A rather large ceramic reclining Buddha sits in the corner of my son’s bathroom. I think of this as an appropriate place, because sometimes I am naked in that room and Buddha makes me feel better as I look into the plate glass mirror at my own fat belly. Buddha sits there with a wide grin on his face, naked except for a strategically draped robe.

Another Buddha sits on a shelf with me at school. This guy has his arms up, raising the ancient roof, with an ecstatic smile on his face. He is literally dancing in all his glory, and he makes me laugh just to look at him. He’s a brilliant reminder on those days when grumpy, hormonal teenagers make me forget the joy of the art I’m teaching them. There is an inscription in pencil and three white lines on the bottom of this Buddha, bearing the only evidence from where my genius art teacher friend glued him back together and hid the damage.

Some visitors to these spaces might worry about me when they see the statuettes. I can hear it now. What’s a good Christian girl doing with a Zen Buddhist idol on the bathroom floor? No child of mine is going to be taught by some hussy with a blasphemous relic sitting on her classroom shelf.

These little dudes don’t represent my religious beliefs, but they do remind me to be content and joyful wherever I am, whatever I’m doing. There are times when I desperately need relief from

the bonds of anxiety and depression, and seeing a little fat man rolling with laughter sometimes does the trick. I often wonder what my great-grandmother Meme was thinking when she acquired these Buddhas. Her parents, John and Zada Schleucher, were once vaudeville performers until they saw the light and Jesus saved them from their sacrilegious ways. They founded the Miami Rescue Mission and are famous in our family for guiding a wayward woman to salvation while sitting in the bushes of the whorehouse next door.

Meme wasn’t allowed to take dance classes. She probably wasn’t allowed to do many other seemingly harmless things she wanted to do growing up, rebelling in her later years by acquiring several hobbies disapproved by the Bible-thumping Schleuchers. I was told she took yoga classes while Gramps, retired from the Southern Bell Company, spent time studying photography and collecting rocks and minerals. On one of Gramps’s rock trades, some fellow in Japan sent him a carved Buddha. Meme thought it was the cutest little fat man she’d ever seen and started collecting them. The ones I have are hers, a reminder of the need to travel one’s own journey to spiritual enlightenment.

I am a Christian and believe in Jesus as my Savior and friend. I will preach the goodness of Christ, my resurrected Savior, until the day I die. I will also cherish the little Laughing Buddhas, which, to me, represent contentment, joy, and an open invitation to forge thine own path. The way I see it, Protestant Christians can take a hint from other religious traditions. Take the practice of repentance ashes on Ash Wednesday for one. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

I had a sweet friend once who made me what she called “prayer beads”. I accepted them with gratitude, saying, “Oh! These are beautiful! It’s like a rosary!” She protested that no, absolutely not, this was NOT a rosary, it was completely different, nothing Catholic about it. But my friend was shortsighted—it was like a rosary, where the holder of the beads fingers each piece as a part of prayer practice. Who cares if the idea came from Catholic tradition? It’s a beautiful practice, and if it helps with one’s prayer life, why not?

I don’t know much about Zen Buddhism, which is where my little fat men come from. The type of Buddhism originating from India is different. My knowledge is limited to a brief overview of world religions in college, but from what I remember of Buddhism, it is sort of the anti-religion, the goal of which is nirvana, a state of being where the mind is empty and the spirit is free. An old boyfriend suggested that I read Siddhartha by Herman Hesse back in the day, which I did. This book, written in 1922, follows a man and his path to enlightenment during the time of the Gautama Buddha. He learns important lessons from the people he meets along the way. If we allow ourselves to, don’t we all?

So if you see my little fat men and feel a smile start to creep across your face, allow it to happen. Lightning hasn’t struck me down yet.