Sharing Jesus (Seeing Jesus Book 3)

by Jeffrey McClain Jones

  “Maybe they shouldn’t have,” Kayla said, in response to Jesus’s last comment. She didn’t look at him, nor slow down her mixing. What some may call “lost in thought,” Kayla was experiencing as lost in emotions—lost, in part, because she didn’t recognize those emotions to even find a landmark among them.

  “You certainly thought that when your brothers locked you out of their bedroom, spurred on by too much soda and budding hormones,” Jesus said.

  Now Kayla stopped and looked hard at Jesus, her eyebrows squeezing toward each other. “I don’t remember that,” she said. But the strength of her words faded, like a brush running out of paint. In fact, she was beginning to remember.

  She recalled sitting in the hallway outside their bedroom begging for them to let her in. They laughed meanly at first, much more openly cruel than usual. Then they were quiet, small voices and long silences. When they started ignoring her pleas, she started to cry. She remembered crying for a very long time, though it might not have been more than ten minutes.

  Jesus sidled up next to Kayla, in front of her easel. She had fallen so deeply into that memory that she hadn’t even noticed his approach. She didn’t want to revisit her girlish tears, but she felt a sort of weighted loneliness that made no rational sense, especially with Jesus standing there next to her.

  Jesus put an arm around her shoulders. “You cried long and hard that afternoon. But the silence after the tears was worse than the tears,” he said.

  Kayla had to tip her head sideways to look up at his face which bent down toward her. She found no hint in that face to what he meant by his last leading comment. “How so?” She decided to push him for more than an intriguing hint.

  “While you were sitting there, looking down at the floor, bearing the shame of being shut out by your brothers, you said something—made a wish, of sorts.”

  Of course, Jesus knew what Kayla would not admit at first. She did remember what she said. She was hesitant to face what it meant, why it was worth bringing up these many years later. One more time, she searched his eyes, this time for courage. In that moment, Jesus looked more than loving and care-free, he looked certain and even fierce. He could face anything. Maybe she could face this with him.

  “I said, ‘I wish I had never been born a girl.’” She looked away, shaking her head gently, snorting a laugh at herself. “Why do I still remember that? How can that matter?” Though, she asked the questions, she wasn’t doubting, just wondering. How was it that a wish spoken in tearful anger at the age of seven could have any significance this late in her life?

  “That’s how it works, when your enemy, the Devil, gets you alone and angry and vulnerable,” Jesus said. Then he responded to the surprised look this evoked. “He’s ruthless. He doesn’t wait until you’re old enough to defend yourself. He gets at you as young as possible, whenever there’s an opening. And he gets the biggest return on his investment for his efforts that way. The things that sink deep into your soul when you are so young, will sprout and develop a life of their own, even shaping your personality.”

  To Kayla, that sounded plausible—part Intro to Psych and part basic Christian teaching. But she was reticent to apply these abstract concepts to the little girl that she was that summer. But, then, why should she be immune?

  A sort of vision of her little seven-year-old self filled the video screen of Kayla’s mind. She seemed so small there by herself, so alone, and desperate. She had no idea what her brothers were doing behind that closed door, and knew only one reason she was being excluded. She was a girl.

  Kayla set down her pallet knife and turned to Jesus for help, in a way that she didn’t know to do at the age of seven.

  First, he set aside something small. “You were fortunate to not know what they were doing. You wouldn’t have understood, and it was good they kept if from you, even if it wasn’t good that they were doing it.” He let the air carry those words for a bit, waiting for Kayla to guess internally, not offering her any clues from where he stood. He knew she could imagine, now that she was grown.

  “I say that, only to set the stage for more important truth,” Jesus said, as if they were on a tour of some historical building and he was explaining its origins and purpose. His cleanup of the pain and shame of that distant day felt nothing like the ominous ritual Kayla might have expected, once she settled on the fact that she needed healing from a very deep wound that her enemy had used to hold her down. Jesus hadn’t allowed her enough time to ponder her way into a tangle of expectations.

