Encountering the Divine – VI- (Walking on a Dream…err…nightmare)

Greetings once again esteemed readers! It’s about to get “turnt up”  in here; so prepare yourself for improvised urban slang that I may or may not use correctly,  and a definite change of pace as this whirlwind of a tale re-intensifies as its ending draws near. Ciao newbies! If you so feel inclined, in order to avoid mass bewilderment, you have some reading to catch up on: Episode I, 2, 3, 4, 5.  As for the rest of us, time to dive back in!

Sometime in the spring of that year, my roommate Lolita told me she felt like she was being called by God to go to New York. She had a great job in advertising in Miami; and well she had me as a roommate. What more could you ask for right? We had survived various other roommates over the course of a few years and now managed to form a good team on our own. We knew each other’s habits: the good & the bad. We often joked that we were like a married couple, without any “benefits” of course. (Just saying) Since the commencement of our new spiritual journey, I witnessed her growing more secure in her relationship with God and in the ability to listen to his prompting with further clarity each time. So when she finally spoke to me about this subject, she had already made up her mind that she was moving. (She had resisted and wrestled with that inkling for a while) Small detail was that she didn’t have a job over there. In fact, she didn’t have much certainty of where she would live or how she would sustain herself. She only knew a handful of people she could couch surf with for a bit. She would leave with the small amount of money she had and trust that God would reveal the rest once she was there. Talk about faith, taking a step without seeing the bigger picture or having any assurance of what would happen. (We all struggle with that at times don’t we? Listening to our gut, making a risky decision based on that intuition, and trusting that the universe will reveal the next steps afterwards? I usually always want the whole blueprint drawn up beforehand so I can inspect it thoroughly) Despite doubt and fear, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was what she needed to do. It was a scary step, I was fearful for her too —and for myself also, if I must be honest. I had been given well over a month’s heads up, but now found myself having to find a new roommate. This wouldn’t be an easy task, considering I had a hard time trusting people, let alone living with them.

We were residing in a converted 2-1 apartment on the 2^nd story of our landowner Richard’s house. He lived in the downstairs floor, but had also developed a third section to the house layout: a small studio in the back of the lower level which he rented out to this crazy guy named Ricky J. (The house was inhabited by all R’s: Ricardo, Richard, and Ricky.) Ricky J (picture Mr. Clean with a goatee) had lived there several years and was there already when we moved in to the upstairs in 2006. He was a super creative guy; he was a playwright. When we first moved in Lolita, Helen, and I would hang out with him once in a while and smoke out in his studio. (Hey, if there was weed involved, rarely did I turn down an invite to chill) He claimed to practice Buddhism, hence had a minimalist apartment with no furniture except a floor rug, pillows, and a bench surrounding the living room wall chock-full of vinyl records & CDs. He sometimes would freak us out by randomly bringing out a saw he had laying around, he would start playing it with a violin bow as we all sat in a stoner rotation “puff, puff, giving”. He was a freaking strong dude and would also sporadically bear hug one of the girls and try picking them up, as they sat trying to enjoy their trip. He would cradle befuddled Helen in his arms for a few seconds as I tried my best not to pee in my pants from laughter. Much to my apprehension, he also claimed to be bi and had a bit of a crush on me apparently, because he was super passive- aggressive towards me. Shiiiit, I didn’t let him manhandle me though. On another occasion, he randomly “play” punched another friend of mine in the back to get her attention while we were dancing at a club. He almost knocked her over. Savage right? Yea, he produced various bizarre incidents, point is — dude was weird AF, I avoided him for the most part afterwards. (To his benefit, he did introduce me to Sigur Ros’ music.)He’s not super relevant to the story, but too funny not to mention. He will pop up briefly again.

So let me introduce another character that I met around March of 2008 outside of South Beach ministries: Jonas. (No, not one of the brothers, I don’t think they were even around back then. Not that I would have listened to their music anyway, teeny bopper stuff.😄 ) It was night time, so I’m sure I was headed to a Bible Study on a weekday evening. I was walking towards the door of the entrance of the building (there was a paper posted on the window saying to go upstairs for the church, but unless you were looking for it, it wasn’t obvious to the passerby), Jonas was loitering close to the entrance so I just blurted “hey man, are you here for the Bible study?” He semi-reluctantly answered “yea” and walked in behind me. Until much later would he tell me he didn’t actually know there was a church there or that there was something going on. He just happened to be at the right place at the right time, so when I asked him he made a split-second decision to go in. (Although who does that though right? He’s adventurous and spontaneous needless to say. It probably helped that I looked trustworthy also. Sure, I’ll take some credit) He was new in the city, so he had been looking for a church, but I don’t think that was his intent in that precise moment walking around in his new neighborhood. Anyhow, I don’t believe it was mere happenstance that we met. He was from Mexico so we hit it off right away. He hailed from the capital (they’re known as Chilangos), so that’s a whole other breed of Mexican. Of course it’s a generalization, but Mexican capital folk do have a reputation for being a bit uppity and pretentious. He also looks more like a white guy; he definitely fit the stereotype. Ha.

