a sign from god. God?
Got to parents office. Now leaving again. Fence fell down. I put it back up. Annoying but good I guess. Something to do and feel helpful.
Cut wood and then go back home? I think come here and write more and edit podcast.
We will see.
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I’m back. Got the wood I needed to get. Excavator demolished Jenn’s house. Found a pink wrist band on the ground that says
”LOVING GOD IS KEEPING THE COMMANDMENTS JOHN 14 KJV”
I asked for a sign from God the other day, is this it?
Picked it up and now I’m wearing it. I DuckDuckGoed it and read the whole chapter. It’s about Jesus talking to his Apostles at the last supper. He tells them to believe in him and follow his teachings and he will always be with them.
Powerful stuff.
It felt like a sign. Life has been pretty tough the past couple years. Depression, job and income insecurity, a failed business, family tensions. I have been finding myself praying and talking to God like I used to do after communion at Church when I was young.
We would go to Catholic Church when I was young. Most Sunday’s until my brother and I got to be around 9 or 10. That’s when sports took over the weekends and our family prioritized that.
At church as a kid it can be boring. So my brother and I would fidget and play and bug each other to entertain ourselves. To reduce this, my Dad would tell us after we went up and either ate the Sacrament (the chip/bread) or got blessed by the priest and got back to our seats to kneel (usually there was a kneeling bar attached to the pew in front) and pray/talk to God.
I would usually say something like,
“Hey God, thank you for protecting my family and my brothers and my parents and me. Thank you for protecting my cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents. Please keep protecting me and them. Thank you. Amen.”
Or something along those lines.
On days when I was worried I would be specific and ask for protection or help for a person.
I would pray for homeless people a lot. My Zio (Uncle) Joe had schizophrenia and he would have a big beard and looked like a stereotypical homeless guy. I would pray for him. He was a wonderer. He would live in halfway houses or the street sometimes. I loved him very much. I think that’s why I prayed for homeless people. Was because of him.
He was very kind and funny. And he would always be at family events. He would roll his own cigarettes so my Dad would always buy him tobacco when we went to go see him. One day I went to see him with my Nonno (maybe others were there but this is how I’m remembering it) and we had breakfast or lunch at a Humpty’s or some greasy spoon type place at an outdoor mall. And afterwards we said goodbye and we got into our car and my Zio Joe walked to the edge of the building, sat down cross legged on the sidewalk, rolled a cigarette and had a smoke. He was wearing flip flops and it was a nice day but it was also winter in Canada.
While backing out of our parking spot my Nonno noticed a group of young men walking by and talking to my Zio. My Nonno stopped driving and watched them until they walked away. I asked him why he stopped and he said because sometimes people will mess with Zio Joe and steal his shoes.
And that’s always stuck with me. I’m crying writing about it.
Another time, with my Dad, we went to visit him in, I’m not sure if it was a hospital or a shelter, or what, an institution type place. We brought him tobacco and we all sat together. My dad told me about how Zio Joe was a great basketball player and played basketball with my Nonno in high school. And that he was a good pool player too. And I remember the wrinkles and the beard and the eyes and the look of my Zio Joe that day. Not a tired look, but a look of a lot of life lived, a weathered look.
More and more these days when I look at my Dad I see that look. The weathering. And it makes me remember and it makes me sad and it reminds me that all of this is temporary and beautiful and delicate. It reminds me that there is only one of these things called life.
And I don’t know what it means exactly or why I’m crying so heavily writing this; but it feels important and I’m glad I’m saying it.
I think it’s beautiful. Or at least that’s the word I’ve used for the feeling of the bitter-sweetness of life. For its ephemeralness. Those moments that you want to press pause and sit in forever, but you can’t.
I want to cry louder and more ugly but I’m in my parents office and it’s a shared office with some finance company and I don’t care too much but care a bit about freaking people out.
Anyways, God and life and friendships, family, focus. It’s a tough equation to get just right.
Life is a trip.
Enjoy your day.