There is a story in the gospels where a man had a child that was possessed by a malignant spirit. Jesus's disciples couldn't do anything, and the man pleaded "Lord, if you can, heal my son!" Jesus looked at him, and said ""If you can?' Anything is possible for him who believes." He replied "Lord, I believe, help my unbelief!" Generally speaking this is where I am. There is a part of me that holds to the core teaching I had when I was a child, but overall there is nothing there. If you want to put a label on it, I would say that I am a skeptic and a soft agnostic. Soft agnosticism meaning that I don't know for sure, but I lean towards the possibility of there being a God.
What has kept me from flat out rejecting Jesus is my dad. I don't mean this in some kind obligatory duty, nor some instilled fear of hell, but the example set by my father. All that makes me likeable, respectable, honorable, and disciplined came from my father's sense of living out his faith as best as he understood it. With all his shortcomings, inconsistencies, and vulgar displays of temper my father remains an example to me of what it means to be a Christian, and a man. He is disciplined. He is determined. He is undeterred, and undaunted. He is a tough guy.
There is a myriad of examples and stories that I can tell to illustrate what I have posed, but I will only use the three that have stuck out to me. While there are those who will flat out disagree with his beliefs those same people cannot disagree that he is one of the most honest and honorable man they have ever met. They will also respect his depth of conviction, and what it means to do what you have to do even if external forces are disagreeable.

To begin, my father has had a bad back since he was fourteen. That came from the steel toed boot his father used to kick him out of bed because he would not wake up right away at 4 a.m. to tend to his duties on the farm. When Viet Nam started, he enlisted, but the damage done to his back was so severe that the army turned him away. He still worked on a farm by himself day in and day out until he was 25 so I don't know how boot camp would have been worse. After he married my mom, they moved closer to her family in Indianapolis, and he took up the trade of a mechanic. His back was an issue in the dealership garages on cold, wet, and clammy mornings; but he still went to work. There have been times that I have been woken out of bed to him roaring on those mornings. His back was hurting, and mom was putting on back brace for support while he cussed out her, God, and everything with two legs. After that he took his lunch box, gigantic thermos of coffee, and march off to work for twelve to fourteen hours. Granted, he was in pain when he got home, but he still did his under the table side jobs in his garage, and got up the next day to do the same.

Then there was the manner of discipline. While it resembled his father's, he tried to break the cycle. When I describe his physical dealings with us, I am told that he hasn't. If you look closely, you will notice a difference. He walked out with a bad back that was a limitation, and I walked away with a broken ring finger on my right hand that is forever bent because of his hands. It wasn't ideal, but you compare the two, and you can see by my bent finger that he did try. However, he didn't limit discipline to me or my brother to the physical. After the beatings, we had to read the book of Proverbs. Not a chapter. Not a verse. The whole book; all thirty one chapters. We had to do it in our rooms, and there was to be no music, or television. If there was any noise beyond the turning of those typical onion pages in the bible, we had to start over.
Once we were finished, we had to report to dad. Sitting in his easy chair watching an IU game, or a Notre Dame game(depending on the season), I thought he was being smug. That look came from what we told him what we learned by reading the book; while it looked smug, he was not being smug. What I mean by learned is that by reading that book we learned what we did wrong. In essence we got an explanation as to why we were disciplined. If we were in trouble Dad made sure that we knew why we were in trouble.
Once that was over, if there was anyway we could make right what we did wrong, we had to do it. It could be something as toilsome as yardwork, or something simple like going to the person, admitting the wrong you did, and apologizing for it. Owning it, then making it right. What he had taught us is that while there can be all the reason in the world why you're wrong, the fact remains that you are wrong, you need to make it right, and put in the effort to not do it again.
These steps in discipline taught my brother and I how to take a hit, and to be honest if our father couldn't drop being as strong as he is, then what does that say about your average built man? Yeah, you'll just piss us off. We were also taught to be men of integrity. To be honest with ourselves, and with others; and to be the best people we can be.

