The father came by on the weekend to pick up jesus. Yup, jesus was here at our house. I had looked out our front window and saw the father walking slowly, carefully, with his head bent down as he negotiated his steps on our uneven gravel path. In his right hand was a statue of jesus.
This subject has been talked around and around, at our kitchen tables, for the past few weeks. At random times the father would show up to talk or hang out, or we would all be gathered together having a drink or dinner, and then he would bring up, ‘Christoff’ as he once called him, or ‘Joseph’ another time…at which point, because I thought it was so funny that he couldn’t get Christ’s name right, I said, ‘Do you mean Billy?’ The father actually laughed! I think it was the first time he laughed at one of my jokes…mostly because he usually doesn’t listen to me.
He has been trying to figure out what to do with the big cross which stands at his parents grave, a grave which he has now stopped leasing. In Germany you rent your grave plot for a limited time…say 10 years, 50 years or 99 years. Now, the time was up on the grave of great guy’s beloved oma, Barbara, and her husband who died when he was still quite young.
The other day, great guy sawed off the part of the cross which held the names, built a little copper roof for it, and gave it a pedestal. The father was happy that he can now add this to his own grave plot, where great guy’s mom is buried. Jesus is already hanging there…so now the question is, where did he take the other one? What can you do with such a statue…or a better question is, what should you do with it? At least, last night at dinner grave plots were no longer a topic of conversation. It is finished.
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