A Sunday kind of thought

I used to have a neighbor--she died a year ago last January--who was certifiable. She pulled out her hair. She stole things. She begged on street corners when the mood took her. She spent a good portion of the 60's in and out of state-run asylums in California--a grim reality that haunted her. For many years I visited her on Sundays where she showed me newly acquired treasures and kept me updated on the people in her life, including her landlord who treated her with unfailing kindness. One day she pointed to a framed picture of Jesus on her wall. Maybe you've seen it. Rembrandt painted it, which (among other things) means it's remarkable for its play of light and dark. "That's my favorite picture of Jesus," she told me. "Do you know why?" I shook my head. "It's the one that looks the most like Him." And then her face grew smooth and round with a secretive peace. "I've seen Him, you know. In person." I think about this sometimes--how if Jesus really did decide to visit a believer's home in person, He'd probably visit someone exactly like my neighbor--someone in an unremarkable apartment stuffed with stacks of newspapers, shoeboxes, unused dishes, glass figurines, and dried roses who has spent a lifetime staring at the irrational and seeing patterns of the possible there.