Sharing Jesus (Seeing Jesus Book 3)

by Jeffrey McClain Jones

  “You’ve learned better containment,” Jesus said.

  Kayla took two beats to realize that this wasn’t the sort of progress she was hoping for. It was past midnight, but she still had enough of her faculties switched on that she caught the hint of an offer from Jesus. “Containment doesn’t sound like the best thing,” she said.

  “It’s what grownups learn to do,” Jesus said. He had put his feet up on the coffee table by this time, his head lay against the cushy back of the couch. Jason was in full recline, minus one notch, a small pillow behind his head to keep Jesus and Kayla in sight. The night had the feeling of flannel sheets and glowing coals in a fireplace, and elements of a dream.

  Jason spoke up. “That’s the thing about growing up. You start to become all the things that annoyed you about adults before you got caught up in trying to be one. I know about being contained, I know how that goes.” He was looking at Kayla. She was curled beneath a small knitted blanket from her aunt Kelly, her mom’s sister. She was a cozy aunt.

  “So, what if you and I agree to not let each other get that way, get all closed down and safe?” Kayla proposed in a scratchy voice.

  Jason liked the sound of that, but he felt the need to check with Jesus. Something about Kayla’s offer seemed too good to be true. He knew Jesus would be able to sort that out.

  “It will help to have each other’s support, but it’s not the sort of thing you can just decide, even together.” Jesus slowly rotated his head from Kayla to Jason and back. “You’ll need some help.”

  Maybe it was too late, or too early in the morning, for them to think clearly. But both Kayla and Jason began searching their mental databases for people who could help them with this Peter Pan quest to resist growing up. Jesus waited patiently for their search to conclude, for the little hourglasses in their minds to stop spinning, when the results appeared, the empty window of data not found.

  Kayla was the first to give up, which meant she was the first to turn her head toward Jesus, hoping for a clue to this riddle. That was when she realized it wasn’t a riddle, but an offer. It wasn’t the first time she—and Jason for that matter—had mistaken an offer from God for a puzzle to be solved. God is a much better giver than either of them expected. And, of course, they were not alone in this assumption.

  Jesus seemed tickled when Kayla’s eyes narrowed and her lips curled at the corners. It was like the first time a little girl realizes what it is the adults around her are spelling, in their effort to keep her from knowing what they’re talking about.

  Jason saw that exchange of knowing grins, feeling left out of a very intimate connection between Kayla and Jesus, once again. He tended toward crankiness when he was tired. Kayla leaned toward cuddly and silly. Jason briefly wished Kayla would only look at him with that knowing, inviting grin on her face. Then he decided not to try and compete with Jesus. It seemed a longshot for him to win.

  “How?” Jason said, interrupting that little moment between the people seated on the couch.

  Jesus turned an equally loving gaze on Jason, but Jason wasn’t ready to give up that much of the stifling adulthood they had been jousting, or at least proposing to try and unhorse.

  “Me,” Jesus said.

  Approaching annoyance now, Jason said, “You’re so eastern sometimes. You and your Zen answers.” Jason didn’t know much about Zen, or any other variant of Buddhism, but he was cutting himself some slack on that, and tightening the slack he’d been granting to Jesus. It was like pushing around your biggest and most muscular friend, pretty confident you’re not going to hurt him.

  Jesus surprised Jason by going after that unspoken agenda. “I do want your girl, Jason. You’re right about that. I love her, and she belongs to me—and me alone.”

  Those words, in a real male voice, chilled Jason to his core. What was Jesus saying? Well, he knew what Jesus was saying, of course. And he even had a rational explanation as to why he said it. But it bit into him like that too-tight watch band his grandma had given him for his sixteenth birthday. Jason didn’t want to hear Jesus claiming his rights to his wife, defending divine preeminence in relating to his bride.

  Of course, his head knew the difference. But Jason could feel the same toxic reaction as when a guy once told him how lucky he was to have married Kayla. This acquaintance had said it in front of Kayla, in a way that made it clear that it was a challenge. It was subtle, but it felt as if the guy were saying, “I know what you have here, and I’m waiting in line. If you mess up and don’t take care of her, I’ll be there to swoop in and take your place.”

