Jesus is Real


My first school was Church of England – St. Andrew’s in Surbiton. My best friend there was Jesus. Seriously! My first friend was Jesus, I found Jesus there – he sat beside me when I was all scared and felt alone and gave me strength. I’d only been there a week and it was only when Jesus sat beside me, that I grew confident enough to be away from home.

I am not ashamed to admit that my first friend was Jesus.

However, seeing Jesus beside me was not as a glowing, wise apparition – he appeared as a sobbing wreck. My own fears of being alone in these new surroundings were replaced with an empathy for Jesus as he sobbed uncontrollably beside me. I tried to say something to help him, but he couldn’t understand English. Eventually we learned to communicate and my looking after Jesus gave me a confidence greater than if Jesus was there to pacify my own fears.

Jesus was actually Spanish, he had recently moved to London from Madrid after his father had scored a job at the BBC as a cameraman. We became best friends at St. Andrew’s and it’s only recently I have reflected on the irony that, not only was he called Jesus, but a mutual friend we made was called Andrew. So I went to a Christian school in the sixties called St. Andrews, and my best friends were Jesus and Andrew. I’d say you can’t write this stuff but I am, it is never-the-less actually true!

Makes me wonder sometimes if my life is some Matrix dream, too many co-incidences sometimes, and weird twists. My actually dreams often make more sense, and as I try and fall back asleep to return to them, maybe I’m just trying to break out of a delusion.

I live in constant fear that one day I’ll wake up, an old man in an institution and realize life has passed me by. That the reality I glimpse in my dreams is something so traumatic that the life that seems so difficult is actually my cosy overlay of denial hiding something worse.

Anyway, I can hear the bell – time for my medication.

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