My LIfe. His Life.

"He knew heaven."

THE FRINGE of Jesus' garment is Jewish. I am not. Where I live, we sit in the floor, not on it. And ain't is a verb. Here, a tractor is a legit vehicle and cows are your neighbors. I suppose they fished for fun in His day, but it wasn't largemouth bass. And there's two ten-plus pounders hangin' on my wall.

He danced. Gravy, those Jews dance a lot. At home, circa the 70s, a prayin' knee and a dancin' leg didn't come on the same leg. And the hem of your dress better be below your fingertips lest eyebrows raise. Girls wore a slip. And anyone remember hose? I was 15 discoverin' they had nice ones.

In my 30s, learnin' motherhood involved repeating my childhood. And havin' a preteen was like looking backward.

Jesus died at age 33. While I was braiding hair, making school runs, oblivious to my health troubles up ahead, He had committed Himself to death, knowing life followed. I barely knew the Gospel at that age, and He knew heaven. You'd think there'd be no interest from a Jew, the Son of God, in a woman who's eaten shadows the way I have. Though that's God’s point. And mine.

Every day, I'm grateful to be living. And gratitude that makes me sure of myself. Unflinching in my choices. Ain't no place for doubt when the God who hugged that ugly wood took care to lift me. Oh, they nip at me like old newspaper, but I've learned not to judge myself and to hand them to Him. Sometimes on repeat.

I've learned to rest instead of fighting. There is no war. We've made one, resurrecting arguments Jesus buried. Where He loved, we dig holes and build fences. You can keep them. The open plain I'm standin' on smells like heaven. Looks like Jerusalem. Jewish.


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Suzanne D. Williams, Author
www.suzannedwilliams.com
www.feelgoodromance.com