There’s a picture of Jesus in my junk drawer.
It’s actually Nanny’s picture of Jesus but Nanny’s been dead for fifteen years now. I inherited it along with her red pocket thesaurus and blue poodle made of pipe cleaners that stood in her china cabinet throughout the entirety of my childhood.
It’s a white Jesus, an angelic Jesus, a Jesus that could be on the cover of GQ magazine. His hair is golden, long and flowing against a soft brown backdrop. It could have been taken in a Sears Department Store. Only Sears is dead now, just like Nanny.
I can’t help but think there’s a possibility I’m going to burn in hell as I stare down at Nanny’s picture of Jesus sticking half way out from under the BJ’s coupon book and an old bill from Walmart.
Then I think how cool it would be if there were collector’s cards, kind of like baseball cards, of all the major players in history. Jesus and Paul. Marx and Nietzsche. Gandhi and Joan. Would they be worth as much as Babe Ruth?
I can’t really say. I don’t really know.
What I do know is that I need to clean out this junk drawer. Only there’s a picture of Jesus in my junk drawer. I can’t throw it out. If I did then the possibility that I might burn in hell would surely turn into the probability that I will burn in hell.
And even though I don’t believe in hell, the thought still keeps me from throwing away the picture of Jesus in my junk drawer.