Sharing Jesus (Seeing Jesus Book 3)

by Jeffrey McClain Jones

  Jason blurted the real answer. “I see Jesus,” he said, stopping very briefly to check for a way to take that back. He bypassed that urge, however, and went on. “I literally see and hear Jesus with me.”

  Something came clear for George, who was standing now with his mouth open in astonishment. “Wait, you were looking at him when we were praying for the professor.”

  Jason nodded. “Right now, he’s standing there, giving you a big smile that takes up his whole face.” His voice cracked, as the pure love in Jesus’s countenance turned loose a gaggle of emotions.

  Turning in the direction of Jason’s gaze, George squinted a bit, the late morning sun catching him right in his deep brown eyes, revealing a golden highlight there in the depths. Without looking back at Jason, and perhaps speaking directly to Jesus, George said in a husky whisper, “I wanna see him.”

  Though nothing changed for Jason, George suddenly jumped off the ground a full four inches. He dropped his bag and said, “Oh, my Lord!”

  Whether he meant that literally, or it was a reflex exclamation, no one would bother to investigate just then. But George, as far as Jason could tell, suddenly saw Jesus. And he started to cry, sobbing with full voice. Jesus responded with a step forward and arms wrapped around George’s shoulders.

  “I love you, my son,” Jesus said. That, of course, didn’t stop George’s tears. And it stirred up Jason’s.

  Wiping at drops streaming down his cheeks, and at his dripping nose, Jason was thinking about the contrast between George’s reaction and his own, when he first saw Jesus. A flavoring of regret poured into his heart. Jesus heard that stream hitting Jason and looked at him, even as he still held George in his arms. An outside observer would think George was having some sort of breakdown, standing there with his arms held awkwardly, and weeping furiously. For the moment, Jason was focused on Jesus looking at him with a frown, disapproving of that regret.

  Into Jason’s mind came the thought, “I know you, and I love you. How can you regret who you are, when my love is true and unshakable?” Jason knew the source of that thought, of course. Jesus, unwilling to break the moment for George, still wanted to reassure his other son, his other friend, that he need not compare himself to anyone else. How could he measure himself against George, a near stranger, when Jesus was using a different standard of measurement?

  Somehow, that frown from Jesus was more loving than any smile Jason had received from anyone, even Kayla, who adored him. What a lucky man. Adored by more than one person.

  During his life, Jason had become accustomed to not being adored, or admired. The pattern plowed into him by his parents, as with the disks behind a farmer’s tractor, was all rigid lines and deep furrows. He learned to win approval—not the same as adoration or affection—by doing a job well. He learned this before he learned to string together his first sentence. In doing so, he became an achiever whose primary talent was winning approval for his work. Part of that art, of course, is not appearing to play to the crowd, not appearing to perform in order to hear the applause. He had to perform and not appear to be performing, like the best of actors.

  He was crying now, and the tears were about himself, as much as sympathy for what George was experiencing. In that moment, Jason was so far from that old performing self that he didn’t care if anyone saw them there, two graduate students bawling on the ornate stone steps beside the snow-white pillar. What he cared about, in that moment, was Jesus—Jesus who could frown his love at him, disapproving his self-punishment, his self-abuse, his shame.

  Such a contrast to the disappointment on his father’s face, when Jason told him he didn’t want to study business, didn’t want to take over his company, when his father retired. He had, perhaps, set his old man up by working so hard, excelling at taking on more and more responsibility, even supervising a cleaning crew at the age of eighteen. But his heart had never been in the work, only in pleasing his father.

  In the end, his father was not pleased—nearly withdrawing his financial support for school. And, over the years, the emotional support diminished too, as his father’s secret dream that Jason would change his mind, evaporated in the hot wind of reality. Jason loved to write. He was a writer. That’s what he would do.

  In fact, what he had learned, what he had ingested and absorbed, about pleasing people, would serve him well in crafting his stories; for, in working his life’s audience, he had learned to hear the voices of all sorts of people, perhaps even reading their minds. A truly skilled people-pleaser, after all, doesn’t wait for a verbal response. He can see by body language—a turn of the eyes, a tilt of the shoulders—whether he has won approval.

