I call him skeeter.
That’s what Frank* reminds me of.Actually, with his tweed cap and trimmed beard, Frank reminds me of someone who should be smoking a pipe at an English pub instead of making cornbread at a Jesus Hippie Community. Anyway, he started telling me his story while cracking thirty six eggs.
“I was a drug evangelist. I liked them so much, I’d talk other people into trying them. Meth, coke, pot, opiates, hallucinogens, LSD, you name it, I tried it.”
My mind flashed back to the 1980’s TV anti drugs commercial with eggs sizzling in a frying pan. “This is your brain on drugs.” We kept cracking eggs.
“Well, one time, one of those LSD trips wasn’t much fun,” Frank paused.“I sold my soul to the devil.”
“A definite buzz kill.” I thought.
Frank turned on the bathtub size mixer, then cranked up his volume. “Trips are different than dreams. They happen while you are awake. But after the trip ended, I kept having nightmares about selling my soul.”
I thought of reoccurring nightmares I had, usually of going to work in my pajamas.
“Then my mom got concerned. She was a Jesus fearing woman.” Frank turned the mixer off.
“What did she say?” I asked.
“Just one drop of blood from Jesus can buy it back.”
And that was that. Frank flipped his life around.
Sometimes we forget how simple the message is. We get caught up in the theology and translations. The podcasts. Scratching itches that really don’t matter in the long run.
We need to be more like a mosquito, craving the blood that gives new life, then and dedicate our lives to finding it.
That reminds me of a short story I wrote half a life ago about a mosquito curious about a missionary, No More Goody Two Shoes. The skeeter bites the missionary who contracts malaria, dies and is reincarnated into a Hindu cow. It’s one thousand words of flash friction, that will hopefully get discussions going about faith.
*not the mosquito’s real name, nor my co-workers.