My relationship with Jesus (pronounced “hey-sus”) began one year ago, shortly before our annual Cinco de Mayo party and soon after my third son’s birth. Jesus is the leader of a Mariachi band. We found him at a local Mexican restaurant and promptly hired him for the squadron party we would host in our backyard. But Jesus doesn’t speak much English, and at the time, the only Spanish words I knew were all profanities. So, Dustin and I weren’t entirely confident that Jesus would show up as planned.

Jesus and I had many conversations on the phone leading up to the party. Except these could hardly be called “conversations” because they consisted of us speaking our own language exaggeratedly slow and loud for the other, as if that would help. It went something like this:

Me: So you will come to our house and play for the party?

Jesus: No comprende.

Me: Cinco de Mayo?

Jesus (excited): Si! Cinco de Mayo!

Me: You play music at my house?

Jesus (concerned): No comprende.

Me: Cinco de Mayo?

Jesus (happily again): Si, Cinco de Mayo!

The only thing I was positive about after hanging up the phone was that Jesus and I both had calendars.

Eventually, Jesus asked me to meet him at the restaurant so that instead of shouting at each other over the phone, we could do charades. He also needed our deposit and a map with directions to our house. While Jesus played the “Chicken Dance” for my boys (then ages six, four and newborn), I chewed on my nail and wondered if I should have hired a translator. Lindell sucked on his pacifier and peered up at the Mariachi band from his baby carrier propped up on a highchair. Ford and Owen danced around flapping their arms like chickens and giving Jesus high-fives. Then I gave Jesus the money and map. There’s nothing like handing a wad of cash to a man who may or may not have understood a single word you said, and having only a glimmer of hope that he will show up to perform.

Yet, for reasons I can’t explain, my faith in Jesus was strong. I knew he would be there. Sure enough, at 10 o’clock on Cinco de Mayo, just when our guests were beginning to think the Mariachi band was a prank, Jesus and three other Mexican men dressed in full Mariachi attire (or, “el charro”) came up the sidewalk playing “Tequila.”

Before Jesus left that night, he told me that he loved my heart and my family. “God blessed you much,” he said, and “you have nice heart.” I realized then that our language barrier had been a unique opportunity to get to know each other. Without the distraction of language and pretenses, we were able to see the other’s genuine self.

Dustin and I decided to hire Jesus’s band again for our 2008 Cinco de Mayo party. For weeks I dialed Jesus’s phone number and got not response. We worried that he had been deported. Our friends were disappointed.
Then Dustin sent the following e-mail message to his squadron mates, forgetting that not everyone was at our party last year or knew that Jesus is actually pronounced hey-sus:

“Although we were worried that Jesus had left the country, confirmation from the hostess at Casa Ole and a late-night sighting in the produce department of Wal-Mart gives us confidence that Jesus is still in America.”

One of Dustin’s senior officers replied back and basically warned Dustin that his philosophy on religion in America was not welcome on a mass squadron e-mail. Dustin quickly went down to his boss’s office and explained that “Jesus” is really “hey-sus” and that he couldn’t find an accent mark on the keyboard.

Dustin, the boys and I met Jesus at his restaurant, and he greeted us like long lost relatives. “Smileys,” he yelled. “Smileys with the kind heart!” He played the Chicken Dance for the kids, who at this point were beginning to think that lots of men dress in el charro. Jesus said he would be there for our party.

I had no doubt that he would.

Until Cinco de Mayo.

Tune in next week to read about the Mariachi band at Sarah’s house on....ocho de Mayo?