  Jason knew what was on Jesus’s mind right then. And the purity of that knowledge, as well as the purity of the will of the God-man, had lifted him beyond caring what people think. He just wanted that one true smile, that deeply sympathetic frown, instead of anyone’s kudos or back slap.

  By this time, Jason was crying harder than George. A dozen students had passed in and out of the graduate school building, without pausing to wonder what was happening.

  After a very long five minutes, the two young men each began to collect their wits and inhibitions, in order to set their defenses back in place, to step away from the edge of losing control. They exchanged a look and laughed with each other. Jesus patted George and chuckled. Then he stepped to Jason and did the same.

  The two mortals didn’t realize that they were approaching a crucial moment. They were busy wiping noses and clearing their throats, trying to breath normally. Jason ran his hand through his hair, just like he always did, especially when he didn’t know what else to do. George picked up his bag and made sure everything was still inside and not damaged. Then they each approached the question that Jesus had already settled. What to do next?

  George stepped close to Jesus. For a moment, it looked like he would try to shake his hand, but that idea dropped to the ground like a bit of dirty laundry. Jason looked around, as if he would find on the pavement beneath their feet a delicate way to part from George, taking Jesus with him. Jason also tried to picture George following them around, having trouble justifying keeping Jesus to himself. But, of course, Jesus had the solution.

  “Jason, I’m planning to stay with you until tomorrow,” he said, defining the length of this extraordinary visit for the first time. “George, I would like to also be with you for a while.”

  For Jason, this settled it. He and George would just have to spend the day together. Kayla would understand. But Jesus was tracking these thoughts and clarified his intentions.

  “I’m going to go with you both, just the way I’m with you and Kayla at the same time,” he said.

  Jason laughed. How had he missed that obvious option again?

  George stood as still as the tall pillar next to them, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard—truly not understanding. “You…you are with, ah…Kayla like this now too?” Though he didn’t know Kayla, he surmised that she was Jason’s wife, adding what Jesus just said to the gold band on Jason’s finger.

  “And Marjorie now,” Jesus added.

  Jason looked at him with a question that was too many layers away from the present moment to grab, not wanting to confuse things for George.

  “You can come with me? Come home with me? And to work?” George said.

  Jesus nodded. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Yeah. Oh, yeah. That’s what I want.”

  Jesus smiled. “Me too.”

  Jason was afraid he was going to start bawling again. He distracted himself by trying to remember how Jesus split to go with Kayla and him both. That moment of two Jesuses had never happened, as far as he could remember.

  It seemed possible to Jason that he could have allowed Jesus to walk away from him at that point, to go and fill George’s life with blessings and wonder. It would still make a good story, the time he had shared with Jesus, and the way he handed Jesus off to George. That would have been enough
for Jason, if he had been writing the story. But he wasn’t

  Jason and George said their goodbyes, Jason looking into the eyes of his slightly shorter new friend and Jesus making the transition without either of them noticing, staying true to his practice of only being visible to the one he was visiting. George didn’t see Jesus stay with Jason and Jason didn’t see Jesus leave with George. The latter was a bit disturbing to Jason, feeling as if Jesus had reneged on his offer to George. The look on George’s face, however, made that interpretation seem impossible. Like a kid at the beach for the first time that summer, George smiled, and nearly skipped, all the way to his car in the parking lot. He also appeared to be talking to thin air.

  And there, next to Jason, stood Jesus, only glancing at George to join in the mirth. Mostly, Jesus’s eyes stayed locked on Jason, loving him without words. And now Jason knew that he would be with him for another day. That made him relax, even though he hadn’t realized he had been tense about the question of that inevitable exit.

  “Let’s go home,” Jesus said.

  Jason nodded and turned his toes toward his apartment.

