Would you have to change your clothes before you let Him in?
Or hide some magazines, and put the Bible where they had been?

Would you hide your worldly music and put some hymn books out?
Could you let Jesus walk right in, or would you rush about?

And I wonder -- if the Saviour spent a day or two with you,
Would you go right on doing, the things you always do?

Would you go right on saying, the things you always say?
Or would life for you continue as it does from day to day?

Would you take Jesus with you everywhere you go?
Or would you maybe change your plans for just a day or so?

Would you be glad to have Him meet your closest friends?
Or would you hope they stayed away, until His visit ends?

Would you be glad to have Him stay forever on and on?
Or would you sigh with great relief when He at last was gone?

It might be interesting to know, the things that you would do,
If Jesus came in person, to spend some time with you.

This poem was posted in a Catholic Mailing List I belonged to. After it was posted, David Aldred from Nottingham England wrote the following reply. I thought it was an incredible response; so true, and really beautiful, and quite inspirational.

Jesus came into my life many years ago, and He's always around now.
He came again with a different pair of eyes when I married,
and in yet another guise when our children were born:
one by one, He changed our lives as we welcomed Him in.
And He's around whatever I'm wearing - in fact
He's there in rather a special way when both my wife and I are wearing nothing at all!
In fact, when He arrived with our children, He wasn't wearing anything Himself.
As to the music, well, whatever's on He's there.
There's some music I don't think He's all that keen on (but then nor am I).
But you can never be sure quite where you'll hear Him singing along, getting His message across.
He was definitely around a few minutes ago when I was playing guitar
and my second son, Matthew, was working on his new bodhran* though.
It wasn't that high quality, but then He's used to it.  
And most days He just walks right in, whatever we're up to.
I mean, there isn't time to dress up and tidy the house up every time anyone arrives.
He takes us as He finds us, when He comes along with any visitor we happen to have.
Sometimes He makes it a bit obvious: other times you have to look a bit harder.
I'm sometimes a bit sharp with Him when he's a double-glazing salesman
and turns up just when the kids need to get to bed, but I hope He understands.
I try to say sorry, anway. I'd answer the rest of your questions, but I have to go and put Him to bed.
He's tired: it's been a long day for a two year old, and the outing to the farm was exciting.
The piglet He met there may never be the same again....


David Aldred, Nottingham England
                                  used with permission

     There were once two men, both seriously ill, in the same small room of a great hospital.  Quite a small room, it had one window looking out on the world.  One of the men, as part of his treatment, was allowed to sit up in bed for an hour in the afternoon (something to do with draining the fluid from his lungs).  His bed was next to the window.  But the other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.  
     Every afternoon when the man next to the window was propped up for his hour, he would pass the time by describing what he could see outside.  The window apparently overlooked a park where there was a lake.  There were ducks and swans in the lake, and children came to throw them bread and sail model boats.  Young lovers walked hand in hand beneath the trees, and there were flowers and stretches of grass, games of softball.  And at the back, behind the fringe of trees, was a fine view of the city skyline.
     The man on his back would listen to the other man describe all of this, enjoying every minute.  He heard how a child nearly fell into the lake, and how beautiful the girls were in their summer dresses.  His friend's descriptions eventually made him feel he could almost see what was happening outside.  
     Then one fine afternoon, the thought struck him:  Why should the man next to the window have all the plearsure of seeing what was going on?  Why shouldn't he get the chance?  He felt ashamed, but the more he tried not to think like that, the worse he wanted a change.  He'd do anything!  One night as he stared at the ceiling, the other man suddenly woke up, coughing and choking, his hands groping for the button that would bring the nurse running.  But the man watched without moving - even when the sound of breathing stopped.  In the morning, the nurse found the other man dead, and quietly took his body away.  
     As soon as it seemed decent, the man asked if he could be switched to the bed next to the window.  So they moved him, tucked him in, and made him quite comfortable.  The minute they left, he propped himself up on one elbow, painfully and laboriously, and looked out the window.
    It faced a blank wall.

