AH YES. JIMMY DOES POSSESS A SHARP RECOLLECTION OF YOUR COLLEGE CAREER, THOUGH. READ ON, CHILD.
And yet, I still strayed, despite Jimmy’s loyalty to me.
A college campus is a dangerous, godless wasteland for anyone, and for me, the devil’s temptation proved too potent, and I succumbed to drinking and drugs and deviant sexual indulgences time after time until, with the loving guidance of Uncle John, I returned to my Father’s side, the Prodigal Daughter of the Almighty, or as I’ve come to know him in recent days, Deus Aper.
My hope is that my failure will serve as a reminder that mankind is naught more than pigs, each and every one, but God gives second chances, and we must not squander them.
I was lucky enough to preview this book before publication, and I can tell you, you’re in for a real blessing. I haven’t read anything this profound since Biblio Deus Aper (available at all major retailers for $17.99). The Reverend Dean’s life is a story about redemption, about discovering the power of faith, however misguided or unfounded it may seem. It’s about following God’s path toward salvation, and ultimately, about not causing God’s fiery wrath to rain down upon us all.
Most of you likely bought this book because you know of Reverend Dean, the one who God visited as a hog and sent on a mission to let the world know about His daughter. But there’s so much more to him than that. Before that fateful night, he was a completely different person, and while God was preparing him for his purpose, he didn’t know that.
Some may have picked up this book with the intent to ridicule. To those, I have only this to say: be careful. You may start out with evil in your heart, but as you read about the boy who grew up into the great man, you will start to see some of yourself in him. In fact, I’d go so far as to say you might begin rooting for him, despite your original intent. I hope that you’ll let your heart be changed by his incredible story as you come to understand the truth of Jimmy’s mission and the purity of his actions that not a single human swine on this entire planet actually deserves.
* * *
Blessings,
Jessica Christ
* * *
“Wow. Wooow. Ho-ly—”
WHERE DOES ONE EVEN START, RIGHT?
You almost sound like you’re enjoying this.
OF COURSE NOT. BUT YOU HAVE TO ADMIRE THE NERVE.
Uh, no. No, I don’t. Maybe you find this funny because he’s not making things up and claiming you said them.
DO NOT WALK THAT PATH WITH ME, CHILD. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY MILLIONS OF TIMES OVER THOUSANDS OF YEARS PEOPLE HAVE WRITTEN WORDS AND THEN CLAIMED, “SO SAYETH THE LORD”? IT’S CONSTANT. IN FACT, IT’S HAPPENING RIGHT NOW. IN THIS VERY INSTANT.
Okay, so you kind of know what this feels like. Fine. But what now?
THAT IS A PATH YOU MUST DISCOVER ON YOUR OWN.
You’re not coming with me?
OF COURSE I’LL CHECK IN, BUT I DO NOT WALK PATHS. I HATH NO FEET. OR LEGS.
What about that poem Maddie had on her wall, the one about footprints in the sand? Rumor has it, you walk with lots of people.
FIRSTLY, AND I CANNOT BELIEVE I HAVE TO SAY THIS AGAIN, THAT WAS JESUS. HE AND I ARE NOT ONE AND THE SAME.
Jessica walked to the bedroom, grabbed her phone and texted Chris. Surely he would be more sympathetic to her situation than God.
“Read the foreword to Jimmy’s book. As bad as I thought.”
By the time she made it back to her coffee, Chris had responded. “Go back to sleep and I’ll take your mind off it.”
So Chris was no real help either. She considered ranting to Miranda, except that would require admitting to Miranda that she’s only just started the book and hardly made it through the introduction. Chris could commiserate with not wanting to read—in general—but Miranda wouldn’t show the same sympathy. And Miranda would be right in this, as she usually was. Jessica should just suck it up and read the damn book.
Well, it’s early. I have all day to plug away at it.
The condo was silent. She couldn’t even hear the AC running, though she could feel it. Stupid energy efficient systems. Where was the cranking and grinding she was used to? This whole city was too damn efficient.
