There You Are

My father was 41 when I was born, exactly. He was older than most of the dads of the neighbor kids and the kids at school; I always attributed that to why we got along so well. Growing up, my father did construction work therefore I did not see him a lot in the warmer summer months when the work was abundant. I would monopolize his time on the rare occasions he was not working, running errands with him and just simply following him around like a puppy most days. I’m sure if he let me I would have went to work with him as well. He didn’t mind my constant presence. When I would hop in the truck beside him, I could see him smile off to the side, looking out the windshield of the rusty old ford as he waited for me to buckle. He never really looked directly at me even when talking (which was rare because he was a quiet man), and I enjoyed that. Eye contact is so intrusive. We would run his errands in perpetual silence, in our own worlds. Sometimes he would strain to make some inane conversation, but the little he did say to me I appreciated and gratefully reciprocated. How few words we would use to make a conversation was astounding. I knew how hard it was for him to communicate, because I knew how hard it was for me. Rainy days when there was no inside work for him were my favorite days. Sometimes he would be home on sunny days as well. I still did not have friends and I didn’t need them if I had him because it was far more fun to follow him than to follow the neighbor kids or my older sister (who was hardly around and almost always irritable). On the weekends, probably every other weekend or every third weekend when the grass was grown far too high to easily mow, he would get out in the hot son in his white hanes undershirt, jean shorts and his big straw hat that had a green sunvisor panel embedded in the front. He would also wear his gigantic sunglasses that fit over his normal glasses. He looked rather stupid. I followed him as he mowed too. I liked the deafening sound of the motor. I liked the routine in making a square as you mowed to the center. I would get rather annoyed when he would back up a few steps to bend the grass the other way (I did say it was way too long) and recut it. He would almost always step on my feet because I was moving behind him as if propelled by some unseen force.

On Sundays, rain or shine, summer or winter, we went to church. I really didn’t care what was going on there, I simply followed my father. My mother always stayed home and watched church on TV. She was perpetually sick and was content to stay home just the same as on the weekdays. I loved the routine, we would go to church, sometimes get donuts and always buy a Sunday paper from Dunkin Donuts, and then go home. I would go with my father to church every Sunday until the Sunday I heard the priest chastise alternative sexualities. I immediately quitted the Catholic church and never went back. I had never heard such hatred toward a group like that and I didn’t feel church was the appropriate place for hatred to breed or manifest. I didn’t care what anyone’s views were on the subject really and I attributed the same intolerance I witnessed there to every religion and eventually most everyone. So I pushed God away. This was not the God that I had learned to know and love. These organized religions are full of hate, and I felt they were listening to the wrong God. I needed to develop my own belief system instead of blindly following. Thus began my journey to class rebel Garber High school, class of 1998.

It took me a long time to find irrefutable evidence that I could not ignore or question. Even when I had my first son, this was the undeniable proof I needed but I was still too stubborn to listen. My second son felt different to me because this time I was married and having children was expected and encouraged. I was blending into society. Now I am 29 and realizing how much I have missed. How much love is there for me and how many things I can learn to let go of with His strength. You don’t want to accept my facebook friend request? That’s fine. I have other friends and I have Jesus. As my son says, Jesus is my best friend. My son, my six-year old son, taught me who Jesus is and taught me His love. All these years I was not listening, but I could hear. All these years I was not watching, but I could see. I just ignored it all.