He was renting a place nearby, I recall having a lengthy conversation with him in my car before dropping him off.  We clicked as friends quickly and wound up sharing our life stories with each other that same night. Lo and behold, he also struggled with same sex attractions but he was barely at the “coming out” stage. He was in his mid/late 20s also (Bit older than me, although he’ll deny it) and trying to figure out what being “gay” was all about and reconciling that with his spiritual beliefs. He hadn’t dated men nor had been in the gay scene per say either. He was raised Christian and now started to question a lot of his ingrained beliefs and rebelling against them. He was questioning the concept of God that had been imposed on him and trying to figure it out for himself. Just like I had been doing. So we had a lot of commonalities in our life stories, but I was at a different juncture in my journey in the sense that I had already lived in the gay scene and felt like: been there, done that. Nothing left to see there. Not to mention I was going through the aforementioned God revelations on my sexuality (the theme of the previous installment in this series). Understandably, he took my story with a grain of salt; he still hadn’t experienced the lifestyle for himself. I knew ultimately, that’s something he had to figure out on his own. Nonetheless, we became fast friends and I would soon introduce him to Helen and Lolita. Given that he met us at a very interesting point in time, I was fairly open with him about the spiritual experiences that had been happening to us. I’m sure he thought we were all a bit nuts — but he was raised in a Pentecostal denomination so he wasn’t completely taken aback to what we shared. (Or he feigned not to be) From my recollection, he was burned by religion also; he viewed his religious upbringing as a big charade. Obviously I could relate on some levels to meaningless, formulaic religious customs with my Catholic upbringing, although I’m sure his experience was staunchly different given the intensity of a Pentecostal church. (I mean if I went by my brief 5-6 month experience at the Hialeah church) He was a smart guy, an engineer by trade, but wanted to pursue something new. He was opposite from me, a total extrovert; so he was a bit overwhelming at times. (To the day, truth be told, he still exasperates sometimes. Ha. If you’re reading this, love you buddy!) My dry sense of humor rubbed him the wrong way initially too. It still does at times.hehe

Since he was quite gregarious, he quickly established rapport with some people at my church. In fact, he found a management job at a restaurant through some people Pastor Mario knew. He was paying month to month on the little room he rented on the beach, so after a few weeks of knowing him I suggested he become my roommate once Lolita moved out. He agreed. Things seemed to be lining up. During a troubled time where I didn’t have many friends left to lean on, my closest one was about to move to another city; I had just made a new one that shared a similar cultural background and comparable spiritual beliefs, sexual struggle, etc. We were on the same page. Or so I thought…flash forward a little bit, just two weeks shy before Lolita was slated to leave, Jonas told me he wouldn’t be moving in with me to occupy the soon to be vacant bedroom. I remember us having a conversation in my living room, where he shared that he felt that it was no longer a good idea to become roommates. I was a bit blindsided; and feeling left up a creek without a paddle. I considered that he didn’t give me a legitimate reason. Honestly, I was also upset that he sprung up this news last minute two weeks before the next rent payment was due. Why did he even agree in the first place? What had happened? It’s not like we had some major disagreement. Once the initial wave of disappointment glazed over, I realized here’s some dude I had only known for about a month, and well who knows in reality what other internal issues he was dealing with that he felt he had to nix the roommate idea. Regardless, things happen for a reason. I had to let go and ultimately respect his decision. (Years later we clarified the miscommunication)

“Great, I have no job. With my unemployment I can’t afford the entire two bedroom apartment on my own. Yea the landlord is cool and flexible but there’s no way he’s going to allow me to only pay half the rent. I don’t know anyone else. I don’t have money for a deposit and last month’s rent on a new place. I don’t have money for movers. I don’t know anyone else that is looking for a place to live. I really don’t want to go through the whole screening process of finding a stranger off craigslist in less than 2 weeks.”

(That never turned out well in the past. That brings out the crazies. For instance: one Craigslist roommate Lolita and I had for a brief time abruptly left from one day to the next with a note splattered in mustard on the kitchen counter saying “thanks for everything, I’m out.” Which was fine in retrospect, he needed to go.) I grimaced, pondering that living with a stranger was so college, and I really couldn’t put myself through that again. Hmm… was I in need of yet some more humble pie? “Ok God, what am I supposed to do?”Just when I thought relative stability would return to my life, everything got shaken like a Polaroid picture. Well, apparently I didn’t recall one of God’s (at times frustrating) habits that he demonstrated to me those first few months after I got back from Europe. He likes showing up last minute. (Well what we humans consider to be last minute.) It’s his perfect timing in actuality. Just when I started feeling abandoned by him and embracing my familiar state of anxiety & despair — a few days before the month ends, my landlord Richard notifies me that cray cray Ricky J was moving out of his studio apartment that same week. If I so chose, I could just move my stuff downstairs and pay half of the price of my current rent. (Now THAT; I could afford with my fixed unemployment benefits) Prayer answered, seemingly lost faith renewed. God ostensibly once again telling me: “Did you forget? I got you boy!”

Deep sigh of relief…………..Namaste

It was a bit heartbreaking the day Lolita left. (It felt like the day the music died. Oh wait, I wasn’t alive back then nor did I ever drive a Chevy. Much less to the levee. Although me likey some whiskey and rye) As Helen and I watched her pack, I did my best to suppress my breathing and any facial expression in order to contain my increasingly watery eyes from bursting like a dam: my best friend, my roomie, my party buddy, my support, my confidant — was leaving me. I’m pretty sure Andrea Bocelli was playing in my head at the time:

She was being called on a different path on her journey. We couldn’t remain intertwined and be codependent with one another like we had been for 4 1/2 years up to that point; not if we wanted to grow up and be independent people. Not if she was to one day have a husband and family of her own. She couldn’t just constantly be surrounded by and serve as an emotional support for her gay male friends. Oh boy, little did she know how difficult it would be to survive in the Big Apple. She lived couch surfing for a long while before she found a job. It wasn’t easy, but God got her through it. That’s her pretty amazing tale to tell one day.