  Jesus shattered that diversion. “I know it’s a stretch, especially with me in the form of a man here,” Jesus said. “But I feel exactly the same way about you.”

  Jesus was right, that same male voice even hinting at a desire to envelope Jason in love, even as an abstract notion, did sit sideways for him, instead of sinking down into its rightful place in his heart. And this cracked open another one of those Easter eggs in his heart, the hardboiled kind, this one not discovered until mid-May.

  Jason could picture God loving a beautiful young woman like Kayla. It was easy to imagine God being attracted to someone so smart and lovely and full of life and hope. But Jesus was claiming to feel the same way about him, plain old Jason, a scruffy young guy, not amounting to much, not really attractive. Such was the stuff that oozed out of that old egg.

  Kayla was falling asleep and no longer sharp enough to follow what Jason was struggling with. She couldn’t read his mind even when she was wide awake.

  Jesus called the game on account of darkness. “You two should get some sleep. I’ll be here for breakfast.”

  Jason noted the limited parameters of that promise, just breakfast. But keeping his eyes open had become a weight-lifting contest. He surged the last bit of energy in his body to rock the recliner forward and rouse Kayla off the couch. Jesus helped them to the bedroom and said goodnight one more time.

  Chapter 22

  Going Invisible

  When Jason was small, his favorite place in the world was his great grandparents’ house. They lived in a small town an hour from where he grew up. He would stay there for a few days at a time, especially in the summer. His great grandfather’s stamp collections and coin collections, his great grandmother’s pies and cornbread, made a home-away-from-home for him. There, he was doted upon, and enjoyed a temporary reign as king of the castle. But he would usually start dreading going home right in the middle of the visit, souring the final day or two of his stay.

  A deepening version of that same dread greeted him at six-thirty in the morning. Robins checking in with each other outside, an occasional blue jay contradicting anything the robins said, and traffic beginning to flow on the semi-busy road by their apartment, woke Jason early. His anxiety about Jesus’s departure kept him awake.

  Kayla awoke too, as if sensing Jason’s tension, even in his stillness—an unnatural stillness, a frozen stiff, tense from head to toe stillness. At first, she forgot what Jason was anxious about, thinking it had to do with school or his writing, or perhaps some cold thing his father had said to him on the phone or in email. Then she remembered the thing for which she too was nurturing dread. When she remembered, she threw back the covers and jumped out of bed, as only the very young dare to do. But her youth did not immune her from all consequences.

  Banging her toe on her dresser, Kayla began to hop and do what Jason called her “fake cursing,” using words that weren’t even words, but which carried the cranky complaints of their common four-letter equivalents. The short night of sleep, now tainted with intense pain in her toe, made it much more difficult than normal to find her robe and slippers, but Kayla managed eventually.

  The effect on Jason was to wake him up and to elevate his mood. He couldn’t resist laughing at the fake curses his little Christian wife seemed to invent anew each time she banged an appendage or lost some valuable thing.

  Jesus spoke through the door. “C’mon, Jason, let
’s heal Kayla’s toe and then get breakfast going.” That made Jason laugh harder, a blurry and scratchy sort of laughter, but much more joy than he anticipated for the end of Jesus’s visit.

  “I’m not leaving,” Jesus said, still through the door, and in spite of neither of them saying anything aloud. “I’m just going invisible.”

  Jason enjoyed science fiction enough to recognize the possibilities. Books and movies that included stories of invisible people, or of invisibility superpowers, stirred his imagination.

  “That would not be my superpower, if I was a superhero,” Jesus said, as Jason finally opened the bedroom door, shuffling his feet to settle them into his slippers.

  “You are a superhero,” Jason said, as if asserting something to which Jesus had not yet reconciled himself. “You’re the original superhero.”

  Jesus laughed, an agreeing, playful laugh. He patted Jason firmly on the back and led him to the kitchen. Kayla limped along behind. Jesus spun Jason around and nodded toward Kayla’s sore toe.

  “Just tell it to stop hurting,” Jesus said.

  It sounded simple, and impossibly so, impotently so—except that Jesus said it, and Jason heard the confidence in his voice. Jason obeyed.

