1. I’m at some old lady’s house. A great aunt, or a great cousin, or just a family friend, I’m not sure who. While she speaks with whoever brought me there, she asks in her old lady voice if I want a sandwich. A peanut butter sandwich, she says, is that what you want?

I nod, and she takes me into her dark, old lady kitchen, and reaches into her dark, old lady cupboard. Peanut butter, she says. Bread, and she places them in front of me. I’m a little confused, because peanut butter doesn’t go by itself– it goes with jelly, or… well, jelly. But no, she wants me to make just a peanut butter sandwich.

I do. That stuff isn’t peanut butter. It’s something Natural that tastes unnatural, like sawdust mixed with sugar and oil, and the bread is some strange type too, rye or grain or something, I’m not sure. But either my mouth is too full or my esteem is too innocently small to mention that I really don’t like her peanut butter or her sandwich while she speaks with whoever brought me there.

2. I’m with another old lady, a babysitter of some kind. This is definitely a great aunt, I think. My mother is away, and she’s babysitting me for the day. We go to the park, and I cling to the slides and swings, things I understand and know, while politely avoiding this woman, distant relative that, innocently, I don’t.

Afterwards, she walks me up to McDonald’s, and asks what I want. Happy Meal, of course, and I treasure the toy, a burger that turns into a person, all the rest of the day until my mother picks me up.

As we leave, I’m sorry for not understanding her better. But I’m thankful for the burger person.

3. I’ve got a new Batman puzzle, and I’m assembling it from the picture on the box while my Grandmother– sorry, Gramma. She is babysitting me and folding laundry.

She is singing as she folds, an old hymn called the “Lord of the Dance.” It’s narrated by Jesus, and he dances throughout time, through his birth, through his life, through his cruxification, a poignant dance set “on Friday when the sky turned black/ it’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.” In the song, he’s an ethereal form, twisting and spinning throughout his history and right into ours, a constant character smiling and laughing and crying. This is what my Gramma is singing and humming as she folds my family’s laundry.

And I’m putting together the Batman puzzle, assembling it piece by piece, creating the striking picture of the Dark Knight swinging across the front of the box. I’m just a kid, you know, and Batman is my hero.

And I didn’t realize then, as I do now, that Gramma was my hero too. And so was Jesus, the Lord of the Dance. Not in a born-again, Christ’s Love, Methodist, Baptist, Red-Stater kind of way, but you have to admire someone who can dance with the devil on his back.

My three heroes: Gramma, Batman, and Jesus. All there with me, together. Forever and ever, amen.