The sky roiled for three days. I was verklempt.
Finally, I called Jesus up.
He came, smiling at me with his gentle eyes. Seeing him again, everyone wanted to celebrate and have a party, but I was stern. This was not an occasion for small talk.
Once we were in private, I accused him:
All you do is flicker!
He knew better than to laugh. “You’re upset about Ellen,” he said.
Why aren’t you doing anything? I roared. Don’t you see what’s going on in that family? And didn’t I watch Ellen invite you in, several years ago now? Are you incompetent?
“I don’t control things any more than you do.”
Well, I’ve always perceived you as having some clout, at least.
“You need to trust the process.”
The process! The process of my Ellen being abused and humiliated before my eyes?
“She is meant to learn and teach, you know that. You made her to learn; she will eventually understand all that has happened to her. She has already found me. She’ll find you, too, don’t worry. She’ll find herself.”
Are you sure? I whined.
“As sure as I am of anything,” he smiled.
Suddenly I remembered what it felt like to hold his life in my hands, there in the tomb. The in-between chill and warmth of that sensation sped through me again. I shuddered.
I want her, I said. In the end, I want her as my own. That’s my will.
“I know your will. You need to trust me . . . as I trust you,” he answered, pointedly.
Okay, I whispered.
He embraced me. Then he departed.
We all felt the rush of him going.