Rainbow Jesus

Store donation. I kinda love Schlocky Jesus being happy to see us.
And this one's got a dove and a rainbow!

I'd mentioned to Abby that I'd love to shampoo the carpets in the BOOK's section.
"I have a carpet cleaner," she said. "I'll bring it in!"

So that's what's happening today after work.
I'm ridiculously happy about it. I am not the savior. But I can do little things like that.

Being back at the store, I see clearly how rough it is there, and how little I can do. Every day there's some crisis or other, often more than one, and very little help available.
No wonder I felt so frayed working there!
Three different people have told me I'm calmer and happier since I left. In comparison, the annoyances of my new job are piffling.

Manageress told me yesterday, for instance, that Ramón died this winter.
He was the customer who used to sit in my BOOK's section and read religious books. Living on the streets, he slowly drank himself to death over the years I knew him. I think he was in his later 40s.

I know his faith gave him comfort, and the store was a safe place, out of the weather, where everybody knew his name. He always returned, and I always tried to help him in small ways--giving him books and dry boots and clothes, for instance.

It got harder and harder to reach him as his life eroded.
One time, I lost it with him. I literally yelled at him as he sat slumped, blotto, in BOOK's,
"Ramón, do you think God wants this for you? No!"

He looked so ashamed, I instantly apologized, "I'm sorry I'm yelling at you. God loves you, and so do I."

"I know, Mamacita," he said. "I love you too."

Others ––his church, social workers–– tried to help him too, but too many pieces were missing. His life didn't come with brakes--and every road he was on ran downhill.

The last time I saw him, last fall, his liver had backed up into his eyes, and they were deep yellow. We sat him in a trashed but cushy armchair in the parking lot. I wrapped him in a sleeping bag.
At closing time, Big Boss called an ambulance, but Ramón refused it. He staggered away down the street, and I thought, "I will not see him again".

I am choosing to think of him now in the loving, welcoming arms of the savior he believed in.
And after work, I'm going to enjoy the hell out of cleaning the carpets.