As for me, I had no clue what the future held. I also had to say goodbye to my college, contemporary 70s-esque, nightclub-inspired furniture. Lolita and I co-owned it, so I sold most of it so I could send over her portion. Once I was downstairs, I decided to go for a fresh start & a more mature look by painting the new studio with a teal color. (It was just plain white before) I didn’t have much money, but I had good credit so I was able to finance the purchase of some new furniture & accessories like a futon/ sofa bed, small dining room table, lamp, & mirror. I think I did keep the S shaped coffee table we had because it still fit the theme. (No more drugs hidden in its somewhat concealed compartments though. Hehe) In fact, my mom came to visit me that summer and helped me paint and put the finishing touches on the redecorating.

 

Summer went by, and besides job searching for a few hours most days during the week, I did my best to have some semblance of a social life. I wound up leaving South Beach Ministries after a couple of months because I felt I was the only single young adult there amongst families. (Although the time I was there served its purpose.) Lolita was obviously gone and living in NY. Helen started attending Calvary Chapel on South Beach and I soon followed because there seemed to be plenty of people in my age group there. Not to mention I still felt awkward attending church and being around Christians, so it helped to still have Helen around for some familiarity. (That’s the same church were the LGBT talk I went to was held weeks prior) My friend Jonas stopped attending church around the time he decided to not be my roommate. We stayed in contact but we saw each other with less frequency as he started his own social circles and his recovery from alcoholism. We’ve kept in touch off and on over the years and he actually converted to Judaism. So it’s been interesting seeing his path and where his pursuit of God is taking him. Due to his strict and negative Christian upbringing, he still wrestles with the concept of Jesus being God’s son. We’ve had some deep spiritual conversations since then. I’m blessed to be able to still maintain friendships despite bumpy moments and/or specific topics where we’ve agreed to disagree. Luckily, we can move on from that and focus more on our commonalities and lifting each other up. It’s not always easy. It’s important to focus more on the love component of a friendship rather than dwell on the differences; rather sad that divisiveness seems to be the mainstream consciousness today.

At some point in the summer of 08, I started attending Restoring Hope, a small Christian fellowship of men who struggled with same sex attractions that met weekly. It wasn’t the co-ed Exodus ministry that I visited once and spoke about on my last post. It was also up near Fort Lauderdale; in Hollywood, about a 30 minute drive from my home. I came to find out about it through Pastor Mario, his friend Paul was the leader. I attended a few months and it helped me gain perspective of men whose sexual orientation was homosexual also, but who had decided to not embrace that as their entire identity; they sought to follow Christ & abstain from sexual relationships with men.

There was no weird psychotherapy or hypnotizing or whatever stereotypes I held about gay people living their lives for God. During the group we just studied the Bible and shared about each other’s lives and the struggles of that week. That helped me to continue connecting the dots of my experiences along with those of other people that came to the realization that acting upon their homosexuality conflicted with their relationship with God.

September rolled around and I still had no job. My unemployment benefits were about to run out and I felt like I was idling in Miami. I received a call that I knew would change the course for the rest of the year. It was my mother, who rang to tell me my father’s non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma had returned for the third occasion, and this time it was with a vengeance. He had been having abdominal pain on and off until one night it was so unbearable that my mom convinced him to go back to his oncologist. He wound up back in the hospital. I can’t recall with certainty anymore, but I believe it had now spread to his stomach, one lung (even though he wasn’t a smoker), and his pancreas. Once again, his future looked bleak…

A prophecy from way earlier that year echoed back in my head “Someone in your family will fall ill.”

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it was referring to my dad. I was like, thanks for the heads up Lord. Really? Here we go AGAIN. That prophecy ever mentioned what that family member’s outcome would be. I prayed about it for several days as the passing of time started to weigh on me. I was trying to decide whether I needed to just go visit, or if this situation merited an extended stay. Besides the Restoring Hope fellowship, I was struggling to integrate myself into the Calvary Chapel faith community. There were a lot of young adults in the singles group at that church, but I didn’t dare share my homosexual struggle with anyone there, especially with the guys. Several of them were very attractive (I mean its South Beach after all), so I was still too insecure to “come out” — worrying about being judged and/or rejected. (And as you probably know, if you can’t be yourself completely around people, you’ll never feel close to anyone.)