  Chapter 19

  Breaking Chains

  That Wednesday night, Jason was scheduled to practice with the worship band at church. The team of which he was a regular part would be leading the Friday night service, a meeting geared toward young adults, though all were welcomed. Every worship leader wanted Jason and his guitar in their band, which included not only his skill, but also his attitude. He loved to follow the leader. Perhaps it was part of that old people-pleasing urge, but it also included his enjoyment of the flow of the music, like a run down a rolling river. He wasn’t making it happen, he was just there for the ride.

  After supper—which lasted an hour and a half with stories from Kayla’s day with Jesus, as well as Jason’s—Jason was getting his gear together to go setup at the church. When he zipped up his guitar bag, Jesus reminded him of something.

  “Remember to put a couple of your light weight picks in your bag. You broke the only one you had in there when you were showing off your Jimmy Page licks.”

  Jason stood up straight, his bag in his hand. He scrutinized Jesus with an unbelieving smile across his face. “You don’t miss anything,” he said, with a breathy laugh. “And you even care.”

  Without answering, Jesus tipped his head a bit. Jason reached for the little clay bowl that held a stash of various weight guitar picks. When he turned back, Jesus was squatted down, retying one of Jason’s shoes. And then, knowing that feeling of having one shoe tied tight and realizing that the other is now too loose, Jesus retied the other.

  Jason dropped his guitar onto his bed, the two thin picks tossed on top of the bag. He had started to shake uncontrollably. It only slackened when he let out another burst of tears, which lasted only a few seconds. He started fighting through the strangling emotions to speak, but he heard Jesus in his head.

  “I know,” that voice said. “And, yes, I am trying to break you down. That’s why I’m here. I knew you were ready. I knew you wanted it.”

  He was answering the words Jason couldn’t get past his constricted throat. But Jason did manage to nod his bowed head and squeeze out four words. “You’re right. Thank you.” The tissues, face-washing and glass of water, required for an external recovery, did nothing to wipe away that new mark Jesus had made on his soul. Jason did pause to ponder whether he wouldn’t have rather had that dose after worship band practice. But he didn’t know what was coming.

  Kayla was in the kitchen cleaning up the remnants of supper. Jason had helped clear the table and dealt with storing the leftovers. But he had made the chicken chili and that left Kayla with dish duties. That is, Kayla and Jesus.

  Watching them, Jason was getting the impression that Jesus liked doing dishes. But probably it was just that he liked doing anything with Kayla. Jason could relate.

  Kayla kissed Jason goodbye and Jesus did the trick where they each saw only their own Jesus, as Jason left by the back door, and Kayla stayed at the sink smiling at her hubby.

  Her plan for the night was to finish the painting of the little girl that she had revived that week. Jesus had inspired a sort of longing in Kayla about that painting, a desire to experience more of what that painting was intended to express.

  The last of her heavy Pfalzgraff plates washed and dried, the last clatter of heavy ceramics muted in wooden cupboards, Kayla and Jesus were both smiling. Kayla had never enjoyed dishes so much. She and Jesus had been reminiscing about Kayla’s Sunday school classes and teachers, from her childhood.

  More than once, Kayla started a recollection with, “Do you remember Miss…” before laughing at herself, and then resuming the trip down memory lane. Jesus always remembered much more than Kayla did, of course, and that was part of the fascination of the conversation.

  Kayla was recalling Mike McCray, and all the teasing she endured from him in first through third grade. But Jesus had an insight she had not known.

  “He was badly neglected at home, left to himself almost all the time,” Jesus said. “He didn’t get any attention where he needed it most, and searched for it in all the wrong ways.” He paused as if remembering Mike in some fond way. “He had brain damage from all the alcohol his mother drank while she was pregnant. His slowness was one reason his parents rejected him. The other big reason was their continued heavy drinking. They often weren’t alert enough to pay him any attention.”

  As Kayla’s heart sank into a muck of self-condemnation for how much she had hated Mike McCray, Jesus interrupted.

  “That was in the past. You didn’t know. You’re not guilty of anything. You were just a girl.”

