Little Jesus

Little Jesus sat on my mantle.

He was right there where I put him, situated attractively between a handmade pottery vase and my daughter's latest soccer trophy.

My great-aunt had left him to me. Jesus had always been in the living room of her home, alongside her large-print Bible on the small walnut end table beside her favorite chair, where she read and prayed away her ancient days. But Auntie Maude had died, and now Jesus was mine.

I dusted him. On holidays, even with the extra decorations we brought from the back closet, I made sure it wasn't too cluttered around him. Jesus deserved a place of honor and respect.

But one day I entered the room to find Jesus in pieces on the floor. I ws heartbroken. I carefully picked up the fragments, went to the drawer in the kitchen to dig out a tube of extra-strength glue, and began to carefully reassemble him. All things consdiered, he didn't look too bad and when I was sure he was thoroughly dry, I set him carefully back in place.

Two days later I noticed he wasn't in quite the same position, now a couple of inches closer to the edge of the mantle than where I'd left him. The children were summoned to the living room, but each denied having moved him or knowing anything about it. I was not happy to have this fragile precious object in questionable safety.

Then next day Jesus was again on the floor, broken once more in the same places I'd just repaired a few days earlier. Out came the tube of glue again and I repeated the now familiar steps.

All was well for the next couple of weeks, until on a rainy Tuesday morning, rushing back to retrieve the car keys I'd left on the kitchen counter, I stopped short as I passed through the living room, finding Jesus once again in pieces on the floor. I set my bag and armfull of files onto the sofa and bent down to gather up the broken pieces once again.

This time the small figurine had cracked in different places. As I picked up a tiny fragment that had broken from his face I noticed how piercing his painted gaze was and how warm his smile. That evening he was carefully glued together again.

Over the next few months Jesus kept interrupting me, forcing me to repari him several more times. One day I was again gathering up the porcelain bits of his broken body, determined to keep this frustrating little figure intact. I guess I was in the right mood that edeay, for something tugged at me in a deep place, though I wasn't sure why.

Than my mind began to replay my experience with this little figurine and his continual invitation to deal with his broken body. This small delicate god I'd thought would fit neatly into my world wasn't staying conveniently there on a shelf for me to consider sentimentally when I was in the mood and had the time.

I began to discover that He isn't that kind of God.