I felt an anticipation of answers independent of my individual situation.įather Lucas provided context and meaning to the unknown, he dabbled in surrealism, spun out paradox and it seemed that he stood on the very edge of that dark room at the end of the maze. Imagine, if you will, the gravitas that Rod Serling brought to the introduction of each Twilight Zone episode, and you have Father Lucas’ introducing the lesson. Before that, the biggest drama in my young life was putting one foot in front of the other, and suddenly, I had a lot - lot, lot of questions that I absolutely, positively and under no circumstances what-so-ever wanted to discuss with anyone. My father had just died (we were in a car crash). Even at our age, we knew cigarettes were bad for you - but what did ‘Father Lucas’ have to fear from death? On him, the surrounding smoke seemed right and fitting, as if he were the human personification of the burning bush. Outside of those brief lessons he was always shrouded in a cloud of cigarette smoke. He looked very old, wise and wrinkled, like a skinny Santa Claus. That’s where I found ‘Father Lucas,’ last night, back from when I was eight or so, at (private catholic) school.Įach week, before we received that week's ‘catechism lesson,’ (religious education) from the nuns, we’d get to hear what Father Lucas had to say about the Kafkaesque mysteries of the universe. Love killed me with her first touch.Įvery once in a while, especially on holidays, I find myself wandering through my memory museum - rattling doors and fishing through those virtual hallways. Love loves me when she is the only thing I have to love. Deep down I know there’s cancer at my roots. Love recited my wrongs more than my name. I was the only thing love hated more than herself. She claimed to keep me safe but my fear of hell was nothing compared to my fear of her. Love dishonored me with every slice from her tongue. No pride of God could measure to that of the saint who loved me. She consumed me whole as the serpent does and spit me out when she was full. Love was never patient, nor was she kind. The word “yes” was burned on my tongue from the moment I could speak it, recited like a scripture, scorched into my subconscious by a “saint’s” shallow sermon. I know I was born to listen- born to obey. The serpent is starved for its prey and I let it swallow me whole. I looked for love in a golden page- learned quickly what it was to feel imprisoned by flesh-– learned quickly I’m meant to feel so tightly wound it’s as if barbed wire snakes my skin. You had to purge me of love to assure you were its only source. I remind myself it’s not because I wasn’t lovable, but because I was made to hate everyone who loved me and loathe everything I’ve ever loved.
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