When I was 5 years old, I got a heavy ceramic Jesus figure for Christmas. He was in full shepherd regalia, with a sheep on his shoulder and a staff in his hand.
In a 5-year-old fit of rage, I knocked Jesus over and broke him in half.
Twelve years and an interstate move later, my brother found the pieces in the garage, epoxied them back together and gave Jesus to me for Christmas. Again.
The epoxy belt has since turned pink and I've since turned belief-less, so EJ is now an uninspiring little pal on my desk holding my yarn scraps and watching me blog.