  “Though you didn’t know what you were saying, or its implications, you did say it, right?”

  Kayla nodded. Then she thought she should make it official. “Yes, I said it.”

  Jesus smiled in a much less “official” way, and moved on. “Now you can undo the original statement by renouncing it.” He crept back into serious territory.

  “Renouncing it? Like saying I don’t wish I wasn’t a girl anymore?” She had to resist a smile at calling herself a girl. That faded, however, under a strong realization that, for now, she was feeling very much like a little girl again, but not an abandoned little girl.

  Jesus nodded in answer to her question and waited for her to process it.

  Kayla felt free to move ahead, no scary or imposing pressure coming from Jesus. “Okay, I say now, that I am glad to be a girl, and cancel any wish I thought I had back then that I didn’t want to be one.”

  This time Jesus nodded a sort of check mark. That was done.

  Though she expected to get her next instruction, standing and waiting for Jesus to lead on, Kayla felt a sort of tussle arise inside her stomach. Her first thought was the chili, and wondering if the chicken had been fully cooked. But the turmoil didn’t feel confined to her digestive track. She looked at Jesus, a cry for help clenching her eyes, beneath contracting eyebrows.

  “Go,” Jesus said. That fast. That short.

  Kayla burped.

  Then she started to laugh. At first, she thought she was laughing at burping in front of Jesus. But something seemed loose inside her, like her heart had been let out of a cage within her chest. She felt free.

  She kept laughing. After half a minute, Jesus took both her hands and looked into her eyes, just inches away. Her laughter faded. But it didn’t take her joy away with it. Instead, she felt her heart melting like some old metal thing turning molten and then dripping, liquid and hot. At the same time, she felt as if Jesus was holding back, on the verge of an embrace that he was reserving. He wasn’t stepping back, nor looking away, remaining fully intent on her. She longed for him to encircle her with his arms, instead of standing there looking at her.

  Kayla couldn’t break contact with his eyes, though it felt as if the rest of her body may dissolve down onto the floor in a spreading pool. Her eyes were captivated and she seemed unable to pull away. More importantly, she didn’t want to. She was fine with melting before Jesus’s loving eyes.

  Rationally, Kayla had no idea what all was happening to her. It felt intense, and it felt good, but she was sure it was also something significant, and something very particular—particular to her and to Jesus. She hoped for some clarity, even an explanation. But Jesus seemed content to watch her melt.

  “Don’t worry,” Jesus said, in answer to these thoughts. “All in good time. All in good time. It’s time now to just let it soak in. You’ve stayed away from this internal territory most of your life, you have to get used to what it feels like, and discover that it won’t kill you.”

  It felt at that moment like it might kill her. The heat in her chest made Kayla wince, a hissing breath escaping between her teeth, like the release valve on a steam radiator. The odd thing about that burning, however, was that Kayla wanted it to continue. It was a prolonged relief, like that moment when pain subsides, the instant when waiting finally ceases. The intensity came from its depth and longevity. She really liked it.

  After another minute of this percolating, Jesus finally did more explaining. “You clo
sed down a big part of your heart, the part that was meant to embrace, and celebrate, your girlhood and your womanhood. It’s as if blood has gotten to that part of your heart now for the first time in over fifteen years. That’s what brought on the feeling of heat.”

  Kayla had tipped her head slightly during this explanation. She said, “So I should be different now, right?”

  Jesus smiled and put a hand on her cheek. “You are always changing, always growing. But, yes, you will notice a difference.” And, before she could ask for more specifics, he said, “You’ll see.”

  It didn’t take more than that to assure Kayla that she was still in good hands and that something inside her had been transformed. She really didn’t need to know all of the minutia of what that entailed. She suspected she might not understand some of it, even if Jesus told her. A level of emotional intoxication allowed any urges to define and delineate to just float away as on a receding tide.

  For the next hour, Jesus and Kayla worked on the painting of the little girl. Jesus provided the inspiration and the company, and Kayla provided the colors and brush strokes.

