Jesus in the Closet

Baby Jesus has always been welcomed by our daughters. The Christmas story is fairly pleasant and child appropriate (minus Herod’s infanticidal tendencies). There are lots of animals, singing angels and locals visiting the newborn in a barn (though in Bethlehem, the traditional birthplace of Jesus is a cave over which was built the Church of the Nativity). Here baby Jesus is appreciated and celebrated.

Adult Jesus, not so much.

Once, when Dalia was two and a half, I’d just put her to bed and as soon as I shut her door she let out a piercing shriek. I rushed back into her room. When I asked her what was wrong she just said, “Please check my closet, Dad.” I shrugged, turned on the light and opened the closet door.

“There’s nothing here that’s unusual,” I said.

Dalia wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure Jesus isn’t in there?”

“You want me to check your closet for Jesus?” I asked, trying to keep myself from laughing. I expected to check the closet for monsters, ghosts, Coco the Stealth Cat who regularly slips into the kids' rooms, but I didn’t think I’d have to be checking it for Jesus.

Dalia was not joking. She was genuinely worried. “I don’t want anybody in my room while I sleep except for Mama and you. Grandma said that Jesus was with me all the time and I don’t want him in my room while I sleep.” 

How do you describe to a two year old that she should take things metaphorically, not literally? How do you tell children that sometimes words don’t mean what they say but they aren’t necessarily lies? I tried telling her that there was no bearded, robed man in her closet and that Grandma didn’t mean for her to be frightened of Jesus. He was really quite a nice guy.

Luckily my daughter is smarter than I was at her age. “You mean it’s just a say?” she asked. 

“Yes,” I replied, “it's just a saying.”

“Like when Mom tells me I’m in her heart? I’m not really in her heart. Blood is really in her heart. Really I’m in her feelings.” I laughed. This is what happens, I guess, when your Dad is a biology teacher and your Mom was a veterinary assistant; bedtime conversations turn towards organ functions. “Yes. Just like that.”

She seemed satisfied and snuggled back under her covers, but not without having me check under her bed to make sure Jesus wasn’t there either.