Brick by Brick

My dad never really had a dad.

I never met my grandpa.

He died when my Dad was 14. 15. 16. Time blurs.

Grandpa was disabled after being a prison of war.

Kept for his intelligence, yet abused for his otherness.

Every night, grandma would carry him on her back to their outhouse.

I keep her lowercase, because she doesn’t deserve a capital G.

My father would throw bricks at his brother.

By the request of his own mother.

Did he go numb?

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t know.

So. What is my partner’s excuse?

What was his dad’s dad like? Not good, not good.

Is fatherlessness the new epidemic?

Or was it the epidemic forever and ever?

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To be kicked out of the garden felt like the father wound for all time.

As if we are all now treated like Satan

And we are all his little minions.

And yet, we are meant to be like little Christ’s.

Isn’t that the point of all this?

To re-identify, to re-apply, to re-consider.

Re-design. Re-engineer. Re-wire.

And yet re-doing the past is impossible.

Unless a new future awaits, yet now is the only real moment.

-

But I so deeply want to know …

Why did God keep me alive, if I was supposed to die?

My brother wasn’t so lucky. 8 abortions later … and yet only my sister and I are here.

My mom regrets it, but does she, really?

Maybe she wasn’t ready. And that’s ok.

The church, my mom, and society shames her for just … experiencing.

And why my sister, the sister who clings to purity culture.

The reason I’m celibate today, from the shame of my own shame.

As if it’s her saving grace, the quizzing endless quizzing of Romans Road.

How dare she, why not try it on someone else. Someone a little less raw.

Suffering is where God lives, says my new monastic order.

I’ll try to believe that.

Try is a big word for people who feel small.