Chapter 23 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 6

As I waited for a third visitor, a bright moon hovered over me and became my steady companion. And as you know by now, I was also joined by two other companions, those being the extra Coronas which had not been consumed by two individuals: one, who had previously looked like Jesus to me; and the other, who sounded just as I thought he should.

So, in the wake of their dismissal, I guess you could say I drank their beers. It was all part of a closure ritual for me.

I'm sure you understand.

Anyhow, the minutes started overlapping into hours and pretty soon I had lost track of time altogether. I began drifting in and out of what I assumed was a conscious, waking moment.

(I mean, how could it NOT be if it started with these freckles? You know, the very ones on the inside of my left knee? The ones that are almost identical to the Big Dipper?)

I shut my eyes and within seconds there was a subtle scent wafting, and it was noticeable even above the pungent stench of empty beer bottles. It was the most unusual of odors, yet as the wind whipped up once more, it became overwhelming. It emerged as oddly familiar: some combination of damp stone, incense and smoke, mixed in with musty carpeting, oil and red oak; dusty books, crumbling binders.

And stale coffee.

Soon, he was in front of me—the source of it all—and he embodied some solemn memory of that which is quiet and still. His eyes were kind, yet stern; sleepy yet serious.

Intuitively I knew I shouldn’t move or crack or giggle. And you shouldn’t either, because then I’ll never be able to stop.

Four beers into this, I get it: I’m being tested. Jesus reduced to sight, sound and smell.

True to other smells, my senses were overcome and they returned me to the place where Jesus lived, right exactly where I was required to go each week, to know him and be delivered; to let light out from under my bushel and learn what it meant to be good. Adults with starched collars and coffee on their breath surrounded me as they made their olfactory contributions (perhaps unknowingly) to memories; to aromatic bombardments of the iconic sort.

And all that filled my nostrils left some indelible imprint, these sensory trappings of wood and brick, of Jesus contained.

I counted down the minutes and finally it was over and I could move. I could squirm and run and stretch. I could approach him, shake his hand and smile. The cloth of his robe, the very fabric held firmly each scent: a bouquet of church.

But I was hushed and hurried along, for this was a very busy man tending to a desperately needy flock.

As he released my hand, I opened my eyes and I was an adult, and he was next to me, under that tree with narrow branches and wide leaves. He smelled like every bit of Jesus, pieces and parcels from years gone by. Yet I knew, I just knew for all of his good intentions—now and throughout the years—he wasn’t the One.

He withdrew in a hurry, for the warm smells of a pot luck summoned from the basement, and only he could say the blessing.

No time for a beer, I suppose.