Even Helen couldn’t see a glimpse of what the future held in regard to my father when I asked her. God kept that vision darkened for her. Eventually, I came to the conclusion I had nothing holding me back in Miami anymore. Despite experiencing some conflicting resistance at moments, I increasingly felt my gut telling me louder each time that I had to go. Time was running out. Before leaving, I had to sell the new furniture I had just purchased a couple of months earlier. I still owed money on the loan. I put up the dinner table, coffee table, and orange sleeper sofa on Craigslist. If I had any doubt that I was meant to leave, God put that to rest the day a guy replied he was interested in the sofa. Behind my home there was an alleyway. There was also a heavy, wide-sized gate that one had to manually open and close in order to park the car inside the property. (Parking inside was necessary given the shady area where I resided. ) The entire rear parking area of the house was full of gravel so consequently it would cause the gate to always get stuck or come off the rail; man, kid you not, it was a pain in the derriere to open and close sometimes. (Especially when I had come home inebriated or toasted in the wee hours of the dark weekend mornings )

Anyhow, I told the potential buyer to come through the alleyway so he could more easily load the sofa bed onto his vehicle. When he arrived, I saw his humongous truck had a lot of bed space as he backed right up to my front door. So the guy was a young muscular Cuban, wearing a gold chain, designer shades that he never removed, and a way too- tight fitting black shirt (picture a Latin version of The Rock).  He was a multi-tasker, he talked on his cell phone most of the time, all while ordering around two other guys that he brought with him. (Oh yea, he had a posse of helpers.)  I happened to have all the stuff I was selling spread out in the living room area and he started pointing at items: “ I want that lamp, I like that mirror also, I’ll take the dining table.” I was a bit overwhelmed and caught off guard. I was expecting to just sell him the sofa bed for way below cost, let’s say $300, to recoup some of my expenses. It might have cost me $500. (Overall, I recall still owing around $700 on my financing loan with the furniture store.) I was not expecting him to rapidly point items  out, and as he did, his henchmen would start loading up the stuff as soon as I shakily nodded my head in accord; all whilst trying to process my prices and the counteroffers he threw at me. I needed to call a time out to think: part of me was scared that I’d piss him off by denying his requests and that he’d put a mob hit on me right there and then. (Or more realistically, just back out on the whole deal.) The other part of me was jubilant that he was surprisingly emptying out my living room out of all the furniture and accessories I had just acquired. I was also frustrated that everything was happening so fast and that I would be taken advantage of. Get this, I knew he meant business when he pulled out the biggest wad of cash that I had ever seen someone carrying around in their pocket to show me he had the funds to back up his requests. Definitely a hustler! Not gonna lie, it felt a little like a movie. He kept negotiating down the prices I hurriedly gave him for each item he pointed at, as he kept insisting on a bundle discount since he was purchasing several things. Finally, after going back & forth and trying to keep a mental tally in my head, I mustered some courage and blurted “listen man, I can’t go any lower than $600 because I still owe money on this furniture, I’m selling it because I have to leave town, but I’m already taking a loss.” Surprisingly, he backed down and settled for my final counteroffer ; “Ok papo, lo dejamos en $600” (Ok, we’ll leave it at $600) he relayed in his macho Cuban accent. He flicked six $100 dollar bills off the top off of his bricked-size money stack, as I frantically looked around thinking what else I could possibly sell him. (Geez, can’t imagine why he didn’t want any of my college stoner paraphernalia such as my black light posters, lava lamps, or IKEA colored wall lamps, ha) His entourage had rounded up and loaded everything of greater value within minutes and had come through like a hurricane. (Luckily not like a wrecking ball, a la Miley) Intimidating drug dealer or not, he was God sent no doubt. That little miracle Craigslist visit accelerated my departure time from Miami drastically by taking care of my must sell items & basically just leaving me with few objects of little value. With the $600 I would be able to pay off most of my remaining debt. I still had my bed left but my landlord would later do me the favor of selling it to the person that would eventually take my place.

It must have taken approximately a week or two from the moment I received word on my father’s ailing health to take care of pending items, and do my rounds with my few remaining Florida friends to say goodbye. At the end of September of 2008, my little Tiburon was packed to the brim as I started my road trip from Miami, Florida to El Paso, TX. Needless to say, God was instrumental in getting me home safely. The first day of travel I drove up through the entire state of Florida. (Yeaaah, it’s longer than it seems). I started driving until mid-day  since I was still packing in the morning. I don’t know about you, but I get dehydrated easily and have to replenish with fluids often. Hence, I also need a good pee break every couple of hours. Not to mention, I’m a tall guy in a small sports car, so a stretching break is of utmost importance as well. That adds to my travel time. It was night time, I was beginning to feel a little drowsy (oh, I don’t drink coffee by the way, maybe I had drank some Red Bulls or tea for some caffeine), I had already gotten through Florida and kept wondering what the legal limit of hours driving without sleep was. I felt myself starting to fade further around the time I crossed the Alabama state line. I must have been driving a good 13 hours at this point. So I prayed “ok God, not sure when to stop or where it’s safe to stay, a little guidance please or otherwise I’ll keep going ,” as my stubborn ego kept forcing me to continue. Sure, I felt a sense of urgency that every minute I wasted was crucial and that I needed to get home. Kid you not, not even a couple of minutes later after that prayer, in the middle of I-10 and surrounding darkness — like an awakened two headed dragon with luminous eyes, two headlights and two huge spotlights appeared directly behind me out of nowhere. Perhaps it was only one spotlight, but point is, things got lit. Literally. For a sec, I thought I was in a scene of Joy Drive, as my drowsiness turned into confused terror thinking that a huge murderous semi had crept behind me in the shadows. I adjusted my eyes and soon saw that this myriad of lights was connected not to a semi, but to the top of a monster- sized, suspended truck that could have easily been a Transformer. In what seemed like an eternity, a few seconds later, flashing red and blue lights also appeared on the panorama of my rear view mirror; joining forces with the alien-like light beams that seemingly wanted to vaporize my car. (Ah yes, nothing like sleep deprived “hallucinating”) My state of disorientation subsided as my senses started to slowly grasp what was occurring and I finally began to pull over, wondering what I had done wrong.

