Out of the Mouth of Babes

I kid you not, this is the conversation I had with my 5-year-old stepdaughter Mogwai (not her real name, in case you think her mother is a real whack-a-doo) on our way home from kindergarten.

Mog: I had a dream with Jesus in it.

Me: Oh yeah?

Mog: Uh-huh.  And he said for me to come to him.  So I did.

Me: Then what happened?

Mog: It was really you!

Me: <pause> I was Jesus?

Mog: Yeah!  And I hugged you!

Me: Well that’s nice.

Mog: And then you died on the cross.

Me: <pause> That’s…not so nice.

Mog: Because you wanted to be king.

Me: I see.

Mog: And so you died on the cross.

Me: Huh.

I should explain that I have shoulder length brown hair and often sport a short beard, so this isn’t the first time I’ve been compared physically to Jesus.  I’ve had friends jokingly refer to me as such for years and even had a few people drive by and yell it at me as I walk down the street.  It’s not an uncommon occurence to say the least. However, to have a 5-year-old make the connection is a bit disconcerting.  I wasn’t sure what to say to her revelation.

So I just nodded my head in vague interest, as one normally does at the nattering of a child and wandered off onto my own meandering thoughts.  Primarily that, if I am sent here to save the souls of mankind, we are all in big BIG trouble.  I can barely be bothered to take the garbage out on a regular basis, let alone anything of that grandiose level.  As for being virtuous, well…I wouldn’t call myself a bad person, but I am far from a saint.  And that whole martyr thing?  Not my cup of tea, really.

So if push comes to shove and I’m your savior, you may want to invest into some yoga classes so you can learn to kiss your behind goodbye.

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