I don't want to talk about Jesus.
Visiting the in-laws, I walk around their neighborhood, my son toddling a few steps ahead. It's Christmas in Florida, which means warm, and trips to the beach, and lots of walks to turn down the toddler who is running on high since we spent the last ten hours in the car. We come across a man playing basketball with his son in their driveway. They smile at us. "Merry Christmas," I tell him. "Merry Christmas," he replies. "Do you go to church around here?" No, not here.
I lie and tell him we've been to church with our neighbors. He asks me which one. I tell him it's across the street and we've only been once and I can't remember (and I don't know why I'm lying about this to a man I don't know).
"Do you believe in Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior?"
I guess, I mean, I believe he was a person, but I'm not sure about the rest.
"Which part don't you believe, the rose from the dead part, or the son of God part?"
I'm not ready to have this conversation.
"You must accept Jesus as the son of God to be saved. He's done amazing things in my life."
I'm glad it's helped you. Really. I'm not prepared to have this conversation. Have a nice day.
I scoop up my son and backtrack as quickly as I can without actually running. I sing a song so that I appear less awkward and freaked out by the conversation that just took place. I can feel him staring at my back. They wave at us as we turn the corner.
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