My father is also the kind of man that if you call him, or he calls himself out, he will step up and do a 180 degree turnabout. He will do it without excuses, or some flimsy way to justify himself that abdicates his responsibility, and nullifies his apology. Thirteen years ago somebody at church bought my dad a ticket to promise keepers(http://www.promisekeepers.org/about) in Indianapolis without him knowing. My dad went through the roof. He stomped around the house roaring "Who do those goddamned sonsofbitches think they are going behind my back?!" Lots of growling, and lots of yelling. My mom was making lunch, and she had enough. "Oh, Jesus, Delman, just go. They did it to be nice. Now show some gratitude, and go." He mumbled a growl of compliance, and went. When he came back there was a change in his demeanor.
While he was there, he listened to the speakers who were pastors from various churches across the country. They went down the list of what it means to be a man, a husband, a father, and a Christian. My took it in, and did an internal checklist. He realized within himself that he came up short. In typical church fashion, the leaders had an altar call for men who wanted to convert, or dedicate themselves to being a man of God. If anyone has been to things like this, then you will know that it is emotionally charged, and that charge wears off after a few weeks. Not my dad. He stood up, and vowed before God and 6,000 men that he was going to change his ways and be better. Thirteen years later, he's still doing it. 
A few years after this, he and I reconciled, and made things right between us. That was ten years ago. Now that he has cancer, the apologies have become incessant. My brother and I have been ok with him since before the cancer hit, and now we tell him that everything that needed to be said has been said so there was no need of more apologies.
Last year, he came out and admitted that he had been sexually abused, and the doctors found a genetic link to being bipolar. This gave us an explanation as to why we grew up the way we did. Well the bad stuff anyway, because there was more good than bad. Not once did he ever use those two things as an excuse for what happened. They happened. They were wrong. He admitted they were wrong, and he made 180. Enough said. The past is the past.

This is the example I had through out my life. For those who see me as a tough guy, or looking out for other people, or I do wrong to you and own it this is why. All that I have learned to be a man came from my father's example.  The standard I have of Christianity, I have from my father. When I say that I find christians laxadasical, undisciplined, and using grace as an excuse to be horrible to another, my father is a standard of comparison. He is why, I don't reject the faith outright. To reject the faith is to reject the things that I have been taught. It is rejecting what makes me, me. It is rejecting the good things that my friends appreciate in me. In essence it is rejecting all the things that make me human.

This is why I say I believe, but I do not believe.

I have a friend of mine who upset the leadership in his church, and he has to have a "talk" with them next sunday. This is not the first time something like this has happened, but, like me, it has been a number of years. He doesn't go around picking a fight with the establishment. He does his thing while they do their thing; however, when there becomes a conflict of interest there tends to be sparks. He posted a comment on his facebook status, and like somebody else, I wanted details. I also noted that this particular church's leadership needed to have their cages rattled because they are soft and complacent. Not just in matters of their religious tradition, but as people. He did not think it appropriate for the details to be shared online, but he did state this:

While I may learn things down the road, I will not live my life regretting what I have done. I am who I am from when I turned left, where maybe I should of turned right. As long as I learn a lesson from my actions, none can be all bad. Although, I may not learn the lessons others hoped I would. Some see this as arrogant and prideful, I see it as an open mind free of condemnation.

I find myself in  a similar way of thinking. Sadly, there has been little application on my part. In a sense this has given me the nudge to do so. A life free of self loathing, and self condemnation, and loathing and condemnation from others.

dare to dream.

Ian, Carrie, and myself went to subway last night. My mom called, and wanted to talk to me about what happened to pop on sunday. She asked "Do you know what causes an increase in appetite, hallucination, and paranoia?" I snorted. "Holy christ, mom! Dad's smoking pot now?! What a fuckin' stoner."  A couple weeks ago the doctors gave him some medication to increase his appetite so that he eat more that five small bites a day. I know that marijuana is used for cancer patients to create an appetite, and mentally feel better; it was never stated until pop had his episode, and mom looked at the bottle. She told me that Tom laughed, and she said to me "But, you can't tease him like you normally do, because he doesn't know." Oh my god! Why not?! This is pure gold!

