The Boy On The Plate

The Boy On The Plate

I have this plate.

Glued on the inside is a picture of me when I was probably 7 years old.

Even as a kid, I thought it was odd that my grandma had my face on a plate, hanging on her wall.

She gave me the plate when I was still pretty young.

I think I’ve had it longer than she did.

When I pulled it out of a box the other day, my mind flooded with memories of her, of me, of her with me.

I was an insecure little boy.

The boy in the plate was timid and cried easily.

As I grew up, I learned to blame most of my troubles on him.

In my thirties, I went to therapy.

In a vision, I witnessed Jesus, the boy in the plate, and myself as a man.

The boy wanted the acceptance of the man, but I could not give it.

In the dream, Jesus walked over to the boy, hugged him, and he started to cry.

My therapist said, “Can you hug him, too?”

I refused.

To accept him would mean the nasty things people said about me would be true.

In the dream, Jesus looked at me, smiled, took my hand, and wrapped my arms around the boy in the plate.

A flood of tears ran down my face.

A peace, I’d never experienced, filled my soul.

The division between the boy in the plate and the man, me, was gone.

The other night, I had a rather confrontational interview with someone.

Not a big deal, it happens.

When it was over, having just found the boy in the plate in a box days prior, he was on my mind.

I don’t know how to explain this exactly, but the kindness of the boy on the plate and the resolve of the man I am today came together.

I pushed back in support of the boy on the plate, and he found his way to the podium.

When the confrontation got heated, we worked together.

Strength and kindness.

I don’t know why my grandma decided to paste my face on one of her blue and white saucers.

All these years later, it was as though she were reaching down from heaven to remind me how important it is that we never forget and always find strength in the things that once seemed weak.

The Boy on the plate.