When I was little, I thought the man that ran the corner Sip N Go was Jesus.
That’s right. I believed the son of God himself stood behind the counter selling
cigs and lotto tickets.
I lived in a small town. I was young. How was I supposed to know his name was
pronounced hay-zeus? I thought only one person could be called Jesus, and that it had to
be the Big Kahuna himself.
This man, the Jesus of the Sip N Go, turned my world over. Save the beard and
bushy hair, he looked nothing like the Jesus of my Children’s Bible. He had darker hair,
darker skin, and sure as heck didn’t wear a robe. He may have worn sandals, but I’ll
never know. Besides, what was he doing at a gas station in Smalltown, USA?
Despite everything, I knew he had to be Jesus. He always stood silent and
watching, remaining calm in the face of even the worst customers. I was in awe. All my
memories of him are framed by the side of my father. I would hide behind his legs when
it came time to pay, only peeking around my father’s large frame in tiny bursts of bravery.
Jesus always smiled at me and I would smile back, no matter how shy I was. Because
when Jesus smiles at you, you sure as heck smile back.
I still remember the twinkle in his eye, like he knew something you didn’t.
I, of course, was convinced he did.
I don’t remember the exact moment the realization struck me, but by the time I
was in the eighth grade I realized that my Jesus was not THE Jesus. This man, however,
taught me to question everything. I will always owe him for that.
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