When I was a kid, my dad was Jesus.
Not in the way you might think.
He was actually Jesus.
For the Easter Cantata at church.
He could sing pretty well. I think that’s why, and he generally had a knack for theatrics.
In fact, the church used my Indiana Jones whip to push him down our red carpeted aisles. Fake blood and wounds lined his back.
I saw him there, hanging on the cross, too.
He was hanging between a hippie computer technician and another man.
I’m not sure what he did.
I saw him hang his head.
He was put into a tomb and he came back alive.
(Two’ish days compiled into two’ish minutes.)
I don’t remember feeling very sad. Because I knew my dad was really alive.
Other things made me sad.
I always say it is unusual to process your childhood as an adult.
Adults seemed more like adults back then and you realize now that your parents were actually trying to do the best they could with what they had.
Mostly, because I watch my friends and family with kids and see how books and articles will never actually describe or explain to them what it will be like to be a parent.
I am a person who recognizes how difficult things will be. That’s not to say that I find the path of least resistance. But knowing things will be hard, at least in my own head, lessens the blow.
A lot of people in my world are going through some really icky shit.
There is no other way to describe it only that it is like accidentally sticking your hands in pine tar.
You’re in it for the long haul.
And this is what it is like, after all. To be human. To feed yourself. To conflict with other peoples’ well beings. To maybe leave them and this place better than when you found it.
Sometimes, you see your actual father hanging on a cross and it makes you think.
Maybe not when you were nine years old.
But maybe 20 years later when you’re frying eggs on the line,
and you pause and remember,
all of the things,
that have saved you.