  Chapter 20

  Jesus Worship

  Jason entered the large vacuum of the auditorium in which his church held worship services. He greeted the few musicians who had already arrived. The drummer, Keith Harris, was there, early as usual. He liked to get the kit setup just so, like a master mechanic tuning a sports car before a race. Sarah Maltby, the leader for that week, was at the microphone, center stage, tuning her guitar, and fiddling with her guitar strap. She was even shorter than Kayla, and appeared to be using an unfamilar strap for the big acoustic guitar, an instrument that hid nearly half of her body from the audience.

  The house lights down, and the stage lights set low, the musicians entered a golden world one-by-one, warm light reflecting off a polished oak floor. Spotlighting created islands in which each musician setup to play and to worship.

  Dean Conner sauntered in right after Jason, carrying his bass guitar. More than anyone Jason knew, Dean had resembled his ideal of what Jesus looked like, long hair and beard, piercing eyes and a thin face. Now that Jason had the real Jesus with him, the similarity seemed lost, as if it were a mistake he had made in an ill-prepared moment. And the difference wasn’t just the sandals and the robe, or any other such superficial characteristics. For Jason, it was like he knew Jesus so well that any imitation would seem ridiculous. It was something like when you try to tell someone that they look like a famous actor. Knowing the face in the mirror as well as they do, it’s hard to see the likeness.

  Jason pulled his electric guitar out of the travel bag. The stage lights sent arrays across the glossy black surface of his Les Paul style instrument. Others arrived as he plugged in, and pulled out his picks: Anika and Dayton, two friends that sang with the band, Bess Olsen, the keyboard player and Jonny Oaks, the other electric guitarist. It took a bit longer than usual for Jason to setup his pedals, his music stand and his guitar, because he kept following Jesus’s excited gaze toward each of the people who climbed onto the stage. He was beginning to think that Jesus had a crush on everyone, his eyes brightening like a thirteen-year-old in love.

  Pulling himself away from questions about where Jesus would be during the songs, and what he would be doing, Jason tried to focus on the business of setting up for practice. That head-down determination was interrupted a few times by Jesus saying, “This is gonna be so fun.” Jason assumed he was referring to the music.

  Sarah gathered everyone together in the center of the stage and they prayed before playing a single note. She was a natural leader, and not just musically. Jason appreciated her business-like focus during practices, and her spiritual depth during prayer times like this. She always sounded like she was talking to a beloved, respected friend when she prayed.

  Jesus moved over to stand next to Sarah, as she called her musicians together, and opened the prayer. Jason peeked at them under his eyebrows, his head bowed to shield his deviance. Jesus was nodding as Sarah spoke, just the way one would when being addressed by a friend. She was turning control of their practice over to Jesus and his father, and Jesus appeared to be agreeing to take the reins.

  As others said a few sentences in concert with Sarah’s opening prayer, Jesus would move to that person and listen intently, his friendly grin showing his pleasure in what they were saying. Jason continued to monitor this process, but began to consider the possibility that Jesus might take them literally, might actually take control of the practice. Exactly what that would look like, Jason wasn’t sure, and he was also unsure that any of these musicians really wanted whatever that was, including himself.

  The opening prayer ending with a group “Amen,” they all moved to their places. Jason occupied a spot just behind, and to the left of, Sarah. He liked to see the movement of her left hand on the neck of her guitar, to time his own playing. Jesus joined Jason at his little station, for the beginning of the first song.

  All of these musicians were skilled at their instruments, and most of them knew the songs. The main purpose of these practices was to learn the rhythm and pace of the other musicians, especially Sarah, their leader.

  Once they started and restarted that first song, Sarah and Keith finding the same beat after one false start, Jesus surprised Jason, yet again. In the little bit of space between Jason and Sarah, Jesus began a sort of swaying and spinning dance, his hands raised toward the ceiling, then his face raised, and then spinning again. At one point, he knelt and raised his hands, face toward the heavens.

