Jesus Has Taken Residence In My Heart
Jesus has taken residence in my heart. He’s a tidy tenant, wipes up the stubble from his beard after a trim. I feel the shake when he brushes his teeth. He must be the size of a G.I. Joe. Why he’s attracted to my heart, I’ve no idea. It’s lonely in there I imagine—dark, damp. He’s given to bouts of bloody sweating caused by enormous prayers. I’ve not seen him, but I’ve felt the unfolding of a futon at night, the scrape of chair legs at breakfast. I’m careful when I walk so as not to jar him. I’m told he lives in the hearts of others, too, but how he manages is unclear. If he’d ask I’d say go on, take a break. Go out for coffee, maybe a movie. But he stays silent. There’s so little to do in there, I’m sure he gets bored. At times I have felt nails. Maybe he hangs pictures. Perhaps he writes on the walls, divine things meant just for him, or maybe my naughty deeds. This hurts me, but if he didn’t write something, if he left the heart just as he’d found it, unscarred, how might he ever recognize it again? If there were a trial, say, a dispute of some sort, and he had to prove his place of residence? If he met it again, how else would he be able to attest that he had been a lodger?