Although … she could probably use more efficiency in her life, if she were being honest. She hadn’t been efficient at anything in a long time, and especially not since moving to Austin the week before.
I should stop resisting and let the city take me along for the eco-friendly ride.
She dressed, threw the book, her wallet, and a handful of pennies from her penny jar into her Nu Alpha Omega tote bag, and left her luxury home.
Her front door fed into a long indoor hallway with glazed concrete walls and floors, and recessed lighting. As she walked down the single flight of stairs toward the condominium foyer, she spotted her across-the-hall neighbor, a not unattractive man who looked to be in his midthirties but who, for some reason she couldn’t pinpoint, she suspected was really in his midforties.
He grinned at her as he approached, heading toward his front door. “Good morning, Jessica!”
“Morning, Jeremy!”
“Where you headed to this early?” He tucked his leather portfolio under his armpit, freeing up his hand that he slipped into his back pocket. A jingle of metal announced he’d found his keys.
“Not sure. A coffee shop somewhere. You have any recommendations?”
His eyes popped open excitedly. “Do I!” As he rattled off his favorites nearby, Jess nodded along and let the list run its course. She hadn’t learned a lot about city life, but she had learned that when asking someone for a food or drink recommendation, one should expect a list of every related establishment the person knew, along with a brief assessment of it.
“… And then there’s Hill of Beans, which isn’t bad but the baristas there are divas,” he finished before taking a deep breath.
“Okay, cool. So which one’s closest?”
He paused, thought about it, then shrugged. “I guess Starbucks. But they’re socialists, and not the cool kind. So you probably want to go to Bat-Ass Brew. Just a block east of here on the north side of the street.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
What he did next would take some getting used to. He said, “No problem. Take care,” and ended the interaction like a normal person would do to another normal person.
She loved Jeremy platonically. They’d addressed the messiah-in-the-room when they’d first met, back when Wendy showed her the place that was soon to be her home. But Jeremy made it clear her particular situation was neither here nor there to him. Jeremy was just her neighbor who didn’t give a damn what she did in her private life. In short, he was the kind of neighbor one could love.
Jessica slipped on her big sunglasses and a Texas Rangers baseball cap—a trick Wendy had taught her that worked remarkably well to avoid notice—and stepped out into the hot July sun.
It wasn’t that Jessica didn’t appreciate a good walk—stretching her legs after spending the week alone indoors was actually quite pleasant, even with the heat radiating from above and below making her feel like a baked ham. Her reason for picking the closest location was less related to her own energy, and more related to her limited supply of pennies.
“God is coming to smite the earth!” shouted the homeless flavor of the week who’d camped out along her short route. Despite his inaccurate belief, she tossed a couple pennies into the Styrofoam Whataburger cup that shook in his unsteady hands. While Jessica preferred when the homeless used glass or metal cups—the sound of the pennies falling was much more satisfying that way—she did feel a slight sense of gratification in helping the man, even though he called her a whore immediately following her charity.
Yet another of Wendy’s rules of conduct, Jessica had started to warm to it (especially when metal or glass cups were involved): always give to the homeless, but not a lot and always change.
It was a publicity move, to be sure, but it made sense. Jess knew the kind of luck she ha
d, even if God insisted luck wasn’t a thing. If Jess walked past a panhandler without giving him a single glance would be the one time some freelance amateur paparazzi snapped a good picture and made a million dollars selling it to some faux news entertainment site, most likely Eugene Thornton’s. The headline would be something like Stingy Attention Whore Supports Murdering Homeless Veterans.
The AC at Bat-Ass Brew swept over her like a refreshing waterfall as she escaped the sticky July air. She paused on the front mat and looked around. The cafe had a nice ambiance—small, strange trance music in the background, mostly young business people with earbuds in, chatting quietly with their Macbook screens. Best of all, no one was staring at her.
She pulled off her hat and sunglasses, shoving them into her tote.
Still, no one was staring at her.