I became panicked as hypochondriac thoughts swept into my mind, “Was I swerving? Was I speeding? Why is a cop driving a Autobot? Surely he knows I’m incapacitated for driving at this point. Can I be arrested for driving too long? Would it be considered a DUI? Quick dude, get your story together, you left Orlando, not Miami…I’m driving around illegally with Texas plates and a Florida license. Ah shit, I’m in Alabama, this can’t be good, nothing good ever comes out of this state, isn’t the KKK from here? I’m not black, but still, I’m sure they don’t like Hispanics here either”

(Say whaaa?)Turns out, the experience was the opposite of what my scrambled, slightly prejudiced mind led me to believe. I put forth my best “I’m totally refreshed look” (probably just widened my eyeballs, which isn’t suspicious at all ) while forking over my license and registration as the officer asked what I was doing driving around on I-10 in the wee hours of the morning. I managed to somehow play it cool because it turns out; he only pulled me over because one of my tail lights was out. Go figure! Phew! Here I am thinking I committed murder at this point. Suddenly, my prayer request flashed back to my head and I asked the officer if he knew of a place I could stay at. He recommended a hotel where I could find refuge a couple of exits down. (I was in the middle of nowhere, can’t recall if it was before or after passing Mobile.) God answered my prayer by pulling me over as a sign to call it quits for the night! Plus, I was able to find shelter thanks to the officer! There were no smart phones back in the day to look something up. Or if there was in 2008, well, I didn’t have one yet. (Don’t judge)

Same scenario the next night after I made it into Texas and passed San Antonio… I had been driving for about 11 to 12 hours (including pit stops) and I probably was loaded on some energy drinks and started to quasi-hallucinate on the lonely road of the Texas desert night sky. My foggy mind reassured “You’re only 8 hours from El Paso, you got this.” Nope, I had another God intervention after asking him for direction once I started getting that uneasy feeling again of starting to push the driving time limit a bit much. This time, a call came in from my aunt who convinced me to stop for the night and that it was preferable to come home alive; even if it took an extra day. Dannnng, but true true, thanks Tia! I begrudgingly pulled a U turn and went back a couple of miles to the closest town: Kerrville. Boy, I’m glad I did, I was toast.

The next few weeks in El Paso were fuzzy. Alas, not like a dream, but more like a nightmare. I recall one of the most played songs on my mp3 player was Empire of the Sun’s “Walking on a Dream”. Even though the lyrics weren’t relevant to my situation, during its three minutes of length, it brought calm and some elation to my soul as it helped me to temporarily disconnect from my troubled reality.

(The song’s peculiar music video came out months later)

I had seen some pictures of my father that my mother had sent me throughout that year I was unemployed in Miami. He had regained healthy weight, his hair had grown back out, he had leased a new vehicle, started working part time again — things were looking up. God had granted us the miracle of sparing his life a year ago but here we were again. At this point, as I mentioned, his non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma had come back for the 3^rd time: more aggressive than ever and it had spread to various parts of his body. If he did somehow manage to survive this new onslaught, he would need a bone marrow transplant; all of this after already battling cancer for 6 years back and forth. He was 75 at this point. He started receiving chemotherapy again during the time span that it took me to leave Miami. His oncologist was pessimistic at best this time around; I don’t recall my father ever being lucid enough to hold a coherent conversation. Whether it was the drugs he was on or the disease (or both), it was disheartening to witness that my dad’s mind wasn’t all there anymore. For a couple of weeks, my mom and I would take turns staying with him day and night. It was a bit of an ordeal because we had to go back home to feed and take out the dogs. This meant having to cross the border to our home in Mexico each time. Then it was one to two hours on the border crossing to come back.

He couldn’t be left alone as he often tried wandering off his bed. He needed to be escorted to the restroom. Once he declined further, he just wore a diaper which needed to be changed constantly, as well as his sheets. Those strenuous tasks usually required two people since he had to be rolled over on his sides; it was frequently me helping a nurse or CA. The hospital nurses couldn’t watch him all the time (understandably so, he wasn’t the only patient on the wing), so he basically needed to have a caretaker or family member with him constantly. That aside, the hospital’s nursing service was subpar at best; I recall constantly having to be on top of them in order to come tend to my father at reasonable intervals. It’s not like I was asking them to be there every half hour either, but don’t take forever after I press the nurse response button to show up. Or completely ignore it which felt like the case often. (It was a far cry from the service I had seen in Germany a year prior. Perhaps that level of care had set my expectations too high.) Luckily, a friend of my dad eventually alleviated the load and helped us by offering to stay with him on some nights. (Occasionally my half sister would watch him also) Being on call constantly took a toll on my mother and me physically and emotionally after a while. There were several moments when he would yell obscenities at us or attempt to rip off his IVs while we tried to restrain him. It was painful to endure but I did my best to let those things slide, as I knew he was fading. I don’t think anyone is ever fully prepared to deal with a family member’s end of life process. I talked to him about God frequently when he was calm, prayed over him, and read scripture to him too: most of the time unsure if he heard me or if what I was saying to him made any sense. At one point his oncologist told us the fight was nearing its end and that the chemo just wasn’t working. It was creating too much unnecessary extra suffering for him. I thought to myself, just because the doctors are giving up, doesn’t mean I will. I hadn’t lost hope, on the contrary, if I had learned anything that year was that God had proven to be a God of miracles. I tried my best to cling to my new found faith and prayed constantly in hopes of a miraculous turnaround.

