You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Jesus listening to my thoughts like a spy working for the NSA.
I’m visiting my best friend’s mother in our home town. I’m in the living room of a woman who was like a 2nd mom. She is in her late 70’s. This woman is a super mom, the octo-mom of her day. She raised 8 children! Count them; 8 children.
wow!
This woman was and still is a wonderful mother and a devoted wife of 55 years.
Oh and did I say she is Catholic?
Not just Catholic. I’m talking CATHOLIC!!!!!
Not Catholic – light, the type that just goes to church on Easter and Christmas – Catholic.
I’m talking boots on the ground, bible in hand, crucifix around the neck Catholic.
She is a Navy seal of religion, parachuting out of the heavens prepared to convert souls and win the Holy war on evil.
If Jesus is the spiritual quarterback of this life, then this wonderful woman is his head cheer leader, leading the chants from her tiny home in Seaside, California.
I spent many a day in this house and on this afternoon, I have returned to pay my respects.
When I was 15 years old, I was a little rough around the edges. Subtlety was not my strong suit. I was known to blurt out anything in my mind.
One day I questioned Jesus as the absolute son of God.
“Why does God need a middle man?” I asked in my stupid pimple faced way.
It was like I sat up in my bed and spit pea soup all over her walls.
She became JAMBO
That’s Rambo for Jesus.
Her life mission was to make me see the light.
“Why did you have to go and ask her about Jesus?” my buddy would lament. “Now we’ll never get out of this house.”
He was right.
His mom kept me for hours imparting biblical ideas and scripture into my ears.
I was a wet puppy found in a refrigerator box at Wal Mart and she was going to nurse me back to spiritual health.
How many times did my buddy’s mom tell me that I would burn in hell if I didn’t get Jesus into my life.
That’s a good question.
30 years later, I’m sitting in this very living room and I am having a wonderful, reflective conversation with her.
We speak about her kids and their many adventures. She often says what they do is out of her hands and in the hands of the Lord.
As she talks, the memories of my child hood swirl about me. Everywhere I look I am surrounded by the Holy Spirit.
Pictures of Jesus hang on the walls. Not one Jesus per wall, but 2 and 3 Jesus pictures per wall. It’s as if there is a spiritual building code that Jesus Christ must cover so many square inches of wall space in order to ensure the most biblical protection.
I almost suggest that she’d be better off purchasing wall paper from the Jesus Christ collection, but I hold my tongue.
Everywhere I look there is a halo and discerning eye questioning my life choices.
There are 2 dozen pictures of Jesus and Mary on the walls, in the cabinets, over by the cat box.
If that is not enough biblical fire power, there are also a multitude of Crucifixes and angels and a smattering of Mother Teresa pictures staring at me, questioning me, burning a hole into the abyss that she says is my soul.
Ouch.
This is a spiritual safe house. I feel nervous about my role in the after life, but I have absolutely no doubt this is a vampire free zone.
As I bask in the religious aura, I wonder if the room illuminates a heavenly glow at night.
If I go to NASA.COM will I see this room from space?
Powered by Jesus. Sure would save on electricity, I think to myself.
I wonder if the Vatican has this many Jesus faces per square foot?
As she talks about raising a litter of kids, I look at the eyes of Jesus peering into my soul, sizing me up, listening to my inner thoughts.
It’s like making a phone call to Russia from the lobby of the NSA. I know that I am not the only one on the line.
So many pictures of Mary. She looks mad. I wonder if she is always so angry in these pictures, or is it just now that I am here.
I try not to look at her, but it is wall to wall Mother Mary. Avoiding her probing gaze will not be possible on this afternoon. She is all over the room staring at me, silently asking me why it’s been so long since I’ve been to church, why has it been so long since I have confessed my sins, sipped the sacramental wine.
I don’t have a good answer for her.
Somehow “My dog ate my bible” just doesn’t work in the spiritual spot light of truth.
I try not to look at Mary. She is so angry. I focus on the many pictures of Jesus. There are so many. Jesus faces here are as common place as tumbleweeds in the Nevada Desert.
As this super mom talks about life choices, I notice there are many interpretations of Jesus. There is the super cute Jesus where he looks like the pool boy at the apartment complex for the show Beverly Hills 90210. There is the suffering Jesus, who has died for our sins. I don’t like this Jesus picture. Makes me feel guilty for things I’m not even sure I have done. There is the black and white version of Jesus, poignant and real.
The only Jesus not hanging on the wall is the black velvet Elvis-Jesus. That’s the Jesus you get in Tia Juana. Now that’s a Jesus that really speaks to me.
As a friend once told me; Jesus. one man. How hard can it be.
I’m not even sure what that means, and I certainly wouldn’t utter those words in this woman’s shrine of belief.
After an hour of getting my soul back on track, I steer the conversation to funnier stories; the party we had at her house while she was in Hawaii; the time my buddy drove his car into the tree on campus, the time his sister kneed me in the groin and dropped me like a sack of flour because I wouldn’t pay for a beer cup at a keg party.
Jesus does not approve of any of these stories. I can feel him in my soul telling me to repent.
I hug my friend’s mom. Her embrace is powerful and lasting.
I try and pull away but she hangs on. I forgot that this spiritual beacon hugs in time measured by an hour glass.
“Do good things with your life,” she whispers in my ear, as she holds me close.
I feel the nuclear fire in her soul converting me.
I look up.
Mary is staring at me. She challenges me with an angry glare.
OK, I say to her quietly.
I’ll try and do better. I promise.
I say good-bye to the woman who helped raise me. I’m covered with the Holy Spirit like sun tan lotion on a child headed to the beach.
As I stand outside her house, a kind of Vatican Satellite office – I stare at a brilliant blue sky. Puffy white clouds float like angels in a deep blue sky that curves to the top of the world.
That hug was wonderful. It was cleansing.
I start my car and pull away.
I wonder how long this spiritual SPF will last.
Only Jesus and the NSA know for sure.
Life’s Crazy™