I've been praying to Jesus a lot over the last few weeks. I don't believe in Jesus-or even God really-but I find it strangely comforting so I'm doing it. My praying phase began when I was having cocktails with a very sarcastic, down to earth friend. We were talking about whether or not to participate in an upcoming art fair.
"I am going to pray to Jesus about that."
I snorted. She raised her eyebrows at me.
"Wait-really?" I asked."Real Jesus?"
"Yeah, I pray to Jesus all the time." she said, which surprised me because she seems-well, smart.
"Okay," I told her "Lets pray about it."
So she took my hands and prayed on me-"Lord Jesus-Sunny doesn't believe in you-send her a sign that will show her you are real. Let your blood pour down upon her and wash away all of her fears and anxieties."
I like it when people pray for Jesus blood to pour all over me. It makes me imagine myself like Carrie-only I am smiling as I accept my blood covered crown and scepter, adored by the whole prom.
My aunt used to pray that Jesus blood would cover my car and now I can't pass by a Chevy Impala without seeing it dripping in blood.
"Thanks, man." I told her, and walked out the door.
She lives outside of town and there are no lights on her street. It was a full moon, though, and under that light I could see two deer facing me on her front lawn. they were staring at me, a momma and a baby. I kept walking and they kept just standing there, looking at me.
It was spooky. Otherworldly.
"Okay Jesus-that was a cool sign. Thank you for not making those deer rabid or bloodthirsty-cause you really freaked me out there for a second." I prayed in the car.
Because-I learned this-you are not supposed to ask for stuff-you are supposed to thank Jesus like he already gave it to you. So instead of saying-
"Dear Jesus, please make that bitch die of a sudden aneurysm." you have to say-"Thank you Jesus for making that bitch drop dead of natural causes.'
And already, I can see how prayer has made me a more compassionate person-because in the past I would have wished that that bitch got into a horrible, disfiguring car accident-maybe something on the face or some kind of Freida Kahlo metal pole incident-now I just wish for a sudden, painless explosion of a tiny blood vessel in the brain.
It really helps me, even though technically I don't believe in Jesus. It's a similar little fiction I play in my mind when I am forced to go to the post office to ship dresses-I will bribe myself with a Starbucks or a Vicodin-and although a lot of times I don't bother to enjoy my promised treat when the errand is done-it does make me get up off the couch and go mail shit.
Dear Jesus, thank you for inventing narcotics. And thank you for Starbucks.A possible combination of the two would be nice-an iced percoset latte, perhaps. Just a suggestion.
Jesus doesn't always deliver. Sometimes I test him.
"Thank you Jesus for making my husband decide to go out and get us Italian so that I don't have to get up and cook." I will say out loud. Jeff will shake his head.
"Jesus is not your slave, Sunny."
"Thank you Jesus for my takeout-I know you like to watch Lost too-up in heaven. Please make Claire brush her hair tonight. thank you Lord."
And when Jeff is unmoved to go get takeout, even after I thanked Jesus in advance for lasagna, I don't quit praying-because Jesus works in GOD'S TIME. That means-maybe next Tuesday Jeff will get the lasagna, or maybe it is only after that bitch in front of me going 15 miles an hour on the access road arrives home will she have her aneurysm-I don't know y'all-I don't question my faith. God works in mysterious ways.
Thank you Jesus for all of the people who read my blog. Let your blood flow all over them in a holy river of amazing grace, and let Jeff get takeout tonight. Thank you Lord!
For the love of God, entertain me.
20 hours ago