Finding Jesus
This is an Ask & Give post—stories of asking for what we need and giving what we have. On the road, there’s a thinness of margins, between you and me, between “all’s well” and “no, no, no.” People, often strangers, show up for each other.
The road is, of course, life. It’s yours; it’s mine. And the thin margins are, of course, now. We need, in this moment, to be and receive and hold up to the light kindness among the neighbors we cross paths and share our lives with, all of us fragile creatures sharing this planet. I’m honored to feature stories of kindness from around the globe. Please let me know if you have a story to share.
The author of today’s story, , publishes essays combining spiritual insight, haikus and short-form reflections, stories, and ocassional tales about mythic archetypes or sassy goddesses on Because Life Is Messy. The tagline? “A space where we don’t pretend to have it all together. Where the tears, the laughter, the fierce grace of transformation, and the tenderness of being human are all welcome.”
There find reflections on what’s happening in the world, like the call to let joy seep in found in “Rage, Love, and the Audacity of Joy.” Find, too, wonderfully told stories with a knack for a great final line, like today’s story and the Sicilian evening chronicled in “An Unexpected Night to Remember.”
Paulette is a mentor, combining life coaching skills, transpersonal psychology, and Tantric philosophy in her one-on-one work, mostly with women. Today’s story is an excerpt from her memoir in vignettes or fragments, The BreakAway Girl: Secrets of a Tantric Yogi.
Here’s Paulette.
Finding Jesus
Middle Brother and I meet for dinner after work. We’re both in the same business—men’s hairstylists in upper-crust salons. In reality, they’re just fancy barber shops. We cut, shampoo, color, blow-dry, and give shaves. With a straight-edge razor. He’s great at it. I’m not.
It’s Thanksgiving week. We’ve both stood behind our styling chairs for thirteen straight hours. We’re hungry. Tired. I really want a glass of wine. He’s on the wagon, sipping coffee, when I slide into the booth. I look at him—and what I see reflected back is my sweet, towheaded little brother. I order a mint tea.
He’s happy. Optimistic. New job in a great salon. Making good money with generous tips.
I’m hopeful. We chit-chat about clients. About the new shears, handmade in Germany, that we each splurged on—$175, plus tax and shipping. Whether he’ll come to Thanksgiving dinner with the family. And that he found Jesus.
The restaurant has an old-world feel, with a tin ceiling. It’s pretty. But voices bounce—ricochet around the room and inside my head.
“Did you just say you found Jesus?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, we’re Catholic. Haven’t you always known Jesus?”
“No. Not like this.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know how I’ve told you before that me and Jim Beam were best of friends.”
“Yeah.” (I almost long for the good ol’ days of his imaginary friend, Billy.)
“Well.” Long pause. “I ended my friendship with him. I’m done. The good news is, that same day, I asked Jesus to walk beside me. To be my new best friend.”
“And?”
“He said yes.”
Inhaling, I imagine I smell oak, taste black pepper, licorice, the smoothness of a full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon. I sip my tea. He’s sober. In every sense.
“That’s so great. I’m happy for you.” (Though I don’t get it at all.)
We walk to our cars and wait to make sure they both start. The temperature has dropped to ten below zero.
The speed limit on the freeway is seventy. Forty minutes from home, I’m cruising along in the right lane, thinking about Jesus. My car jerks violently. I can’t hold the lane. The front wheels pull me to the shoulder. I steer left—it pulls back. Slows.
I limp along the shoulder, almost making the exit. Right rear flat tire. I have no idea how to change a tire. Cell phones not yet even a dream. Cars whiz past—I’m sure I’ll be killed.
I get back in the car and flip on the flashers.
Five interminable minutes crawl by. Then a car signals and slowly pulls up behind me.
I’m afraid to get out. I unlock and re-lock my doors.
In the rearview mirror, I see a six-foot-five man unfold from the car. Huge. He lumbers toward the driver’s side. I crack my window open an inch.
Big, heavy construction boots. A down, knee-length coat. A Yukon Jack stocking cap covers his head, and a scarf wraps around his face. Only his eyes are visible.
He pulls down the scarf—revealing a serious cleft lip. He presses his face closer to the window.
He speaks—but I can’t hear him. A scream rises in my belly. I shove it back down. I roll the window a little farther.
“I know you’re scared. Please don’t be. I won’t hurt you. Do you have a jack and a spare?” His voice is soft. Gentle. With a lisp.
I nod.
“I’m gonna change the tire. First, you have to pop the trunk for me.”
It’s frozen shut.
“OK. I’ll need your keys to open it manually. Now listen. I promise—once I open the trunk, I’ll give you the keys back. Then close the window all the way. Don’t be scared.”
I’m living a nightmare. It’s so frickin’ cold he struggles for ten minutes with the lug nuts. I wonder how he can stand it.Every few minutes, he steps away and lets me run the heater. I stop hyperventilating.
Thirty minutes later, he slams the trunk and returns to my window. “You’re all set. Good to go.”
“I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what I would have done.”
My words fire at him—rapid, staccato, stumbling. I sound crazy even to myself.
“I have three daughters at home. I hope someone would stop and help one of them.”
I reach for a twenty-dollar bill—tip money. Tears come.
“I wish I had more.”
He refuses.
“Please. Please take it.”
I push the bill through the crack.
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
“You be careful now.”
Fumbling with my keys, I hear the phone ringing. Middle Brother. “You promised to call when you got home. I was getting scared. What took you so long?”
“You are never gonna believe who I found on the freeway.”
Do you love this story as much as I do? I love how it demonstrates Paulette’s openness, her easy acceptance of her brother’s choices, and her playfulness. I teared up during the exchange with the man on the freeway. And then I grinned at that final line. Thank you, Paulette, for sharing.
Thank you, all, for reading, liking, commenting, and restacking! And for being, accepting, and seeing kindnesses.
Have a story for Ask & Give?
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Paulette, thank you, thank you for your wonderful contribution to the kindness collection. Love it. 🥰🥰🥰
I enjoyed reading every minute of this piece of your memoir, Paulette! I was fascinated to learn that you used to be a hair dresser. Love the imagery of Jesus changing your tire…And thank you, Holly, for your generosity in sharing. Well done, ladies 🩵