Finding Jesus

 

My sister and I went

looking for Jesus one day.

We took a packed lunch.

 

Mum had told us

he was the son of God

and that he lived up high.

I didn’t know which one

of our neighbours God was.

I thought maybe he was

the man with the beard,

who’d just moved in down the street.

 

The highest place we knew

was the hill on the farm next door.

But we weren’t allowed up there.

We looked for Jesus

up the bank behind

our house instead.

 

We climbed until our legs were sore

and our pink jelly-sandals

had turned brown

with caked mud.

There weren’t any houses up there.

We weren’t sure where Jesus lived,

if it wasn’t in a house.

 

My sister said

Jesus was about her age,

and that he had red hair and freckles.

She said he went to her school.

She’d seen him there

the day before.

 

We found a cave

at the base of a tree

where the bank had fallen away.

We crawled between the

bar-like roots and watched

bugs crawl up through

the damp earth.

 

My sister said this must be

where Jesus lived.

We called out,

but he didn’t answer.

 

He must not be home,

my sister told me.

 

We sat in the cave

and ate sandwiches

while we waited for Jesus

to come home.

 

It started to rain.

The water circled the roots

in spirals

until it soaked our toes

and made us shiver.

 

Let’s go home, my sister said.

We’ll come look for Jesus

again tomorrow.

 

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