Story 1

Story 1: That Must be Jesus

When I was young, my family moved around a lot. Every year I went to a new school and had to make new friends. At the end of the year, I would leave my friends behind and move on to new ones. I also attended a rich variety of Sunday schools and churches, as my parents tried to expose me to the mysteries of religion. More often than not, I didn't get things quite straight.

I was in third grade when we moved to Southern California, and I didn't know anybody at all. School wasn't going to start for another month so my mother thought it would be a good idea if we all went to one of the local churches to meet some people in the local community.

That Sunday I got all dressed up in itchy pants and stiff shoes that felt like they would slide out from under me on the linoleum floor. I had to walk kind of stiff legged to keep from slipping and I kept reaching down the inside of my pant leg to take care of itches. My mother tried, several times, to correct this behavior, so I had to sneak in itches when she wasn't looking. I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay home in my comfortable jeans and watch cartoons. But I was only nine years old, and others knew better than I did.

At the church, my mother inquired where the third grade Sunday school class was being held and we were directed down some stairs to a room off the middle of the hallway. A few people were milling around the hallway and the air smelled a little damp. Two boys a little older than me were trying to egg each other into a friendly scrap and an adult was heading in their direction with a clear sense of purpose. A little girl was standing outside of one of the rooms looking lost. I thought she might begin crying at any moment. So, I kept my distance.

My mother took me into the third-grade classroom and introduced me to the teacher. The teacher was about my mother's age but looked a whole lot sterner. Her hair was pulled back starkly in a bun, and she was wearing a brightly colored dress that in another year would become just another housedress. There were about a dozen kids around my age, more girls than boys. The girls were all wearing brightly colored Sunday dresses and patent leather shoes with thin white socks. The boys were all wearing itchy pants and stiff shoes and looked like they would be a whole lot happier at home watching cartoons in their comfortable jeans. I took a seat at the table and the teacher called the class to order.

The teacher gave us a short introduction to proper manners in Sunday school. We were to sit facing her at all times, only speak when spoken to, and fold our hands in our laps so we wouldn't be tempted to interact with our neighbors. I guess you never can tell when that old devil is going to make you poke one of your neighbors. Better to keep those hands folded and don't give that devil a chance.

Sitting next to the teacher was a teacher's aide. She was there to help out if the lesson got too difficult or in case the devil got to one of the students and the teacher needed help bringing the class back to order. The teacher's aid was a sad looking woman, a little younger than the teacher. She had limp brown hair that looked washed out and glasses that magnified the bags under her eyes. Her nose was large and square and seemed a little too big for her face. She was wearing a dull gray oversized sweater that looked more like a horse blanket than a garment. Her hands were bony and pale with fingernails that were red around the edges and looked nibbled to the quick.

The teacher was saying, "Today we are going to learn about the life of Jesus." She told the story as though she was reciting it from memory and the droning caused my mind to drift. There was a kid across the table from me with curly orange hair, freckles, and big ears. I imagined him wiggling his ears until the updraft lifted him off of the chair. There was a girl sitting next to him with her hands politely folded giving her full attention to the teacher. I was sure that she wrote neatly and did well on tests. I didn't like her. As I came out of my reverie, I heard the teacher saying, "Jesus is right here in this room with us, right now."

Well! That got my attention! This church must have some real pull to get Jesus to show up in a third grade Sunday school class particularly after those long dusty donkey rides and carrying that cross and everything. I was really impressed. I sat up a little straighter in my chair and looked around the room for Jesus. It is always best to figure out who in the room has the juice in case things go sideways and you need an ally.

There was a dozen or so kids and then the teacher. I was pretty sure that none of the kids were Jesus, and I didn't think the teacher would refer to herself in the third person. So, the only one not accounted for was the teacher's aide. Well, that must be Jesus, I thought. Boy you'd never think to look at her that she had done all those things. The teacher's aide shifted nervously in her chair not making eye contact with anyone. Her shoulders were rounded, and she slumped forward slightly. My mother would have told me to sit up straight, but I guess when you are carrying the sins of the world, they allow you a little leeway in your posture.

I had a whole new respect for this Sunday school and this teacher. I sat with my hands folded in front of me for the rest of the lesson and gave the teacher my undivided attention. If Jesus could take the time out of her busy schedule to visit our Sunday school class, then I could at least try to pay attention. Besides, I didn't fully understand the connection between Jesus and Santa Claus, and I didn't want to do anything that would interfere with any Christmas presents that might lie in my future.

When the class was over, I found my mother in the hallway. She was talking to another woman about the church, the neighborhood, and other things that I was not interested in. After a few minutes she patted me on the head and said, "How was your class, dear?"

"It was great, mom," I said excitedly. "Jesus was in the room with us."

"That’s nice dear," she said, and patted my head again.

I spotted the teacher's aide leaving the room and heading for the stairs. I tugged at my mother's dress and said "And there she is, right over there, Mom. That's Jesus."

My mother looked over and said, "I think you must have misunderstood something, sweetheart."

"No, mom. That's Jesus," I said, "the teacher said so!"

By now my mother was talking to the other woman again. I looked around at the Sunday clothes and the stiff shined shoes. I smelled the mixtures of perfumes, after shaves, and mothballs. Amid the hats and the gloves, the ties and the handkerchiefs, Jesus slipped quietly away. It was probably for the best. I don't think she really belonged there anyway.

This story is a little over 1300 words and the recording is almost 9 minutes long.

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