During that point in time, I received a few signs that reignited my hope. (And yes, it’s tempting to recite lyrics of a certain Ace of Base song, I’ll refrain though) One day, while driving from my house to the hospital, a car cut me off on the highway. My nerves were already on edge and before I even had a chance to unleash a barrage of expletives, I was dissuaded when I saw it had a bumper sticker with the following scripture verses on it— Revelation 22:1-6.

Right after I saw this sticker practically get shoved in my face, I pulled out on an exit where there was a smokestack-like tower (that was part of an industrial site) next to the highway that had painted on it in big red letters: Jesus Saves. Mere coincidence? Well, if you’ve been following this whole story from the start, you already know I wasn’t buying that explanation. Naturally, I pulled out my Bible when I had a quiet moment at the hospital later to see what the passage said:

“Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be any curse. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city, and his servants will serve him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign forever and ever. The angel said to me, ‘These words are trustworthy and true. The Lord, the God of the spirits of the prophets, sent his angel to show his servants the things that must soon take place.’ ”

Hmm, in essence, a description of heaven… what was God trying to tell me though? The words that I decided to focus on were “river of life” and “healing of nations”, but I evidently wasn’t clear on how that pertained to my father quite yet. After being in deep prayer and asking for clarity, I soon opened the Bible again and the page I landed on laid out the following verses before me. These would strike more of a chord. The passage was from the book of Job (33:19-30), which read:

“Or a man may be chastened on a bed of pain with constant distress in his bones, so that his very being finds food repulsive and his soul loathes the choicest meal. His flesh wastes away to nothing, and his bones, once hidden, now stick out. His soul draws near to the pit, and his life to the messengers of death. Yet if there is an angel on his side as a mediator, one out of a thousand, to tell a man what is right for him, to be gracious to him and say, ‘Spare him from going down to the pit, I have found a ransom for him —then his flesh is renewed like a child’s; it is restored as in the days of his youth. He prays to God and finds favor with him, he sees God’s face and shouts for joy; he is restored by God to his righteous state. Then he comes to men and says, I sinned, and perverted what was right, but I did not get what I deserved. He redeemed my soul from going down to the pit, and I will live to enjoy the light. God does all these things to a man – twice, even three times – to turn back his soul from the pit, that the light of life may shine on him.”

Holy mole, I just got chills now as I did back then upon reading that. Through that passage, God was clearly speaking to me about my dad. I pictured a chain of old, dilapidated wooden gondola-like cars transporting people’s souls, slowly moving down on a creaky cable towards an abyss that contained the small glow of a furnace, which loomed a little larger each time the cars advanced. Out of mercy, an angel plucks my father out before the car completely disappeared into the blazing inferno. The Revelation bumper sticker, the Jesus Saves sign, and this passage from Job — the only palpable message I could discern was that my father would be saved. You know, literally. That somehow he would survive this ordeal. It would take another miracle, and this time, it wouldn’t be through the hands of science. Despite these pointers, doubt remained steadfast on the heels of my mind; it’s as if I just desperately wanted to believe something so bad that I couldn’t help but think that I was interpreting the signs to my convenience. I mean who doesn’t feel that way when someone is clinging to the last bit of hope in the midst of anguish and desperation? However I did have enough clarity to know I did not imagine those three signs. They happened, but was my interpretation spot on?

I can’t recall length of time with precision anymore, but after being hospitalized for a few weeks, my father was not allowed to remain there once his medical team determined he would no longer be receiving any kind of active disease treatment. (A hospital ultimately is a business; they need to be able to bill you for proactive medical care.) My mom and I had to scramble to decide what would be done about hospice care. We knew he would be more comfortable at home. Small predicament however, his insurance wouldn’t cover hospice care in Mexico. It only covers in El Paso, which is of course, in the United States. Well, we didn’t have any house there to place him in. So basically, I began the search for a nursing home that would take his employer insurance and Medicare.  At least in a nursing home, he could receive decent supervision and more importantly, a hospice care nurse would come see him there – hospice would enhance his quality of life and alleviate pain as much as possible until the end. An end which part of my subconscious was adamantly still denying would happen. I kept expecting God to somehow pull a rabbit out of his hat. When we finally transferred him from the hospital over to the nursing home; I don’t believe he was there more than a few days. Sadly, I had been wrong about the signs — his time to part eventually arrived. He finally passed one afternoon with my mother, my half sister, and me by his side. I managed to stay strong through most of the ordeal in front of others and hide my emotions, but I recall momentarily bursting into tears inside a bathroom that I scurried into shortly after he gasped his last breath. (The sounds emitted from the “death rattle” are quite unsettling)

I remember staring at myself in that bathroom mirror as I felt ambushed by waves of emotions that seemed too hard for me to bear: grief, shock, disbelief, denial, fear, anger. I didn’t even really get to say goodbye. I mean, he definitely knew I was there those last few weeks, but we didn’t have any closure. I never got a chance to truly connect with him. Did he even ever love me? He never said it. I never really got to know the real him. He never asked about my sexuality or love life. Did he care? I never heard what he thought of my new found faith, had he come to believe in God before he died? He never did as far as I knew my entire life. Would I ever see him again in the afterlife? I had the illusion of rebuilding or forming a closer relationship with him after he miraculously improved the year prior. That chance was gone. What about the signals I thought God sent me? How could I have interpreted them all wrong? Why did God even send them? I felt God betrayed me, let me down. Why would he heal him only to take him away a year later? I was heartbroken and over the course of the next week grew cold and withdrawn as my anger festered.