  “Toe,” he said, with nearly a straight face, “stop hurting and get better now.” And the intoxication of the moment provoked him to drop to his knees and grab his wife’s feet. “Be healed!” he said, playing now.

  Kayla laughed, exclaiming, “It feels better. It really does.”

  Jesus nodded, no sign of surprise, but a satisfied little grin at a job accomplished. “Now, to breakfast. Omelets.”

  “Bacon, cheese and green peppers,” said Jason, his order automatic. He also moved automatically toward the kitchen to help.

  Jesus pointed at Kayla. “Broccoli and cheese.”

  She smiled. Jesus knew what omelet to make her that morning. It wasn’t her all-time favorite, but it was the one they had ingredients for, and suited her perfectly that early morning.

  “Tomato juice?” Jason said, pointing at Kayla in imitation of Jesus.

  “You got it,” Kayla said, pausing to look at her two men taking command of the kitchen.

  “Take a nice long shower,” Jesus said.

  Kayla nodded a springy sort of acknowledgement and slowly turned to the bathroom, and a hot steamy refuge from a short night and an early day.

  Jason had spent hours watching his mom cook various meals, less often breakfast than supper. He had also grown up eating food prepared by his grandfathers, on both sides of the family. He had easily stepped into sharing kitchen duties with his new wife, after fending for himself as a student for a few years. Jesus appeared expert in the kitchen, and Jason fell in as his assistant.

  In the middle of cutting bacon and shredding cheese, Jason realized that he was coordinating with Jesus without hearing instructions verbalized. They were talking about his grandfathers, especially his paternal grandfather, who used to hum and whistle while he worked in the kitchen.

  Pausing the choreographed movement, from fridge to counter, from counter to stove, Jason assessed the chef. He was getting the first omelet ready to flip, the bacon, cheese and green peppers sprinkled in place. “Are you giving me subconscious directions, or something?” Jason asked.

  “No. Not directions, just information, suggestion and coordination. You and I are made to work together, as one. That’s how my father likes it.” Jesus looked up from the frying pan. “Words aren’t always needed.”

  For a writer and a life-long student, that was a stretch. But Jason had his own visceral experience of moving in cooperation with Jesus now, to challenge him to try to make that stretch.

  In contrast to the sunny harmony in the kitchen, the sky outside was turning gray, the air a slightly yellow green, as a storm stampeded toward them and the temperature dropped. It would be one of those Midwestern days of weather betrayal, the promised summer withdrawn, replaced by the deserved early spring—rain, fast-flowing clouds and cold winds dominating the day.

  One of the most difficult feats in making breakfast, is getting the food on the table, and hot, all at once. Jesus turned out to be quite good at tricks like that, using two pans and unbroken attention to make two omelets. He was planning on sharing a bit of each of the two immaculate creations.

  Normally, Kayla and Jason ate breakfast together, but they had only developed the habit of praying before their evening meal. This morning seemed different, however. When Kayla steamed out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, taking her seat next to Jason, the towel still wrapped around her wet hair, Jason suggested they say thanks for the meal.

  Kayla dutifully bowed her head.

  But Jason just looked across the table and said, “Thanks for breakfast.”

  Kayla opened her eyes to figure out what was going on, still holding onto Jason’s hand. She caught Jason and Jesus exchanging boyish grins. That prompted one snorted snicker and then a sudden slide into the depression she had been investing in all morning.

  Jason had no clue how he had triggered that sudden funk with his little joke. Kayla couldn’t have explained it either. As a result, however, her wonderful omelet seemed tasteless, and the dull skies outside oozed into the apartment and threatened rain fairly soon.

  Chatting in subdued voices, like mourners at a wake, Jason and Jesus enjoyed their breakfast, and allowed moments of silence in reverence for Kayla’s mood. Jason was brainstorming with Jesus about the novel he wanted to start writing, something new that Kayla hadn’t heard about yet. Even the prospect of a new book, and an end to her husband’s procrastination, left her unmoved. Never was such a fine breakfast enjoyed less by anyone, not to mention missing the chummy conversation.