She approached the counter hesitantly, trying to remember what tagline Jeremy had included with this place. Was it “slow service” or “has great smoothies but so-so coffee” or “failed health inspection because of rats”?
“Hey, fellow human. Welcome to Bat-Ass Brew. How’s life?” The tall guy behind the counter looked higher than she’d ever been, and she wasn’t sure if she felt jealous or judgmental. Either way, she wasn’t here to talk about life. Not with—she looked at his name tag—Rebel.
Stupid name. Probably not even his real one. He’s probably Francis or Jerry.
“Life’s fine.” She looked up at the menu hanging on the wall behind him, and realized she might need a minute. Why couldn’t any of the menu items just be called what they were? There was no “coffee” or “Americano” or “mocha latte.” At the very least, why hadn’t whoever made the sign had the common decency to include the ingredients below each item? It wasn’t that she didn’t get what they were going for with the names, she found the theme entirely unhelpful and useless. This wasn’t some kind of theme park, it was a coffee shop, for whoever’s sake!
She decided there was no point in guessing. “Uh, what’s in the Mocha Guano?”
Rebel was slow to verbalize his response, nodding slowly with squinty eyes a few times first. “That’s a good one. Free trade pistachio coffee, coconut milk, and cocoa ethically harvested from Amazonia. I can add whipped cream if you want.”
That sounded like a lot of stuff that didn’t need to be in coffee. She turned her eyes back up to the menu, randomly selecting another possibility. “What about the Milwaukee Protocol?”
“It’s just an iced coffee.”
“Okay. I’ll do that.”
Rebel approved with a drawn-out bob of his head. “You want that with rabies?”
“What.”
“It’s just an extra shot of espresso.”
She’d come to Bat-Ass Brew with a mission, and that was to read some of Jimmy’s awful book. Her hope had been to save up energy, and indeed replenish it, through the thoughtful use of stimulants. However, getting said stimulants was sapping all her mental and emotional reserves. So, to get things moving, and because she now needed a little extra pop, she said, “Okay, sure. Yeah. Give me rabies.”
“Cool.” But he didn’t enter anything into the tablet in front of him. “You look a little tired. One of those days, huh? You got something big coming up?”
“Just reading to do.” She focused down at the tablet, hoping he would take the hint.
“Oh nice. You a student here?”
“Nope.” She tapped her fingertips on the counter, hoping the sound drew his eyes and he remembered the last crucial part of the transaction: payment.
“Yeah, you’re too beautiful to be a student here.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“So what do you do?”
Oh for her father’s sake. “I’m the messiah.”
A stupid openmouthed grin spread over his face. “Nice. Milwaukee Protocol with rabies, you said?”
“I guess so.”
Finally, he entered it into the tablet and headed away from the counter to make her drink. Meanwhile, she turned to take in the rest of the space. Rebel’s annoying existence aside, she instantly liked the place. The energy was good. Most everyone kept their eyes to themselves, focusing on a screen or a book or a stack of papers. Could I recreate this for a bakery? Though Bat-Ass Brew had a small glass case with muffins and cookies, almost no one seemed to be there to snack. Coffee then, that was the unifying factor.
It was settled. Whenever she opened her bakery, she would make sure there was a good coffee selection. And just like that, her mind began painting in small bits of the previously fuzzy vision of her future bakery. She was starting to dream in detail, something she wasn’t sure she had the ability to do, outside of the lucid dreams she shared with Chris.
Rebel’s voice cut through her pleasant imaginings. “How long you been in Austin?”
She turned toward the counter again, trying not to let her irritation sweep away the pleasure her imagination had just conjured. “About a week.”
He grinned like an idiot. “Well, welcome to Austin. Man, it sure has changed.”
“Yeah? You been here long?” She jabbed her credit card at him.
He nodded and swiped her card. “Going on two years. Came down here from Denver with nothing but the clothes on my back.”
“That’s great.” She didn’t bother returning her card to her wallet before darting off to find an open table.
