*First two paragraphs of new untitled short story in the works.*
I asked Jesus into my heart when I was eight years-old and again when I was fifteen. They say the third time's the charm, but I haven't felt the need to ask again. My Sunday School teacher taught me the prayer the first time and I thought it was just a part of growing up, like learning how to ride a bike or getting braces. I was actually quite surprised when my best friend at my public elementary school, Janine, looked at me baffled -and not a little perturbed- when I told her I'd been "washed in the blood of the Lamb." That was when I found out that not everyone went to Sunday School like I did.
When I told my mother what I had done at church that day -we were driving home, I in the passenger seat and my baby brother Caleb in the car-seat in the back- she looked over at me warmly and told me how proud she was. "Some might say you're not old enough to understand it," she told me. "But you're certainly much brighter than other girls your age." She stopped us at McDonald's for our usual Hamburger Happy Meal (I always had to share with Caleb, who only liked fries), and in celebration of the big step I had taken she spoiled me with a soft-serve cone. But she was wrong, I did not understand it. Who ever does completely?