My then-boyfriend and I were hanging out at his cousin’s place, which he was subleasing from his elderly Catholic aunt. It was my first visit to the apartment. When the blunt came my way for the fifth time, I waved it off. “Four puffs are plenty, thank you,” I said. As the others continued to light up, I wandered around, truly taking in my surroundings. The apartment felt almost like a church, without the necessity of setting foot in Holy Name Church and facing Father O’Connor. Suddenly, I felt the urge for rosary beads.

Crucifixes adorned every wall, with glow-in-the-dark ones even in the hallway leading to the bathroom. If Dracula’s kin barged in, it would have been a bad night for them. Religious icons filled the shelves, while portraits of saints covered the walls. All that was missing was a pew and a holy water fountain by the front door. It felt like God was having a garage sale.

After some time, my attention was drawn to a sizable statue of Jesus on the central shelf of the divider separating the stoned sanctuary from the rest of the apartment. I nodded at the statue, “Hey, Jesus. How’s it going?” The statue was a masterpiece.

While admiring the details in the Italian marble, I thought I saw it move. My eyes narrowed. “Holy moly. What’s in that blunt?” Suddenly, the statue spoke without moving its lips. “Mia?” Jesus knew my name… impressive. “Mia?” Jesus repeated urgently. Yes, my Lord?

Recalling Sunday school hazily, I knew divine conversations never involved lottery numbers. Suspicion crept in. “Jesus, I’ll trade my M&M’s stash, but no lamb or goat blood, okay?” “Mia!” Jesus exclaimed. “Sorry, Jesus. No need to yell,” I retorted. The statue moved again. “Mia, we’re ordering pizza. What toppings?” A female voice chimed in, “Want a beer, Mia?” My gaze shifted to the Virgin Mary statue nearby. “Et tu, Virgin Mary? Is this the Second Coming?” “Mia, a Heineken?” Jesus asked.

Jesus’s voice sounded familiar. I glanced away from the statue to find my friend and his girlfriend peeking out from behind the divider, phone in hand. “What do you want, Mia?” I smiled, “No Heineken, mushroom, and a Guinness stout, please.” I returned my gaze to Jesus. He remained motionless the rest of the night, though I swore I saw him wink.

Reflecting on this over a decade later, I suspect that blunt was laced with something.

Note: During college, I maintained a blog (Mia Shaken Not Stirred). Unfortunately, I got locked out and never recovered it. Recently revisiting my old stories, I couldn’t help but share my favorites here. Originally Posted: Friday, July 18, 2008