  Jason was missing his transitions and fudging his notes, distracted by Jesus, who wasn’t treating this like practice at all. But Jesus seemed to sense the distraction to Jason, and adjusted his behavior at the chorus of that first song. He moved out of that space where he was impossible to ignore. He began to walk around each musician, managing this supernaturally, where there were cables, effects pedals and boxes strewn on all sides of some of them. It appeared that Jesus was surrounding each musician or singer, in turn, and then moving on to the next.

  Though he had recovered some of his focus, bearing down more on the guitar, Jason thought he was detecting a change in each of the other band members, after Jesus made his little circuit around them. Voices intensified, eyes closed, and players and singers swayed with the music, as if it were the height of the best Friday night service. This was just practice. But Jason knew better. The songs they sang were more than just notes and lyrics. This was praise to God, worship of the one who gave them the ability to sing and play. The deepening effect of Jesus on the band seemed right and good, to Jason. He wanted more.

  As soon as that desire clarified in his mind, Jason felt an electric lift, a quick chill up his back, and a sort of spark to his focus on playing guitar. He elaborated a fill and hit every note with precision and feeling. The guitar sang out.

  Jesus fell to his knees in front of Sarah, facing the empty seats. He seemed to serve as a sort of beacon of worship, pulling the music, the praise, the hearts of the band, toward him and relaying them to his father. First Dayton, and then Dean fell to their knees.

  This was just the first song. This was supposed to be practice.

  Jason flipped that page in his mind again, and told himself, “This is right. This is what God deserves. This is what Jesus deserves.”

  Jesus raised his hands and sang out. Jason could hear a new voice in the mix, and he loved it. Not just that it sounded good in the harmony and the blend of instruments and singers, he loved the sound of that voice. He loved it the way he loved Kayla’s voice, singing in the kitchen, the way she did with her shy soprano pipes.

  Now Jason dropped to his knees, and stepped up his guitar playing another notch, his fingers flying, the music rising. Sarah stopped playing her guitar and raised her hands toward the ceiling, her voice swelling and cracking with emotion. She was standing on her toes, as if being lifted off the ground by some supernatural magnet in the sky.

  Even in an ecstatic
state, her hair flying loose down her back as she aimed her voice to the ceiling, Sarah led the band. But this time, she led them not through just the chords and transitions, she led them into heaven. Nobody appeared to be holding back. Anika was now on the floor face down. Keith rolled through the pieces of his drum set, his hands flying, the rhythm expanding, filling the whole empty auditorium. Dean sat down on the stage and stopped playing, he was weeping, instead of keeping the beat. But no one was watching. None of them were at all conscious of anyone else in the room, except a half-formed feeling of Jesus being there in a way that he hadn’t ever been before.

  Jason could feel himself willing it to continue, for the worship to increase, Jesus to receive his due. But Jason’s body had reached its limit, and he began to miss strings with his left hand. Finally, he lost his last pick, and his guitar just groaned on with the last note that he had struck awkwardly. For a few measures, no one was playing except Keith and he had only one stick, pounding the toms and holding his other hand in the air.

  Clumsily transferring his guitar over his head and onto its stand, Jason managed to hit the mute pedal before the feedback from his last note took over the air. Then he fell back and lay with his eyes closed and his hands raised toward the sky.

  Dayton was still singing into a microphone, on her knees, rocking and wailing as much as articulating notes and words. Sarah was on her face now, on top of her guitar, which was still plugged in and made a sound like a pipe organ, winding down from a Mozart cantata.

  The small fragment of Jason’s mind still aware of his surroundings, could hear people weeping, but could not identify who it was. He could hear singing, but it seemed like too many voices, given the number of people prone on the floor, and the number of those who were audibly crying. The groan from Sarah’s guitar and the wailing from Dayton’s throat lay a foundation for a light and piercing choir of several voices. Strange as it seemed in retrospect, that unidentified music felt perfect, fitting just like everything else done there since Jesus started surrounding the worshippers. They had ceased being a band. They were simply worshippers now.