What do you see, nurse, what do you see?
Are you thinking when you look at me -
A crabbed old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe?
Who resisting or not, lets you do as you wil
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse, you're looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still.
As I move at your bidding, eat at your will ...
I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sister who love one another;
A young girl of sixteen with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon a love she'll meet;
A bride at twenty my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep;
At twenty-five now I have young of my own
Who need me to build a secure, happy home;
A woman of thirty, my young now grow fast,
Bound together with ties that should last;
At forty, my young sons have grown up and gone,
But my man's beside me to see I don't mourn;
At fifty, once more babies play round my knee,
Again we know children, my loved ones and me.
Dark days are upon me; my husband is dead,
I look at the future, I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love that I've known.
I'm an old woman now and nature is cruel;
'Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body it crumbles, grace and vigor depart;
There is a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,
And now, again, my embittered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living life over again,
I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, nurse, open and see
Not a crabbed old woman,
Look closer - see me!

     Next fall, when you see geese heading south for the winter, flying along in "V" formation, you might consider what science has discovered as to why they fly that way.  As each bird flaps its wings, it creates an uplift ofr the bird immediately following.  By flying in "V" formation, the whole flock adds at least 71 percent greater flying range than if each bird flew on its own.
    When a goose falls out of formation, it suddenly feels the drag and resistance of trying to go it alone - and quicly gets back into formation to take advantage of the lifting power of the bird in front.
     When the head goose gets tired, it rotates back in the wing and another goose flies point.  Gesse honk from behind to encourage those up fron to keep up their speed.  Finally - and this is important - when a goose gets sick or is wounded by gunshot, and falls out of formation, two other geese fall out with that goose and follow it down to lend help and protection.  They stay with the fallen goose until it is able to fly or until it dies; and only then do they launch out on their own, or with another formation to catch up with their group.

     The carpenter I hired to help me restore an old farmhouse has just finished a rough day on the job.  A flat tire made him lose an hour of work, his electric saw quit and now his ancient pickup truck refused to start.  While I drove him home, he sat in stoney silence.  On arriving, he invited me in to meet his family.  As we walked toward the front door, he paused briefly at a small tree, touching the tips of the branches with both hands.
     When opening the door, he underwent an amazing transformation.  His tanned face was wreathed in smiles and he hugged his two small children and gave his wife a kiss.  Afterward he walked me to the car.  We passed the tree and my curiosity got the better of me.  I asked him about what I had seen him do earlier.
     "Oh, that's my trouble tree," he replied.  "I know I can't help having troubles on the job, but one thing for sure, troubles don't belong in the house with my wife and the children.  So I just hang them up on the tree every night when I come home.  Then in the morning I pick them up again.  
     "Funny thing is," he smiled,  "when I come out in the morning to pick 'em up, there ain't nearly as many as I remember hanging up the night before."

     In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one all covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "People I Have Liked". I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories, others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed". The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read", "Lies I Have Told", "Comfort I Have Given", "Jokes I Have Laughed At". Some were almost hilarious in exactness: "Things I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents". I never ceased to be surprised by the content. Often there many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 17 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature. When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To", I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented. When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts", I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke in me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With". The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box no more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand. And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried of shame, from overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me. Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no, " as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

