Jesus Piece

Austin Wolfe

“I can’t do this for you.”

Her response made me angry. Or scared. I wasn’t really sure which. All I knew was that this was too much for me to handle on my own. I was about to decide my eternal fate, and I really didn’t want to mess it up. I have been told of the streets of gold. I could picture the winding streets leading to grand, ivory castles. But even more so, I could picture the lake of fire. Desolate lands filled with burning souls.

“Just ask him for forgiveness. Ask him for acceptance.”

One last plea proved futile. I knew I could not delay any longer. The parking hardly seemed the place for such monumental happening: people toting groceries, minivans jockeying for position, misplaced seagulls fighting over stale French fries. I knew we would stop at McDonalds when it was over, but even the allure of a toy and a treat couldn’t ease my mind.

“What if I mess it up?”

“Honey, you can’t mess it up.”

I didn’t believe her for a minute. If this were true, everyone would do it. Yet, I had spent countless Sundays being told of all the sorry souls who had not.

“Fine”

I bowed my head and tried to picture what would happen. I saw a tiny man wearing a red sash. I tried to picture him inhabiting the cavities of my heart. I pictured him smiling — easing my fears when it was time for bed.

Jesus, I accept you into my heart.

I waited. And, waited. But, nothing changed. I felt no different than before. I knew what it meant, and I felt like crying. My fate was sealed.

“Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t it feel wonderful?”

I felt nothing.