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Terri L. French

Of Messiahs and Single Malts

I’m talking to my Jewish friend and he says he thinks he met Jesus at a bar in Huntsville, Alabama. “So,” he says “I’m sitting at the bar and I ask the bartender the price difference between these two beers. And this burly lumberjack of a guy with long brown hair and a beard sitting next to me turns and, in a very low, gentle voice says, ‘Hey man, if there’s a problem I’ll buy your beer.’ I mean he doesn’t know me from, well, Adam, ya know?” “Wow,” I say, “that was really nice of him.” ”Yeah,” he agrees, “so we get to shooting the shit and he says he was an engineer but wanted out of corporate America. So now he’s a tree trimmer—a tree trimmer! “Sounds like what Jesus might do,” I say. “And all of the workers there—most of them migrants—just gravitated to the guy. They all had to pat him on the back when they walked by, like they just wanted to touch him, ya know?” “Wow,” I say again, “so what happened?” ”I called my sister and told her ‘I met Jesus!’” A sigh. ”Now she’s afraid I’m born-again.”

three-day bender
a miracle
I'm still alive

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About the Author

Terri L. French is a poet/writer and retired Massage Therapist. She and her husband, Ray, have four mostly grown children and one spoiled dog. They now enjoy the nomadic life of full-time RVers.