  It’s one thing to make excuses for yourself. It feels entirely different to hear Jesus making them for you.

  “Wow,” she said. “I can so forgive him. I mean, how awful for him. I wish I had known.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped as much as you wish. You were a little girl, not a social worker or a mother.” He peered at her under lowered eyebrows. “That will come later.”

  It felt like Jesus just slipped something into the conversation, a sneaky reverse pickpocketing of her heart.

  “It will come later?” she said. “The mother part, not the social worker?”

  Jesus cracked a wise grin, laughed once and said, “Yes, the mother part.”

  “So, that’s like a guaranty, then?”

  Looking much more serious—as serious as a man can when his eyes sparkle and appear on the verge of laughing at any moment—Jesus explained. “I wouldn’t call it a guaranty. When God promises you something in the future, it’s based on who you are now and where you’re headed. For example, your future would change if you stopped having sex with Jason. That would put mothering into a different category. We don’t do the ‘overshadowed by the Holy Spirit’ thing on a regular basis.”

  Some sector of Kayla’s brain was struggling with Jesus talking about sex, but she assumed that this was some twisted part from her past. She remembered Jason saying, “God invented sex, how could he be opposed to it?” He said that in response to some preacher who seemed to be trying to get people to feel guilty about their sex drive. But she pushed past those questions, like a turn-style at the football stadium, to reach what Jesus was teaching.

  “So it’s gonna happen if I just keep going along like I am…like we are?”

  “It’s what you and I and Jason all want. You’ll be good at it. And I’ll help.”

  Perhaps influenced by her husband’s overactive imagination, Kayla visualized Jesus taking one of the nighttime feedings some nights. She just chuckled to herself and neither of them commented on that flight of fancy.

  Kayla gestured and stepped toward the studio, then she remembered something.

  “Could you wait while I change?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  She slipped into the little painting studio and closed the door gently behind her. Jesus waited outside, while she sloughed of
f clothes that she didn’t want flecked and smeared with paint. She changed into her long shirt, designated for just that purpose.

  When she opened the door, Kayla found Jesus looking intently at a painting in the hallway. She had painted a watercolor of the cabin where her family spent summers when she was small. Set in northern Michigan, among the state forests, the sturdy old cottage in the picture caught a swatch of sunlight between the trees, both pines and oaks, with ambitious maples attempting to make a place for themselves. The little smile in the corner of Jesus’s mouth implied that he was remembering the warm days on the lake, and cool evenings in the screened porch, playing board games with her noisy, competitive brothers and parents.

  Kayla stepped right into those memories and showed some teeth with her own smile. “You look as if you were there,” she said, teasing him now.

  Jesus nodded and followed Kayla back into the studio. “Remember that time your parents left you kids in the cottage alone for an afternoon?” he said.

  Tipping her head to the side, Kayla met Jesus’s gaze, and then turned to her pallet, preparing it for the final touches on her little, crouching girl. “I guess it sounds familiar, sort of.”

  Actually, it sounded ominous and haunting, if she had told the whole truth. But the fact that she didn’t have a clear memory of it, led her to edge around that truth. She blobbed an acorn-sized pile of white on her clean pallet, and reached for a medium blue. She planned to add highlights to several objects in her painting, all influenced by a blue sky overhead and a clear lake in the background.

  Jesus refreshed her memory. “You played tag, then cooled off by drinking sodas, and watched one of the video tapes your parents had brought with you,” he said, studying the unfinished painting of the little girl as he spoke.

  “How old was I?”

  “Seven.”

  “I’m surprised my folks left us alone so early. Michael would have been only like twelve or thirteen.”

  “They trusted you.”

  “Umhmm.” Kayla was building a light green color for some highlights to the grass, and to the wintergreen growing alongside the patio of the lakeside house. Suddenly, Kayla connected the house where the little girl’s picture had been taken with the cottage of her youth. The Dobbins’s cabin wasn’t within sight of the lake, like the one in the painting, but much about it was similar, including the wintergreen, which she and her brothers used to chew.