memory alive? Maybe you can get your mother to
buy you one for Christmas.”
“My mother says these men are never coming back.”
The woman yanks the bracelet off my wrist and says, “If you don’t leave right now,
I’ll report you.”
#
When I got older, nine or so, I began to ride my bike to his cemetery.
Three and a third miles, door to gates.
The first time, I wandered, searching stone-to-stone. A man cutting grass tells me
to go to the office.
A woman there asks if I am lost.
“Just looking.”
“No one just looks here,” she says.
I tell her I am looking for my father.
She points to a big book on the table near the door.
“Get that,” and she pulls her black-framed glasses to her face, from the silver chain
around her neck.
It’s a heavy ledger. So big I can’t get my arms around it. I end up dragging it across
the floor. Dead weight. The lady sits behind the counter, watching me, smoking a thin
brown cigarette. When I get close to the counter, after what seems like a forever
haul, she reaches down. Ashes fall in my eyes.
She turns page after page and then takes out a map of the cemetery. She makes a blue X and then a dotted line from the office to the X. “There you go, Captain Kidd,” she says. “A treasure map.”
#
I’ve always wished my faith were stronger. Like the four men who punched a hole in
the roof of the house, tied a rope around their crippled friend, then lowered him
in where Jesus sits, preaching. Imagine—Jesus, cross-legged on the floor, and descending
from above comes a man, twisted, trussed up, broken. Jesus considers the cripple and
then looks toward the hole where his friends peer down. They tell Jesus that men blocked
them from entering the house but they were determined to place their withered friend
in His healing presence.
I have often prayed for such faith.
Our Father, who art in heaven . . .
Aren’t in heaven?
How many times did I puzzle over that?
And if my father aren’t in heaven, where are he?
As a boy I longed to be a prophet. Saturday Vigil Masses, I knelt beside my mother,
my mouth musty with His body melting to paste on my tongue. Watched the purpled incense
smoke rise into the unseen reaches of the dim and darkened dome. The bishops’ hats
high in the rafters, fading. Changing to dust in the spaces above us. The threads
that bind brim to crown failing. And me, kneeling, still. Praying for alms and supplication.
Sureness of mission.
#
My mother. She left the Church when I was still a boy. Something, she said, about
the Parable of the Prodigal Son. “It’s just not fair,” she said. “Stories like that.”
# # #
Not to say I have not had my doubts. Consider the story of Matthias. Christ, crucified.
Judas, suicided. And Peter gathers the remaining apostles.
“Men,” he says, “Judas now dwells in the Field of Blood, flat on his face, his bowels
spilt out of him. Rejoice. Yet, it is written—to witness Resurrection, we must make
our body whole again.”
In other words, they are only eleven. But they must be twelve.
Peter points to two men he has found—Matthias and Barsabbas. Tells them to kneel before
them. Lots are cast. Matthias in. Barsabbas out. Just like that.
And since the whole story is taken on faith, what do you believe? Does Barsabbas get
off his knees, humbled? Stand in the dirt as they link arms around Matthias? Or does
he walk away filled with rage, spitting at dogs? Cursing what could have been, if
only the Lord had willed it?
#
What signs have you pretended you did not see? Looked askance, away? Given in to that
voice inside: “Stay on the main road. There’s nothing that way!”
And yet—we wonder.
What if how we are told it happened is not how it happened? What if the story we have
been told is just that? A story. Not the truth.
Each of us has a creation tale—how we came into the world. And I’ll add this: Each
of us has an uncreation
buy you one for Christmas.”
“My mother says these men are never coming back.”
The woman yanks the bracelet off my wrist and says, “If you don’t leave right now,
I’ll report you.”
#
When I got older, nine or so, I began to ride my bike to his cemetery.
Three and a third miles, door to gates.
The first time, I wandered, searching stone-to-stone. A man cutting grass tells me
to go to the office.
A woman there asks if I am lost.
“Just looking.”
“No one just looks here,” she says.
I tell her I am looking for my father.
She points to a big book on the table near the door.
“Get that,” and she pulls her black-framed glasses to her face, from the silver chain
around her neck.
It’s a heavy ledger. So big I can’t get my arms around it. I end up dragging it across
the floor. Dead weight. The lady sits behind the counter, watching me, smoking a thin
brown cigarette. When I get close to the counter, after what seems like a forever
haul, she reaches down. Ashes fall in my eyes.
She turns page after page and then takes out a map of the cemetery. She makes a blue X and then a dotted line from the office to the X. “There you go, Captain Kidd,” she says. “A treasure map.”
#
I’ve always wished my faith were stronger. Like the four men who punched a hole in
the roof of the house, tied a rope around their crippled friend, then lowered him
in where Jesus sits, preaching. Imagine—Jesus, cross-legged on the floor, and descending
from above comes a man, twisted, trussed up, broken. Jesus considers the cripple and
then looks toward the hole where his friends peer down. They tell Jesus that men blocked
them from entering the house but they were determined to place their withered friend
in His healing presence.
I have often prayed for such faith.
Our Father, who art in heaven . . .
Aren’t in heaven?
How many times did I puzzle over that?
And if my father aren’t in heaven, where are he?
As a boy I longed to be a prophet. Saturday Vigil Masses, I knelt beside my mother,
my mouth musty with His body melting to paste on my tongue. Watched the purpled incense
smoke rise into the unseen reaches of the dim and darkened dome. The bishops’ hats
high in the rafters, fading. Changing to dust in the spaces above us. The threads
that bind brim to crown failing. And me, kneeling, still. Praying for alms and supplication.
Sureness of mission.
#
My mother. She left the Church when I was still a boy. Something, she said, about
the Parable of the Prodigal Son. “It’s just not fair,” she said. “Stories like that.”
# # #
Not to say I have not had my doubts. Consider the story of Matthias. Christ, crucified.
Judas, suicided. And Peter gathers the remaining apostles.
“Men,” he says, “Judas now dwells in the Field of Blood, flat on his face, his bowels
spilt out of him. Rejoice. Yet, it is written—to witness Resurrection, we must make
our body whole again.”
In other words, they are only eleven. But they must be twelve.
Peter points to two men he has found—Matthias and Barsabbas. Tells them to kneel before
them. Lots are cast. Matthias in. Barsabbas out. Just like that.
And since the whole story is taken on faith, what do you believe? Does Barsabbas get
off his knees, humbled? Stand in the dirt as they link arms around Matthias? Or does
he walk away filled with rage, spitting at dogs? Cursing what could have been, if
only the Lord had willed it?
#
What signs have you pretended you did not see? Looked askance, away? Given in to that
voice inside: “Stay on the main road. There’s nothing that way!”
And yet—we wonder.
What if how we are told it happened is not how it happened? What if the story we have
been told is just that? A story. Not the truth.
Each of us has a creation tale—how we came into the world. And I’ll add this: Each
of us has an uncreation
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