. It feels empty to me. Invisible Jesus was real and alive. He laughed and played with me and told me that I was a good person. When I talked to Invisible Jesus, I knew that everything was going to be ok.
Maybe I'm just a frightened old woman. Hasn't the world always been frightening? But this world i share with you looks horrifying grim. When I look at our failing ecosystems, at this pandemic, at the droughts and floods, fires and hurricanes, I imagine that my grandchildren and their grandchildren will live short lives in a place of catastrophe and lack.
When I talk to Invisible Jesus now, he is quiet and doesn't say that it's going to be ok. In my dreams, he doesn't laugh. I don't think I could bear it if my dreams were so false. But he lays his hand on my head and I am surprisingly comforted. Originally posted to Dreamwidth, were there are
comments. Dreamwidth comments. Note that ljgeoff can't get into her livejournal account so it'd be better if you left messages over on dreamwidth!