     Jeremy was born with a twisted body, a slow mind and a chronic, terminal illness that had been slowly killing him all his young life. Still, his parents had tried to give him as normal a life as possible and had sent him to St. Theresa's Elementary School.
     At the age of 12, Jeremy was only in second grade, seemingly unable to learn. His teacher, Doris Miller, often became exasperated with him. He would squirm in his seat, drool and make grunting noises. At other times, he spoke clearly and distinctly, as if a spot of light had penetrated the darkness of his brain. Most of the time, however, Jeremy irritated his teacher.
     One day, she called his parents and asked them to come to St. Teresa's for a consultation. As the Forresters sat quietly in the empty classroom, Doris said to them, "Jeremy really belongs in a special school. It isn't fair to him to be with younger children who don't have learning problems. Why, there is a five-year gap between his age and that of the other students!" Mrs. Forrester cried softly into a tissue while her husband spoke. "Miss Miller," he said, "there is no school of that kind nearby. It would be a terrible shock for Jeremy if we had to take him out of this school. We know he really likes it here." Doris sat for a long time after they left, staring at the snow outside the window. Its coldness seemed to seep into her soul. She wanted to sympathize with the Forresters. After all, their only child had a terminal illness. But it wasn't fair to keep him in her class. She had 18 other youngsters to teach, and Jeremy was a distraction. Furthermore, he would never learn to read and write. Why waste any more time trying? As she pondered the situation, guilt washed over her. "Oh God," she said aloud, "here I am complaining when my problems are nothing compared with that poor family! Please help me to be more patient with Jeremy." From that day on, she tried hard to ignore Jeremy's noises and his blank stares. Then one day he limped to her desk, dragging his bad leg behind him. "I love you, Miss Miller," he exclaimed, loud enough for the whole class to hear. The other students snickered, and Doris's face turned red. She stammered, "Wh-why, that's very nice, Jeremy. Now please take your seat."
     Spring came, and the children talked excitedly about the coming of Easter. Doris told them the story of Jesus, and then to emphasize the idea of new life springing forth, she gave each of the children a large plastic egg. "Now," she said to them, "I want you to take this home and bring it back tomorrow with something inside that shows new life. Do you understand?" "Yes, Miss Miller!" the children responded enthusiastically--all except for Jeremy. He just listened intently, his eyes never left her face. He did not even make his usual noises. Had he understood what she had said about Jesus’ death and resurrection? Did he understand the assignment? Perhaps she should call his parents and explain the project to them. That evening, Doris's kitchen sink stopped up. She called the landlord and waited an hour for him to come by and unclog it. After that, she still had to shop for groceries, iron a blouse and prepare a vocabulary test for the next day. She completely forgot about phoning Jeremy's parents. The next morning, 19 children came to school, laughing and talking as they placed their eggs in the large wicker basket on Miss Miller's desk. After they completed their math lesson, it was time to open the eggs. In the first egg, Doris found a flower. "Oh yes, a flower is certainly a sign of new life," she said. "When plants peek through the ground, we know that spring is here." A small girl in the first row waved her arms. "That's my egg, Miss Miller," she called out. The next egg contained a plastic butterfly, which looked very real. Doris held it up. "We all know that a caterpillar changes and grows into a beautiful butterfly. Yes, that is new life, too" Little Judy smiled proudly and said, "Miss Miller, that one is mine!" Next, Doris found a rock with moss on it. She explained that moss, too, showed life. Billy spoke up from the back of the classroom. "My daddy helped me!" he beamed. Then Doris opened the fourth egg. She gasped. The egg was empty! Surely it must be Jeremy's, she thought, and, of course, he did not understand her instructions. If only she had not forgotten to phone his parents. Because she did not want to embarrass him, she quietly set the egg aside and reached for another. Suddenly Jeremy spoke up. "Miss Miller, aren't you going to talk about my egg?" Flustered, Doris replied, "But Jeremy--your egg is empty!" He looked into here eyes and said softly, "Yes, but Jesus’ tomb was empty too!" Time stopped. When she could speak again, Doris asked him, "Do you know why the tomb was empty?" "Oh, yes!" Jeremy exclaimed. "Jesus was killed and put in there. Then his Father raised him up!" The recess bell rang. While the children excitedly ran out to the school yard, Doris cried. The cold inside her melted completely away. Three months later, Jeremy died. Those who paid their respects at the mortuary were surprised to see 19 eggs on top of his casket, all of them empty.

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