  “We’ll do the dishes,” Jesus said to Kayla, pointing a thumb at Jason. “You get dried and dressed.” That offer sounded like the sort of thing her mother would say, if Kayla were suffering from a cold or flu. That sympathy from Jesus only made her lower lip start to tremble. She ran a hand over his shoulder before leaving the room to finish getting dressed.

  The tapping of rain on the roof and windows, a harmony of percussion on blacktop and glass, invaded the silence after Kayla left the room. Jason pushed away from the table. He was beginning to feel less sunny at each passing moment.

  Jesus did most of the cleanup, Jason’s energy dipping like the temperature outside. He was telling himself that he was dreading Kayla’s reaction when Jesus disappeared. He had signed on for the “better or worse” part, of course, but that didn’t mean he looked forward to a major meltdown by his new wife.

  When she came out of the bedroom, hair hanging loose around her face, and fully dressed for a cool and rainy day, Kayla had put on her grown up coping look, a mask, perhaps, but a well-crafted one. Internally, she was resisting the urge to run and hide in one of the closets, until Jesus was gone. She had done that once, when her mother went away for a week to stay with Kayla’s grandparents, after her grandfather had his heart surgery. Eight-year-old Kayla had said her goodbye through the closet door, until her mother actually left the house. Then Kayla had run out to kiss her mom, through the opened car window at the bottom of the driveway.

  She decided to do her best to face this goodbye.

  When he was done putting the dishes in the drainer, Jesus stood by the backdoor, looking at the rain dripping off the eaves over the back porch. Jason joined him, his arms crossed over his chest, shoulder-to-shoulder with Jesus. Kayla edged up to where the two silent men stood. Jesus reached back and pulled her up, where he and Jason could each put an arm around her. She sighed and rested there for just a moment.

  Jesus broke the silence. “Of course, it will be different. But I’m not really going anywhere. You just won’t see or hear me so clearly.” He glanced at Jason and then looked down at Kayla, who had wrapped an arm around each man’s waist.

  Suddenly, Kayla turned toward Jesus. She threw her arms around his neck, locking her fingers together. Her eyes were full of tea
rs. She wasn’t buying the invisibility explanation.

  “No. Don’t go. Don’t go. Please don’t,” she said, surprising Jason with the childish explosion, the desperation cracking and squeezing her voice.

  Jesus tipped his head, clearly ready to respond, but Kayla’s desperation only intensified.

  “I wanna go with you. Take me with you.” She was panting, approaching an anxiety attack.

  “Kayla,” Jesus said. It was a call, beckoning her, not a rebuke.

  “No…I know…I know,” she said. Finally, loosening her grip, she seemed to reconnect with sanity again. “I know, what you say is true.” Her voice returned to its normal range. “I know I can’t keep you here like this, and I know I can’t go where you’re going. I don’t really wanna go there now.”

  Jason put one hand on her back and began to stroke down and up and down again. “It’s okay, Dobbins. It’s gonna be okay.”

  He knew he was speaking to himself as much as to Kayla. He knew he needed at least as much reassuring as she did. But her panic had thrown him into protector gear, into being the man, the stable one, the one holding it together. His father had modeled this every day of Jason’s life. This was one of those times when one person carries all of the emotions for a group or a couple, expresses what the others are feeling, saving those quiet ones from the greater breakdown they deeply fear. That’s where Jason was, in spite of his calm voice and soothing strokes.

  Each buried under their respective sadness, Jason and Kayla had not noticed Jesus, had not really looked at his face for a while. It was Kayla who first saw it, when she decided to turn to him and apologize for her childish tantrum. A tear rolled down each of his cheeks. And, for a moment, Kayla felt that she had found out his secret, that he really was leaving them, and they really would miss him as she had feared. But his eyes latched onto hers and pulled her out of that nonsense.

  “Being with you like this, visible and easy to hear, is not the way that I designed for you. But the manner of my dwelling inside you has been overlooked by so many people for so long. I know you will struggle to remember me, to stay in touch with me, even when I’m closer than your own heart.” He said this in a solemn tone that they had not heard before. This was Jesus being genuinely sad.