Here This Represents The Blood of Jesus

Personal experience and a play on theology, though not entirely a religious text. You'll have to work through the symbolism.



I have lost my fight. Staring up into the eyes of that man—blue, small, set a bit offside just to the left and right of his nose—are they misty? I think the man was crying.

He is an older man. I’ve been talking to him for about an hour. I’ve been stuck at this gas station for about five.

His face is weathered, his overalls look pristine.

“You Know,” he says to me, “I was sixty-two before I knelt to my Lord and Saviour...”

He is a wise man. I have no doubts about that. Before handing me the ruby red marble, we had been talking about lots of things.

He is a professional driver. He’s seen a lot in his day. In a single year, just last year, he drove a little over one hundred thousand miles.

He even won an award for being the best. Only one of fourteen thousand gets the award.

“No hard thing, that” he says, “All you have to do to be the best is to follow the Law of the Land. That’s all I’ve been doing these last years. You break the speed limit, you lose your covenant with God...”

I look out the window. See my car. The champagne-coloured Land Rover Discovery 2000 Series II model. I see that the highway patrol men did not hesitate to rip off the front moon roof. B******s.

Sitting here at the Town Pump, I realise my history paper is due tomorrow morning, promptly at eleven ten AM. I have class tomorrow.

Yes, those are definitely tears in the old man’s eyes.

“My job, first and foremost, is not as a driver. My job is to spread the Word of Christ,” he reaches into his overall pocket, “Here. I want to give you something. This is the most precious gift a man can give to another human being.”

He waits for me to extend an open hand, palm up. I can’t tell what he’s holding.

“This,” says the crying old man, “represents the blood of Jesus Christ, the blood that he shed for the sake of us all on the Cross.”

Into my extended palm, the man drops something warm and round. I look. There, nestled perfectly in my open palm, is a ruby Red—Marble. It’s got a few nicks and dings, a scratch here, another there.

I don’t know what to say. Not for emotion, I’m very level-headed. But what do you say?

I let fly a quick smile.

“Sure blows my philosophy class out of the water...” I haven’t taken a single philosophy class yet.

He smiles, “You bet.” The old man goes back to his seat. Waiting for his bus.

I go back to thinking.

It was such a good day on Friday. The sun was shining like never before. A good day to go driving. I decided to drive five hundred miles to Sheridan Wyoming.

We had a fine time, you know. It was nice to be human again. To finally exist again. To eat a home cooked meal again.

Sunday should have been a good day. And it was, too. Oh, but how quick is the weather to change her mind! And with such retribution.

The snow—it’s a very unforgiving sort of element, isn’t it? Terrible and beautiful, as I’ve heard it said.

Three quick flips was all it took. Three flips for total destruction.

And so here I am, back at the Town Pump. And there goes my car, my Land Rover Discovery 2000 Series II model. It’s going backwards, being towed by the Wrecker Man.

“I’m a professional driver,” reads the tow truck, in a bold blue print.

The Old Man is back. I had been unconsciously fingering the Red Marble.

“Here some reading material for while you wait.”

He places on my table a white pamphlet. It reads “Red Marble Ministries.”

I’m looking at it, feigning a look of intense contemplation.

I look back up with a mind say something. Anything. But what do you say?

Maybe I’ll ask him about Calvin and Luther.

It’s just like the movies. That’s right, he was gone. I can see him now, boarding a short yellow bus parked across from my wrecked car, my Land Rover Discovery2000 Series II model.

I have a history paper due tomorrow. That was my first thought. The first thought I had as I watched the snow covered ground come screaming at the driver side window, at my face, was of Professor Eglin’s history class.

“The price you’ll pay for and education here at UM,” Professor Eglin always says, “Costs about as much if not more than what you’ll pay for a new car.”

Sitting here writing this, I look out the window, for a final glimpse of my car—my Land Rover Discovery 2000 Series II.

It is, like the Wise Man, gone.

And as I sit here, writing this lame bit and sitting at the Town Pump, thinking these words are rich in symbolism and depth, I see sitting next to my new Red Marble a shiny blue shard of glass—a final piece of my car, my car.

Author's Note

I know this isn't emphasised, but colours, descriptions, dialogue and style all play a part of the symbolism. Will work on this.