It took a couple of weeks of going through the logistics of getting him cremated and having a memorial service set up for him in Mexico. That was an insane time too because I had to go through a bunch of steps(funeral home arrangements, getting death certificate, transferring ashes to Mexico, etc) and couldn’t truly grieve until it was all done. (If you’ve had a loved one pass, you can surely empathize) It was interesting meeting people from his past that I never knew of at the one service/mass we held. Everyone said I looked just like him in his youth. It seemed like he was well liked and respected, but at the same time, I felt so foreign to this person they spoke of. Remember, I was born when he was 48. So he had a whole life before I came about that I knew very little of. Another reason for the disconnect that I felt with him for so long. Once all that craziness died down; I found myself at the family home in Mexico with my mom, spending a lot of time alone downstairs in what used to be my room, while she remained upstairs. We didn’t talk much. Distant relatives and friends would call to give their condolences and I grudgingly took their call when my mother insisted, but my motivation to speak to other living life forms was nil. I had shut down and realized I was angry with God. (Although one highlight was an amusing visit from my best friend Valerie, where we recorded ourselves with a webcam: experimenting with different, silly animated objects, filters and music around us for hours. Basically, we were Snapchatting way before its existence; although that video never made it out to the cyber world. Yet…)

My dad was somewhat of a paper hoarder, he had the strange habit of sometimes carrying around a plastic bag filled with papers (he would stuff it with mail, bills, his keys, and other randomness). I guess as he got older he found that more convenient than using a portfolio. Needless to say, he had a large dresser and desk seemingly full of documents and junk. My mom had laid everything out on his bed after he passed; she started rummaging through the pile daily in order to dwindle it. One day, while I was in the living room in my usual routine of sitting and staring blankly out the window, she came in and left a sheet of paper next to me. Her only words were “I found this amongst his things, read it if you want.” It was a chain message printed out from an email. Now I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t have his own email, or if he did, it was a work one where someone probably printed it out for him. Not to sound patronizing, but he really didn’t know how to use a computer, much less the internet. (I mean he was from the Silent generation!) So I began reading this random story that I’ll try summarizing to the best of my recollection.

Basically it was the tale of a mom who had a sick child; she would come into his room at night and kneel at his bed praying for God to heal him. Despite fervently doing this every night; as time went on, the child grew worse and eventually died. When he was gone, she would still return to his room in the evenings and kneel by his bedside and weep; wondering why God hadn’t acceded to her prayer request. The child saw this from heaven and asked his guardian angel,” Can I return to console my mom? I see her look for me every night in my bedroom.” “Unfortunately, you can’t do that,” the guardian angel replied. “However, you can write a letter to her and I’ll deliver it for you.”

The child excitedly wrote the letter for his mom. One night, she came into his room as she always did and found a letter on the child’s bed. It read “Mom, this is your son. I’m in heaven now; I watch over you every night and see you crying in my room. Please don’t be sad anymore. I’m so happy where I am now. I’m here with Jesus and get to play every day. He couldn’t bear to see me suffering any longer, so he brought me with him. I don’t feel pain anymore. You and I will be reunited one day again. In the meantime, I want you to be happy.”

That’s right, that’ll tug at your heart strings a bit if you’re still human. What stuck with me the most was that upon receiving the letter, that mom was finally able to let go and stop crying every time she visited her son’s room. In that moment, the various rounds of chemotherapy my dad went through for the past six years flashed through my head. (And I wasn’t even there by his side through some of those periods to fully comprehend his strife) The headaches, aching bones, the chest & abdominal pain, the loss of appetite, the constant nausea, the ordeal in Europe a year prior… he also grappled with spinal issues and other body ailments as he aged. Like I mentioned, if he survived, he would have had to go through a bone marrow transplant. He was 75, the quality of life for him would have been very poor if he had made it through. His spirit had fight left, but his body was tired. He had been through a lot. In my human selfishness (which is natural when losing a loved one, we’re selfish and want them to stay with us forever), I was angry and sad that he was gone; that he had lost the fight. But in that moment, I also realized God actually had mercy on him. This last relapse the cancer took him relatively quickly. Sure, it was devastating seeing him suffer like that and shrivel away into a shell of who he was – even though it seemed like forever, in actuality, his final tribulation lasted a little over a month. God allowed the suffering he had been going through for the past years, both physical and emotional, to finally end. It was time for me to let him go also; being angry was only hurting me. It took a seemingly random email message from my dad’s paper pile to help me understand that.

Like light bulbs in my head, something clicked within me. God wasn’t leading me on with those signs he sent me during the last hospital stay. He did save him, but not here in this earthly realm, physical sense which was what I was thinking all along — but in the eternal sense. His body wasn’t spared, but his soul was. My father’s soul had crossed over to be with God. Like I said, my father was never spiritual or a man of faith but I imagine prayers from various people over that last year, his cancer ordeal, and just overall facing his own mortality must have opened his heart to the possibility of a higher power or that there was life beyond death towards the end. He was seemingly delirious and rambled a lot in his final days, but I did hear him mentioning God in some of those moments. (Many people do at their death bed) I had peace and closure finally of knowing my dad was in a better place. (Trite as that phrase may be) Can I prove that? Of course not. Who can? However, based on the signs and even to this day something in my heart tells me I’ll see him again in the afterlife one day. I believe he accepted Christ in his heart before the end.

