Hate to spring this on you so close to Easter but it didn't happen. Here's how I know:
Back when I was a lad, when dashboards were metal and Christopher was still a saint, my dad had a plastic magnetic Jesus just like the one in the picture. Well, almost just like it. Our Jesus was missing his right hand but it did't seem to bother my dad. I can't remember a time when Lefty J didn't occupy center stage on the dash, right underneath the St. Christopher medal that hung from the rear view mirror. We had all the available safety equipment for an American car of that era.
One Good Friday, when I was about six years old, I snagged the Jesus from the dashboard and buried him at the bottom of the sandbox in my back yard. I knew the story and I fully expected that in three days Jesus would be out of the sand and ready for action. Easter morning I got up, ran outside and....there he wasn't. I dug down in the sand and ... there he was...right where I left him at the bottom of the sandbox. Expecting a miracle, I ended up with a head scratcher. Now you would think that if the Lord could reanimate a dead guy after three days just to make a point he could have sent some frost heaves or a minor earthquake my way and popped my Jesus out of the sand. It would have gone a long way to stymie my emergent agnosticism. If this bums you out, I'm sorry, but think of how that poor little boy felt when his Jesus stayed buried in the sand.
