Jesus’ choice

He sits in His chambers  

walls of alternating panels of gold and glass

30 or 40 feet high

it seems

The wooden floor is from every tree in existence

dizzying array of colors – grain – roughness

from wood panel to wood panel

Earth-cut chunks of rubies – emeralds – sapphires

transparent brilliance emanating from His throne

it seems

There are people around Him

surrounding Him like children surround the new boy

dressed like princes and princess

long flowing dresses – glittered necklaces – coiffed hair tailored suits – slicked curls – click-clacking heels

speaking in different dialects

laughing with Him

gushing over Him

cooing over Him

giggling when He says something back

happy – rich – wealthy – perfect

I smell food

delicious – savory – tasty

swirling in the air from a kitchen somewhere

rice and beans – baked chicken – fried plantains

busy waiters carrying food on large trays

serving – leaving – returning with more

carrying flasks of delectable liquids

real wine – real water – real juice

They do not see me

No one does

it seems  

I am a servant

a barefoot homely girl in the corner

a brown mouse

hair unloved for years

skin ashen

clothes opaque

I cannot join them

I am inadequate – small – unworthy

I do not call out

I do not say anything

I am resigned to the shadows

Then something happens

He stands up

He steps down from His throne

He walks in my direction

He walks towards me

it seems

He is handsome

brown eyes swimming with green – blue – gray – hazel lips are full and regular

face is middle-aged

tiny wrinkles at the crease of His eyes

He is tall

wearing a simply rich robe

threads unlike anything in existence

shiny, but not too shiny

matte, but not too dull

moving, but not too light

hanging on Him perfectly

His eyes are on me

it seems

I want to believe He is looking at someone behind me

someone above me

someone to my left or my right

I do not want Him to look at me – but really I do

He stops in front of me

it seems

The perfect people follow Him

They are perplexed and curious

They whisper among themselves

They argue among themselves

They fight for position

They ask Him, “which one of us will You choose?”

He reaches out His hand to me

it seems

His sweet eyes encourage me

it seems

My hand trembles

I awkwardly put my hand into His

Then He says, “this one”

Copyright 2020. Michelle St. Claire

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