Every Easter morning, my parents would wake us up, hand us our baskets filled with jelly beans and marshmallows of various shapes and colours, then push us out the door and tell us to behave ourselves and wait for Jesus. Yes, that’s right, Jesus. It may seem strange, but that was the tradition, and neither my sister nor I ever questioned it. We just did as we were told and took our positions out on the front lawn.
I kept my eyes on the west. My sister, on the east. We dare not blink for fear of missing him. Still, after a few hours, either my sister or I would get tired and knock on the door to ask our parents when they were coming out to join us. Their answer was always the same: “He only wants the children. It’s too late for the adults to be saved. But we’re in here praying for you.”
Well, they said they were praying. But I wasn’t so sure. I mean do people usually pray while wearing bathrobes, drinking Screwdrivers and listening to the Cal Tjader Quintet? It didn’t seem likely. But everyone has their own way of being spiritual, I guess.
Anyhow, my sister and I would sit out there for most of the day — me with my binoculars, my sister with the telescope — and we’d wait. And wait. And wait. But you know what? He never came. Jesus never came. Maybe it was because we never actually attended a church service. Or possibly it was because my father was technically Jewish. I may never know. But every year, I still find myself looking outside, hoping to see him floating down from the clouds or maybe beaming himself in like they do on Star Trek. But it’s never happened, which is kind of sad. Not that it matters, really. It’s too late for us adults anyway.
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