Jesus Statue

This is a story about my Jesus statue that became e a family treasure. It has transcended generations.

I was in a formative Christian school to become a Christian brother in my early teen years, from age 12 to 15.

I had this beautiful, Italian-made Jesus statue gifted to me by a generous Christian brother, Patrick, when I was 14. This tiny statue came to good use in rescuing me from the threshold of hell a few months later.

That period was agonising and needed to be told as a separate story. Going through that trauma at 14, I felt alone and helpless.

I held this Jesus status under my pillow when I slept during that traumatic time in the boarding school. It became a symbol of my inner strength. It was my resistance. It allowed me to draw power from it in my adversity at that tender age.

It is a gem that energised a helpless 14-year-old boy and kept him sane. It helped me to fight back. So fight back, I did.

I left the boarding school and started living my life. I was happy back at home. I held onto this status, living my teenage life to the full, unshackled. Living my life to the brim, I had this statue always on my side. My beloved Jesus statue became one of my prized life possessions.

I come from a deep Christian background with blind faith from both sides of my family. However, Catholic doctrine was deeply rooted, and faith was never questioned. Faith rituals were the go-to in any crisis. My mum was the strongest in Christian traditions. She would go to churches and light candles. She offered vows to various saints and kissed the huge statues in churches.

At the centre of our home was a pedestal with mini statues and crosses.

Statues that my parents and grandparents prayed to and worshipped at their homes.

I studied and believed in science. I did not believe in statues made of clay. I could not kiss statues, nor could I worship them. I often challenged my mother about her religious practices and the worshipping aspect of her faith. That was to her discomfort. She did not like my arguments.

But I did hold my Jesus statue in my room as a power of strength despite my doubts about the rituals. I gripped the statue when I felt alone and helpless. If a friendship fell apart, which often happened in your budding years, all I had to do was to glance at my statue for comfort. The Jesus statue continued to be the symbol of my external power. A strong one.

I turned to this statue for strength when my grandmother passed away.

I turned to this statue when my father had a heart attack and nearly died. I was 20 years old when it happened. He survived, and I, too survived.

Come 21 years of age, I took this statue hidden inside my bag when I went to Dubai, an Islamic state with limited religious freedom. The statue was with me as my life changed in Dubai. From a single guy to a married husband and a father in a decade.

In my thirties, I left Dubai with my young family and came to Australia as a migrant. Again, my Jesus statue accompanied me in my suitcase.

Some 14 years later, when my eldest, at 18, decided to attend a University some 300 kilometres away in regional Australia and live out on her own, I turned to the statue again. It was not easy for a parent to let go of their children. Particularly letting go of your firstborn is even more challenging. My consolation in letting go of her was to give her my power statue. She knew the history of the statue.

The statue now transcended generations.

The statue remained with my eldest until she finished her education.

Some eight years later, my youngest and baby of the family too decided to do her course at another university far away and live out on her own. It was time for the statue to come to life, the symbol of family power. It changed hands again. She took the statue with her and kept it with her until recently.

The statue returned to me recently, having stood not only by me but also by my fearless kids.

The beloved Jesus statue now adorns the centre of my family home as a symbol of inner power, strength and determination to persevere.

The statue is awaiting the day the next generation of Jayasinghes leave home. After that, it will be my grandkids, third-generation Australians who are very young yet.

I hope to see that day and give the lucky youngster (s) a fine embrace and the courage to make their ancestors proud.

It is the emblem of the Jayasinghe family’s grit. Resilience is our trademark.

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