For Christmas nine month old Cruz (my nickname for little man) got one of those toddler toys where pieces fit into the holes. The shapes are all different: square, star, round, heart, etc. Cruz likes to crawl around carrying a piece in his hand. The toy that holds the pieces is often abandoned on the rug, but one little shape is packed all over the house. Cruz thinks he can stick it anywhere, even the dog’s ear. He’s a determined boy and the dog does her best to avoid him because that piece does not fit a dog’s ear.

I’ve been told that I often come on too strong speaking about Jesus. “You need to find common ground with people before you start talking about God,” they say.

This reminded me of Cruz trying to stick his piece in the dog’s ear. There are people out there who want to talk about football. Want to talk about politics. Want to talk about China. Their holes are different than my piece. And that’s okay. The shape in my hand doesn’t fit everybody. People with a different fit move on. I move on. God has given me a job to do: look for the Jesus hole.

Cruz is a child. He operates like a child. The piece in his hand becomes part of him. He crawls with it. Eats with it. Sleeps with it. Tries sticking that piece in impossible places. The dog keeps her eye on him. Cruz comes on too strong.

I want to be like young Cruz with his key to the universe. The Jesus piece in my hand.

Yesterday, I went to a drug store to buy face wash. The woman at the counter struck up a conversation with me. She was a little thing. Fragile. Dark circles under her vulnerable eyes. She talked about her New Years Eve. Stayed up late, but didn’t drink, she tells me. She looks tired.

Where is this conversation going? I wonder, pressing the Jesus piece in my hand.

“I was in the hospital the week before that. Almost died,” the woman says.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I got an infection. A super bug.”

I’m squeezing my Jesus piece now. Pulling it out, ready to see if it fits her hole.

“I have medical bills I can’t pay, but I’m alive. Most people die from this bug.”

“I will pray for you,” I say, looking into her hurting eyes there in line at the cash register. This promise doesn’t seem enough. Prayers for later aren’t enough. “Can I pray for you now?” I’m placing the Jesus piece, looking for the fit. And I see it in her eyes. She has the hole. The Jesus hole…

Closing my eyes, I bow my head and pray for her there in the drug store. Loud enough for her to hear. Loud enough for everyone to hear. The key to the universe seeking… This woman with the bug and the bills and the Jesus hole seeking…

After the prayer, she grasps my hand. She is grateful. I am grateful. We have Jesus.

When life is too strong, it’s good to come on strong.

Jesus: “My strength and my song,” Exodus 15:2. Sing on.