right here, yeah-yeah.

I wonder what Jesus would say to me if he was with me right now in my room, watching me drink my lukewarm Starbucks. I mean, yeah, he’s here. He’s listening to me and watching me (I can even hear him if I shoot a thought heavenward) but I mean physically. What if Jesus were sitting on my bed watching me type this? (I bet he’d correct my grammar for one.)

If Jesus were here I think he’d make some observations, silently to himself, or maybe he’d whisper them or write them in the dirt (if I had dirt in my room).

First, he’d say quietly or in his head, she is very distracted. She’s typing, but she’s thinking about a million other things. He’d know this not just by observing me, but reading my thoughts—Jesus can do that too, you know.

She’s thinking about me being here with her but she’s also thinking about the taste of that Starbucks. It’s getting gritty and not very tasty. She wants to keep drinking it but she isn’t satisfied. And her iPod—he’d notice my iPod—it’s on pause but she’s dying to press play again. She wants to listen to the rest of this song.

Jesus would question my distractions, whether they are legit or not. Can she really be devoted to writing—or to me—if she’s distracted all the time? He’d probably wonder why I expect other people to stay focused all the time when I cannot do it myself. And why I condemn other people’s idols when I have built some of my own, bowing down to them five times a day, dressing them in gold claiming they’re worth something. They’re not worth anything, these idols of mine—these gods being everything consuming my mind: my music, my laptop, Starbucks, my cell phone, even my writing. All idols. I mean, they can be.

The second thing Jesus would notice about me is my clothing. I think he likes the shirt I’m wearing, it has a nice purple floral print. The neckline could be a little scandalous if I chose to bend down slowly in front of a man, but I won’t. There aren’t even men around. And I bet Jesus would notice my jeans—American Eagle brand—and maybe consider my bra and how much money I spent on it (twice the price of my shirt). He’d probably then ask me why I spent so much money on clothes, and why they mean so much to me.

I’d hesitate, probably, not sure what to say and curious as to why that was the first thing Jesus asked me all night. After shifting my glace a few times (Jesus’ powerful eyes would make me rather nervous) I’d answer him. In a pseudo-confident voice I’d say, “Well, Jesus, I spend a lot of money on clothes because they give me confidence.” And I might add, for a logical edge, “Most girls want to look pretty, Jesus, it makes them feel important. I’m just like everyone else.”

He’d nod. If you notice from scripture Jesus wasn’t always quick to rebuttal someone’s ignorance. And when he did respond it was usually short or in the form of a rhetorical question. If Jesus had this conversation with me in my bedroom right now, I would expect him to say something profound.

“Why do you want to find your worth in other people?” Jesus would ask.

“But I don’t, Jesus,” I’d argue. “I just want to feel important. That’s different, you see. I know I matter to you, I just want other’s to realize it too.”

“Is that so?”

Is that so? Why do I wear these clothes? Why do I want that new Kelly green jacket from Delia’s? It’s all about my image: I must look good in order to feel good in order to believe I matter—to other people.

I would not respond because I would not know how.

Next, Jesus would observe my closed door. It’s a nice door—oak, with a shiny brass handle—but it’s shut and not much goes in or out. Granted, my music—if played too loudly (which it always is)—seeps through. But nothing tangible leaves or enters my room for hours.

Jesus would question me as to why that is, or, as mentioned before, he may just think about it or maybe stand up and observe the threshold itself.

How much time do I spend in my room?

6:45-7:10 a.m.: In my room.

7:10-7:17 a.m.: Getting coffee and my books for school.

7:17-7:34 a.m.: Picking up brother and driving to school.

7:34-7:50 a.m.: At my locker.

7:50-1:03 p.m.: In class.

1:03-1:07 p.m.: At my locker.

1:07-1:25 p.m.: Driving home from school.

1:25-2:30 p.m.: Watching TV in the living room.

2:30-4:00 p.m.: In my room.

4:00-5:00 p.m.: Watching TV in the living room.

5:00-5:45 p.m.: Making dinner and eating it.

5:45-6:45 a.m.: In bedroom.

It was fine at first: I am in my room for a little bit before school and a little after school (between TV shows). Then all of the sudden it’s 5:45 at night and that’s the last you’ll see of me. I have a laptop with internet access, an iPod stereo, a sink/vanity, and a bag full of Easter candy at my disposal, not to mention the door to the bathroom connected to my bedroom. I don’t need to leave. If I want to get a drink, sure, I’ll have to leave. But I go right back up into my room and shut the door.

I bet my mom misses me.

I bet Jesus wishes I left the door open every once in a while. He knows that I need to be available to people just like he was. The Bible records instances when Jesus goes off to the mountainside alone but he is with people the rest of the time. And the only time he is alone it is to pray—not to check his Facebook or to listen to Kings of Leon.

Man is not supposed to spend all this time alone—I am not an island….

Jesus would sit there watching me think all these thoughts, probably drinking his own Starbucks (not lukewarm, of course. Revelations tells us he’s not a fan of lukewarm things). I don’t think he would scorn me much, though he disagrees with what I’m doing with my time. He knows that I’ll learn it time, that it is through spending time with him I’ll know more about how I should live.

March 28, 2008

Posted in Nonfiction.