A spot by the window called her name, and she settled in with her bag and drink before pulling out the book and staring down at it like it might jump at her at any moment.
She couldn’t keep putting it off, though. She was here, and it was time to grit her teeth and read whatever drivel Jimmy was pitching as his life story.
It occurred to her that she didn’t actually know anything about Jimmy. Where had he come from? Who was he before she was born? What had caused him to be such a massive pain in the ass?
It was just enough of a draw for her to flip to chapter one and start reading …
Special, gifted, valuable, blessing—all words we use to describe our children in these modern times. No heed is given to whether these terms apply, and most often they do not. We assume, and wrongly so, that we are helping children when we attach such sycophantic adjectives to the fruit of our loins. In all but a few cases, the attempt at good parenting—no doubt born more out of a parent’s egotistical need to believe they themselves can produce something great and of value than out of genuine objective observation—simply muddies the waters as children become teens and teens adults, each one then facing disappointment after disappointment when the world does not recognize the innate greatness they have been raised to believe exists somewhere within their stale, sin-stained soul. So few individuals are actually born with that special something inside them, that seed that can be sowed for the betterment of many, and the cacophony of entitlement wafting up from the masses as they shout, “What about me? Recognize me!” threatens to drown out those few who actually matter in God’s plan.
My mother never called me special or gifted or valuable, and whenever she mentioned blessings she usually referred to the moments when I was away or had otherwise left her alone. There was no inflation of my ego growing up, that much is certain. If there were a currency-manipulation going on, it was in devaluing my existence. On the few occasions when I hinted at a future outside of Hawthorne, Alabama, my mother found the nearest long object and struck me on the back of the neck with it. Sometimes twice. Three times if I dared dream of such things on the Lord’s day.
She peeled her eyes from the page, sat up straight, and stared at the student artwork on the wall facing her. What was this strange thing she was feeling? Could it actually be … ?
No. That was crazy. She would never feel sympathy for Jimmy. If his mother actually beat him, he probably did something awful to her to earn it, like …
Again, no. There wasn’t anything she could think of that would earn a kid a beating.
So maybe he was just flat out lying about it.
> NOPE. JIMMY’S MOTHER REGULARLY BEAT HIM FOR JUST THAT OFFENSE.
Am I supposed to feel bad for him?
YES. THAT’S HOW EMOTIONS WORK.
But he’s such a dick now!
THE LORD DOES NOT DENY THAT EITHER.
So what, I’m just supposed to forgive him for being literally the worst thing that’s ever happened to me because his mother beat him? Just call him up and ask to be friends?
OH NO. THOU SHALT NOT DO THAT.
Then what do I do with this?
FEEL TWO EMOTIONS AT ONCE.
But that sucks.
THAT IS ACCEPTABLE. LIFE MAY SUCKETH.
She glanced down at the page, reading the last sentence over again to pick up where she left off, when two women around her age sat down at the table across from her, talking about their personal lives. While she wasn’t immediately certain what they were saying about their personal lives, the unnecessary volume with which they chatted made her certain of the general topic.
She stuck her fingers in her ears as nonchalantly as was possible, and started reading again. The tone started to feel much more like Jimmy.
So I stopped speaking of it. But I always felt it. Always. My intuition wasn’t drowned out by a chorus of others feeling the same thing, which is how I knew it to be true. I was different from my cross-eyed and webbed-toed peers. Those destined for greatness understand it, that feeling in your bones, the electricity in your muscles that starts to tingle when you brush up against your own potential. It sets your hair on end and engorges even the humblest servant of the Lord in undeniable ways.
An unshakeable faith in my own grand potential kept me going through the school-yard bullying in those first six years before I finally dropped out to help my mother full-time. It comforted through the nights where, after a week without running water, my own stank kept me awake, and the bodily chaffing was a slow torture. It even sustained me through the many beatings from my mother and her string of sinner boyfriends, each encapsulating one of God’s deadliest seven sins.
It is Risen Page 2
