She Smiled Back

It was summer of 2005 when she saw Jesus sitting in the sunshine of her backyard atop an old Adirondack chair painted the color of lemons.

Frizzy white hair in a one-inch ponytail, He gazed upward at the trees moving ever so slightly on that beautiful August day.

He was eating a tuna sandwich.

She waited in the kitchen shadows just behind the blackout curtain. Her face a mask of suspicion peeking through the sliding glass doors, pondering what lay before her over emerald green grass.

This was not the Jesus she knew. But something brewed uncomfortably inside her troubled soul, like indigestion you need to address, telling her otherwise.

Speaking to a child's wounded heart still housed within her grown-up frame, she stood there listening to time tick away. Fixated and popping Rolaid's, knowing only this much; it was definitely Him.

To be clear, it is not strange in itself for her to see Jesus. She passes him on the streets of her town daily. He doesn’t wear robes or even slightly resemble the picture this universe has painted of Him. So he quite easily fades into the background at Starbucks while everyone continues lazily sipping an overpriced coffee.

But once in a while, even if one feels unprepared, a fog lifts. And everything you once knew to be true become grains of sand that wash away, exfoliating the mind in one defining moment that can take your breath to a whole new level of purer breathing.

A cleansing of the lungs, a gift.

Not the kind you normally ask for but the kind that changes and molds you into the best version of yourself. The kind of gift you didn't know you needed, tailor made for you and your story.

The first day she met Jesus, He was giving out new eyes. They took some adjusting, like a new pair of glasses placed on your most tender organ. But in and out of a thousand days of hard and soft questions the magic took hold and she took root.

Behold, a more gentle, imperfect spirit in flip flops. Like Jesus, yet not.

Soon after, she saw Him on Laurel Street in Northern California standing in line at the local food bank, three children in tow. Trying so hard to hold His chin high in a threadbare cotton sundress, He smiled. Quietly taking his bag of bread and off-brand peanut butter from her outstretched hand; graciously voicing His thanks.

Her new eyes cried thinking it would always be this way. Slow and easy, seeing clearly through the tears.

Instead life picked up speed.

Her eyes grew tired, and she would be reminded over and over through situations she wanted to bury, how true growth must be nurtured on bended knee with loving awareness in order to survive and thrive in a world such as this.

In spring she'd often find Him walking near the local college. Old, beaten down and carrying a one-word sign, “PEACE”. She admired His simplicity, passion and endurance in sunshine or rain, as cars sped by unfazed.

And then He was gone.

And she was left to wander among days of questions. Sifting through work, play and the grocery aisles of Bo's Market until they finally stood together near the meat counter.

He had a German accent and seemed so lonely. “What happened to America?” He asked while shaking his head. She reached out to squeeze His hand. He squeezed back as if to assure her it was okay that she did not have the answer. Neither did He.

They stood there staring at the sausage links.

It was a Tuesday at the bus stop when He caught her staring at Him from the safety of her car window. Filthy and eating an apple, waving crazily. His mind long gone. She awkwardly waved back, secretly happy that her eyes were cloaked with sunglasses, and drove on by.

She needed to get to the bank before it closed.

Forever after she would think of him while listening to the spare change jingle on the car dash.

He worked at McDonalds for 2 years. Whenever she ordered fries, He was so happy she thought His smile might split wide open like a watermelon. He always asked how her day was going, genuinely curious. So thankful to wait on her, so grateful to have a job.

Often, she was hungry and felt impatient. No time for chit-chat. She wishes for those days back now.

He's lived next door going on sixteen years. She's seen His children run into strong, trusted arms at the end of every workday and when they are teens turn away. She's observed Him painfully letting go until their fingers barely touch, occupying His time with other needs, while patiently waiting for their return.

And she tries to remember the last time she prayed.

This world can tire one out and stain you if you begin to lose direction, even the gift of new eyes cannot change that. She knows it is a true responsibility, these eyes that require an open way of living.

Standing in that shadowed kitchen, watching His sandwich disappear with each bite, she imagines His exhaustion at the end of a given day. For she's seen Him resting on the park bench when the cherry blossoms are out, searching the faces of those passing by, seeming to wonder at this crazy but beautiful world.

Sometimes He drinks wine.

Pulling it from the tattered paper bag he keeps tucked in the rusted red wagon where his foot rests, protectively, on top of his few worldly possessions. She's thought of him many evenings while pouring her own wine into a clean, clear glass inside her comfortable home.

She's seen His face in the dark red liquid.

Many days have turned to nights since she was first gifted new eyes. Still, she is weak, in a hurry and forgets to look. So, He meets her under cobalt blue skies in 2005, reminding her some gifts worth having come with a price; a continuous leveling of the soul.

It seems fitting to have her corner of the globe shaken by tuna, sunshine and shadows. To be drawn from the blackout curtains, crossing barefoot over carpet of emerald green and stopping on this journey of life before familiar eyes, a bit dimmer than yesterday.

To remember the gift of her own before it's too late.

There's a faint sound of birds twirping and a car passing by. A child's quick laughter and a dog's distant bark. But all she hears is the quiet awareness felt in the presence of a frail and disconnected voice sitting atop a lemon drop chair, surrounded by summer.

Here in this space she listens to a mother's words land gently upon a heart that's just tired enough to be ready. Fading back through time and distance, the stories are traveling like a song with no end.

She's watching translucent hands wipe crumbs from a red lip sticked mouth onto a flowered paper napkin, and carefully adjust the frizzy white tendrils falling from that one-inch ponytail, while Jesus looks upon her with a mother's smile. And it feels like the briefest of halleluiahs.

Somewhere between their bond that never took place and the closure of 80 summers, she smiles back.

Maybe that is what forgiveness looks like, after all.

Thank you for reading!

If you enjoyed my last book "If I Saw You on Sunday" which was a fundraiser for a school in Mexico, I am currently working towards another book of my collective writings and have joined Vocal to help with the cost.

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Salud!