The sunlight’s beams gradually infiltrated through a window, warming my cold demeanor as my mind started grasping all these realizations. I put the paper down and in that corner of my living room; I finally broke down after suppressing emotion for more than two weeks since he had passed. In that moment, my Dalmatian Sofia peeked her head inside the living room. She wasn’t your normal, amicable dog; she usually kept to herself, was constantly grouchy in her old age and resembled more of a cat as far as her personality goes. She was the eldest & the queen diva amongst the four other household canines; we’d had her for 10 years up to that point. I bought her as a pup before moving away to college 3 years later. Point being, tenderness and patience were no longer qualities she possessed. Or so I thought. God truly works in mysterious ways — including through all of his creations. She unapologetically marched straight into the living room, walked towards me, got in my personal space, and stared up at me with her big, dark yet compassionate eyes. She rested her head on my leg as she stood there for a long while, barely moving except the occasional soft wag of her tail; accompanying me as I wept and processed my grief.

No doubt animals are some of God’s angels here on earth. I really do hope “All Dogs Go to Heaven.” (Cats, eh, who cares? What? The movie said all dogs, not all cats. Don’t blame me. Ok fine, some cats are cool)

A few years later my mom found a letter that my dad had written to me back in 1993, when I was barely 11. I was maybe in the 5^th grade. I guess it was for a father/son day type of deal related to school. It was composed in English also, which wasn’t his forte or first language, but he definitely nailed it.

(Click to enlarge)

Present day 2017, I can truly say God has taken away the resentment I held on to my dad and that feeling of an unsettled score remaining. This particular letter was crucial in that journey.

What I longed for 30 some years of my life to achieve, my father’s approval —in that I moment, I finally comprehended, was always there. He had loved me all along; he just never knew how to express it. He was just flawed in his own way, and as I got to interact more with some of his siblings after he passed, I understood why. They were all stoic, and had received the same type of minimal affection from their parents. Again the cycle repeats itself to the next generation. (I’ve said it before – I’m not exactly super warm in person all the time either.) I started remembering certain instances throughout my childhood and even adulthood where he’d greet me with his catch phrase “hey boy” or when he’d jokingly tell me “remind me to give you a whooping when I get home.” He’d always follow up later with “You didn’t remind me”. Or he’d often annoy me by abruptly pulling out a comb from his pocket and trying to fix my hair somewhere random in public. He always carried around a comb and handkerchief with him. (That was always a pet peeve of mine, don’t touch my hair. Especially without asking. I’ve lightened up now — don’t attempt it though. The possibility of an instinctive jab to the stomach that I have no control over still exists😉) During my teens, one of his diverse job roles was heading his best friend’s family security team. He would go out on Saturdays to a shooting range to train the bodyguards. I always heard he was usually the best shot amongst people half his age. I recall he invited me often to go with him. I never did. Alas, by that point, I had already shut him out. Looking back, he tried to connect with me, in his own way. We shared a love of cars when I was a child, but I grew distant from that interest as I aged and grew apart from him. He’d take me to his old school barber shop in Mexico where we’d hang for hours, as everyone shared life anecdotes with each other: the barbers and the recurring characters that visited the place such as the guy selling cigarettes, the shoe shine guy, the lotto ticket guy, the stylists from the woman’s salon next door, etc. Even though I didn’t have a hair follicle on my face, I would still get warmed shaving cream and a  straight razor shave from my favorite barber after my haircut.

As a child and teen I couldn’t see those things.  Alternatively, he didn’t know how to take an interest in what I liked or start up a conversation to ask. I can no longer lament a past that can’t be brought back. But trace by trace, my memories would point me back to little signs of affection that proved of course he loved me, despite never voicing it. In fact, one of the last, barely intelligible words he spoke to my mother and me before he passed was “just because I don’t say it, doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.” I definitely have parts of his personality, and of my mother’s, but ultimately I am my own person. In my journey, I’m trying my best to show the people in my life that I love them. I’m continually learning to say it, definitely not easy. I became an addict because I always internalized everything. Words are powerful; they can break us down, or lift us up. They’re obviously proven with actions. If I ever have children one day, I want them to know they are loved. Of course, I will have shortcomings and there will be voids in them I will never be able to completely fill. I’m going to mess them up a little as well and I’m sure they’ll have their resentments towards me also. But my hope is that my experience with my father will help me improve in that area, that I’ll be able to express love to them innately. There are both character assets and defects that we inherit from our parents, whether we want to or not. I always pray that God removes the defects and continues building my strengths. I don’t resent the parents I was given anymore. Love you Dad. I’ll see you again and look forward to spending time with you one day. But not too soon either, there’s much work to do here still.  Readers, hug your loved ones and tell them you love them today!  The amount of time we’re on this earth and part of the living years is but a blink of an eye in the grand scheme of our soul’s journey.

To close, here’s a photo compilation I created in my dad’s memory:

A bonus video for my Spanish speaking readers, my dad introduced me to this song. The lyrics speak of the important role of fatherhood when raising children, and to not lose sight of the things that really matter.

 

Check back in for the final chapter of Encountering the Divine, due out before the end of this year. (Fingers crossed)