By Pamela Murray Winters
From Fall 2017
After we got our VIP wristbands, they led us through to meet Jesus. The green room was smaller than we expected. He had changed from his robes into a chambray shirt and Dockers, His feet modestly clad in white socks and Tevas. He still had that aura, though. The scent of cloves and mown grass. I got snookered into taking camera after camera to shoot souvenirs. The old grip-and-grin. It seemed polite to ask for a photo of my own. His embrace was warm, brotherly, only a bit damp, and I felt supreme love and deep foolishness in equal portions. My companions yelled Say Christmas! I murmured I feel stupid. The Lord said Everyone feels stupid. It’s OK.