I met Jesus at the age of four.
In my memory it happened like this: I’m lying on my back with the faded rose and ivy comforter of my parent’s four-post bed beneath me, and my head is dangling off the edge. Charlie is there, just a few years older than I but already my idol. And my recently born-again Mom. She is glowing, and talking fast, giddy but sane as day.
She tells me about this Jesus, this Jesus who I can talk to, this Jesus who already talks to her. I do not know her exact words. But I know that if she loves him, I can, too. Continue reading “My Mother and My God by Erin Lane”
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