Act 2: Scene 3
December, 1989.
Christmas Eve
I never had much of a relationship with God and nor did I ever have the words to speak with God. My younger years showed me a disconnect because to me, religion caused wars and fights and in my experience, what God you chose was more important than say, the kind of man you are or the house you lived in.
Religion caused a disconnect.
This caused arguments over which God was right and who was wrong
Plus –
I was a Jew . . .
And there was nothing cool about being a Jew. I saw hate. I saw swastikas and I was shown the hatred for my so-called chosen people.
And as for the word chosen, I never understood what this meant?
How was I chosen? And what was I chosen for?
And, if anyone were chosen or if anyone were truly chosen and loved by God, then why would there be so much hatred?
I had my bouts with God and my discussions with the sky before. I had these during my earliest memories and of course, the main question I always asked was the same.
Why?
I entertained the typical foxhole prayers which was me pleading with whomever was listening as I screamed, “If there is a God, then get me out of this place . . . Please!”
But this was my past. . .
It had been two weeks since they gave me the news about my Father. I had to process this.
Two weeks had gone by to which I was numb.
I was stunned and caught in a strange phase of thinking. I could not understand how this happened.
How could the man I admired the most or the person I believed was impenetrable and the strongest be worn down and sick?
How can heroes die?
The Farm and the members who lived with me were kinder and understanding. Staying clean and sober is a tough thing but oddly, staying clean and sober was easier than facing the fact that reality was about to close in on me.
I suppose everyone knew that I was about to lose my Father.
I suppose everyone knew the pain I was about to feel was going to rip me apart in different ways.
And me?
I knew . . .
I could feel the beginning of what was going to be my biggest loss in my young life.
How is this fair?
Why do things like this happen?
What’s the use in changing or making amends if the amends mean nothing or the apologies have to be spoken to the empty air?
I had turned a corner, so-to-speak
I walked the line and i cleaned up.
I started to see the so-called gifts of sobriety. And this was good. But now that my biggest gift was granted, I was about to lose this gift at the worst time and in the worst way possible.
I suppose I knew what was coming too.
I knew The Old Man was about to die.
I knew that there was nothing I could do.
I knew this is life and I knew that life as I knew it was about to change.
I had these ideas of The Old Man and I being more like Father and son.
This wiuld be a dream come true.
I had ideas of a greater and stronger relationship with my Father.
I had hopes and dreams and wishes and desires to be the son my Old Man could always be proud of. And, yet, The Old Man was laying weak in a hospital bed and slipping away.
At least he saw me clean.
At least he saw me out of trouble.
At least I wasn’t sick or looking like I was withering away and dying.
At least I was able to speak clearly and not sound as if my mind was slowly phasing away or shutting down or folding like my body would in a slow and ongoing nod.
He saw me gaining strength,
He saw that I was out of trouble.
He saw me and while I wish there was more, at least he saw me this way.
Enter the bus ride hoe to see my Father before he died.
Enter the idea that maybe the way I was living was the wrong way to live.
Enter the realization that I lost enough and that I could do one of two things; I could be bound to lose more or I could regain myself and regain my life and finally, if I did the work, I could clean myself up and live a good life.
Once, and for all, I could be a good boy . . .
I never had real talks with God because in part, I never believed that God would listen to someone like me, and in part, I never thought that I deserved a good answer.
In part, I never believed in God in the first place and to me, prayer was just a meaningless plea of desperation.
Why pray?
Why not just go or be or do and endure because to live life, one must understand what it mean to endure and to endure, one must find the secret to their own endurance.
I bent my endurance through a glass pipe and I found my strength in tiny white folded envelopes that held a deadly poison.
This was the secret to my endurance
So, take the pain
Feel it.
Die if you have to
Do not complain and never explain because no one cares and no one can help.
This is life and life sucks.
So, why bother?
Why pray?
Why ask an invented idea of God or believe that yes, there is a God?
Why do any of this when the God I believed in never really existed in the first place?
It was never my intention to become who I had become.
No, and more than anything, it was never my intention to fall so far away from the people I loved.
But again, intentions do not match our actions and sometimes, our actions mirror and match the emotional content to which I started to lose myself long ago.
I never wanted to be the person that everyone was ashamed of. I never wanted to be an embarrassment. I never wanted to end up sick or be on the news or be in the newspaper because a helicopter was chasing me through my town.
I thought about the last few months. I thought about the way things changed. I thought about the words my Father said and how he told me, “I’m not mad at you anymore.”
I sat on a Greyhound bus which I boarded after a snowstorm on Christmas Eve, 1989.
Please God . . .
I never did much with my life and I never made anyone proud of me.
Take me instead.
All I’ve ever done was lie or destroy or cheat and steal.
I never worked hard at anything, except, of course, to keep my habit going or to keep my comforts safe.
I was never worth very much. . .
But him?
My Old Man . . .
My Father . . .
He earned his place.
He paid his dues.
The Old Man finally started to have a taste of the good life and just like that, everything fell apart, including me, his youngest son.
Take me, God.
I’ll go.
I never wanted to live anyway.
I’ve been trying to die for longer than I can remember.
The Old Man has more to live for.
Just take me.
Please.
I don’t know if there is or was a God for me at that time.
I don’t know if God was listening to me or not.
Or maybe, God listened fully and completely and with all of God’s heart; maybe God told me “no,” because there was something more for me to do.
Maybe there is more to this puzzle called life.
Maybe there was more for me to see
Maybe I had more purpose than I believed and maybe The Old Man earned the right to rest and find peace in Heaven (if there was such a place)
God . . .
Take me, please.
I never did much for anyone, except for let them down.
Perhaps God answered me.
Maybe he told me, “I disagree with you, son.”
Maybe me being here is proof that we all touch lives like the way you have touched mine.
Maybe we all die more than once and maybe, we are more lifesaving to one another than we think.
I do not believe that I am a hero and nor am I heroic,
I am just me, sick as my secrets, tired and flawed. However, maybe me being me is enough to prove that we all intertwine for a reason.
It wasn’t fair to me though.
I always wanted to have a good relationship with my Father
But that chance was about to be taken from me.
Prayer or no prayer, I knew his time was up.
I saw him in the hospital.
I was alone.
He was laying in the bed and looking up at the ceiling, perhaps thinking about the life that he knew he was about to leave.
“Hey, Pop.”
“Whataya Say, kid!”
He looked weak.
He looked gray.
He wore a death face and I knew it.
We talked.
Maybe we left too much on the table and maybe too much remained unresolved.
But if nothing else, I heard him tell me the most important words any son needs to hear.
“I’m proud of you, son.”
I hope so, Pop
Please
Look down on me today.
Every son needs a Father
And I?
I need your guidance now more than ever.
Tell Mom I’ll write her a letter soon
But for now –
Please
Watch over me
