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| Source: TACLUDA |
With Nana living in
the guest room, a heavy handed clamp fell.
Lock-step grated on Samuel, creating a bubble of suppressed creativity. If
something does not free me from this hell hole, I cannot be held
responsible. Samuel steamed.
Destiny intervened.
Nana’s long-time friend Pastor Beech of the
First Baptist Church had recently called, leaving a flyer that boasted of the
innovative and structured childcare available.
On a fateful Sunday with
Samuel clutched between them, The Mommy and Nana dragged him to the childcare
room, a delightful sunny room with a large painted mural of Jesus and little
children.
Samuel smiled. So this is Jesus…let the children come
unto Me…
Nana perceived a mental
warning bell. She ignored it, leaving
Samuel with four smiling women and one sullen teenage Goth girl.
Samuel scoped out the
room. Window—no problem. Paint—only tempera, but usable. Jesus—His face within reach. Goth girl’s purse—open with make-up. Lipstick—black.
A boy and his art media. Oh, God is good, all the time. This is gonna be epic…
Church service had
moved beyond the songs and offering collection.
The Mommy and Daddy were smiling.
But, Nana felt hackles rise.
‘Samuel. Oh no, not here.’
When the Head Usher scurried
to Nana, she rose without a word. Seeing
a look of horror and a black streak down his left cheek, Nana sighed. ‘He found
someone’s lipstick. Damn.’
She ran to the child
care room, where the toddlers were huddled behind Mrs. Beech.
The other women chased
the other screaming three year terrors; they had streaked the walls with rainbows
of Crayola markers. The Noah’s Ark
poster was a sodden mess of yellow and red paint, while the window glass had
splats of green and black.
Samuel was just
putting the finishing touches on Jesus’ face with the lipstick. A uni-brow
and a tattoo, perfect! Now, just some
heavier body hair…
Nana scooped him
under one arm and stalked from the room.
In the seething
silent drive home, Samuel hummed, Yes,
Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me… “We go again, Nana?” He asked.
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| Carl Heinrich Bloch, Luke 18: 16-17 |
