Oishi narrating (annoyed)
For the past few months, you could hear Susan sighing like it was her final exhale on Earth.
She sighs after she wakes up.
She sighs after coffee.
She sighs while walking.
She sighs before brushing her teeth—like toothpaste is a personal attack.
And I don’t understand it.
We have food. We have a home. We have a routine. We even have a nighttime beauty ritual that I am forced to witness like a hostage.
But Susan? She complains about tiny things like they’re world wars.
Me? I’m your local philosuffur.
I practice gratitude.
I practice peace.
I practice staying out of Susan’s drama.
Which is difficult, because Susan’s drama has WiFi and it spreads.
Susan narrating (melodramatic, honest, heartbroken)
Lately, I feel like I’m being pulled in different directions—like a pingpong ball.
Up. Down. Left. Right.
And somehow I always end up in a situation I didn’t even ask for.
I’m tired.
I feel like my head is barely above water and I’m trying to breathe… but the pain is still here. I keep praying, but I still feel heavy. I still feel alone.
And I know I’ll regret saying this but…
Where are You, Jesus?
You said You’d never leave us.
Do You even care about me?
Do You even love me?
I cried until my chest hurt… and then I fell asleep.
Susan and Oishi… transported 2,000 years ago
Susan narrating (confused, frantic)
I woke up and I wasn’t sure what I was wearing.
It was a long dress—not a party dress. More like… plain clothes.
The kind that says: You are not the main character today.
Outside was dusty. Old stone houses. No cars. No motorcycles. Not even a bicycle.
And then I saw Oishi.
Talking to a man holding a hammer.
The man looked like he was enjoying the conversation, which already felt suspicious because Oishi doesn’t usually charm people. He judges them. Loudly. With his face.
The man said he could make a simple bed for us. And I just stood there blinking like… What is happening?
I thanked him—because my trauma doesn’t cancel my manners—then I scooped up Oishi.
“Come on, Badoodle. We’re leaving.”
Oishi narrating (dry)
We walked into the market and people treated me like a celebrity.
They petted me.
They called me cute.
They rubbed my belly.
Yes. I allowed it. I am humble.
Then we followed the crowd toward a mountain. A man was teaching.
Susan stopped walking. Something in her face changed—like her brain finally paused long enough to listen.
And then I heard the words.
Blessed are the poor in spirit.
Blessed are those who mourn.
The crowd got quiet. Even the wind felt respectful.
Then the teacher said things that made my fur stand up:
You are the light of the world.
Love your enemies.
Do not worry about your life.
Susan stared at him like she was remembering something she forgot she knew.
She whispered, “Oishi… I’ve heard teachings like this before.”
For the record, this is the moment I realized:
We were not in an old-town museum.
We were in the Bible.
And this wasn’t a random speaker.
This was Jesus—teaching what people later called the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5–7).
Susan, however, was still in denial because she is allergic to accepting reality the first time.
Nightfall: the home and the bread
Oishi narrating
After approximately 247,000 steps (don’t fact-check me), we ended up back near the same home.
Susan stared at the bed like it was both a miracle and a prank, then asked—very seriously:
“Um… do you have a pillow?”
(Oishi, deadpan):
We time-traveled 2,000 years and her first concern was neck support.
There was bread.
We ate like people who had just time-traveled and emotionally collapsed.
Then Jesus said He needed to go somewhere we couldn’t follow.
Susan’s eyes got teary for reasons she didn’t understand yet.
And then—because Susan’s life is a multi-verse—Angelusito appeared.
He looked cute, as usual.
But this time… no milk tea.
So I knew it was serious.
Susan narrating (soft, trembling)
Angelusito asked why I was crying.
And it hit me—everything I’d been holding in.
I wanted to ask:
Where was He when I was hurting?
Did He even care?
Did He even love me?
But my throat closed. My chest tightened.
And I fell asleep again.
Years later… the shouting outside
Susan narrating (shaken)
I woke up and it felt like time had moved forward.
We heard a commotion outside.
“Crucify Him!”
My knees went weak.
I scooped up Oishi and pushed through the crowd until I saw Him.
It was Jesus.
The same man who welcomed us.
The same man who fed us bread.
The same voice from the mountain.
And I couldn’t understand it.
Why would anyone want to crucify a man who spoke comfort like that?
We followed the crowd.
Someone forced Him to carry a cross.
I tried to get closer, but it felt like the world was moving too fast—like history was a river and I couldn’t stop the current.
Then we reached the hill.
And when they pierced His hands…
I broke.
I cried and begged God the Father to do something.
But I already knew the story.
And somehow knowing didn’t make it easier.
I knelt and cried until no words came out.
And then…
Silence.
Angelusito explains
Angelusito (gentle)
“Sus… you kept asking if He cares. If He loves you.
There’s your answer.
He didn’t just say He loves you.
He proved it.
He gave Himself—so you wouldn’t perish.
That is love.”
(John 3:16)
Susan narrating (quiet, shattered open)
I couldn’t stop crying.
Not because I was scared.
But because I finally understood what I had been accusing Him of.
I had been saying, You’re not here.
While standing inside the greatest “I AM HERE” the world has ever seen.
Return to the present
Susan narrating (warm, tearful)
We were suddenly back home.
Angelusito handed me water. I drank like I had crossed deserts in two timelines.
Then I heard a sound from the bedroom.
Footsteps.
And a familiar voice.
“Hi, Sus.”
I turned.
And there He was.
Not bloody. Not suffering.
Just… Jesus.
Alive.
Kind.
Safe.
He smiled like He had never been offended by my doubts—only concerned by my pain.
And He said, “I brought pillows.”
Which… honestly… felt like the most personal miracle.
I ran like a five-year-old seeing her father come home with a balloon.
I hugged Him.
And He hugged me back.
It was the warmest hug I’ve ever felt.
The kind that doesn’t argue.
The kind that heals without explaining.
I sobbed.
“Lord… I’m sorry. I thought You weren’t there.”
And He said, softly:
“I am always with you, Sus.
In your joy. In your loneliness. In your hurting.
Don’t forget that.
I love you.
And I will never leave you.”
Writer’s Note
Some of us are like Susan.
When life hurts, we ask:
Does God love me? Does He hear me? Is He still here?
And the cross answers in a voice louder than our doubts:
He is here.
He has always been here.
And He never left.
Ember - Fire and Soul 