Walking last night, Tom and I talked about it. Yeah, pop is getting weaker, make no mistake, but his reaction to finding out that he's ingested marijuana would be awesome. We had a boondock saints moment. "You know we got to fuck with him. right? Yeah." See here's the story. It's not that dad would be mortifed on some moral level, but he has always hated hippies and anything associtated with hippies. When I was in high school, and had long hair, he would yell at me constantly.

So of course plans are set to buy him a bong, bell bottom jeans, and a tye dyed shirt, because this can't go unnoticed.

:-)

When we were kids, Tom and I would walk everywhere. When we went camping with our parents and godparents in starve hollow we would venture on to the trails, or the beach next to the lake. During the nice parts of the year like late spring, or mid-autumn, Mom would take us to Mound State Park in Anderson. The trails there were awesome, but a bit boring so we would pick a direction, and walk an hour off the beaten path.  According to us, you can't have an adventure when you walk on trails. It was nothing for us to walk two or three hours at a time on those trails, going up and down hills, and pretending like we're the first explores in the Ohio Valley. When Lori, our cousin came along, she wimped out after twenty minutes; she even whimpered as she fell going up steep hills.   I was twelve, and Tom was nine. We just mocked her efforts and whining. When our mother got wind of this, she found us, and sternly told us "You need to be nicer to your cousin. She's not used to this hiking that you boys are. So lay off." The adventures, and walking tapered down as we got older, but now that Tom is going through a divorce we've been doing that on a weekly basis on the monon.
The first time, we parked at the 96th st location, and walked up to the current limit of 146th st, and back. Over all it's a ten mile walk that took us four hours to do(if you include the forty five minute stop to get onion rings and a beer), and since Tom hasn't really walked that much in a few years, he developed blisters on his feet. The next week, Carrie was off, and wanted to hang out with us. I suggested to to both of them that we park at the monon center on 111th st, and walk up to Bazbeaux's pizza in Carmel. It's a forty minute walk, and it's not a big deal to Tom or myself, but Carrie was not really liking it. She referred to it as the bataan death march history.sandiego.edu/GEN/st/~ehimchak/death_march.html. Granted, it was fun for us, and inspired a name for what we do every friday or saturday, or both.  When you cross 96th st on the monon, you're in Carmel, but when you get to 146th st, you're in Noblesville.
Ian has now joined us in the excursion, and while he finishes the walk(albeit forty feet behind us), we hassle him, mock him, and anything else that we thought humorous(farts are now referred to as "polish nightcaps"). It's all similar to what we used to do to our cousin. In all fairness to Ian, though, he does fire back so it's not as one sided, or mean spirited as it sounds.  However, during the conversation, Tom came to the conclusion that Ian needs to get laid, and that he was going to start a telethon in a fashion similar to Jerry Lewis to raise the funds. He was cautioned not to make it anything more than it is, and Tom did tell him, "Ian, charge card romances don't last." There are other things that happened. Funny things, and even heart warming things, but they will not be mentioned. What happens on the Noblesville Death March stays on the Noblesville Death March.

:-)

My supervisor was gone most of the week. Last weekend her grandfather died of prostatic/colon cancer. She came back today, and I went up to talk to her about what happened; and also to offer condolences. I'm not much in the way of encouragement, but I can somewhat relate. We talked about ten minutes, and she mentioned that when he went that he had a smile on his face. I commented "Yeah, he probably thought 'ah, it's over.''" She smiled, and agreed.

it was a good conversation.

It's also good that I can say something to somebody about this without explanation. I'm given quite a lot of leniency, and grace at work. However, I am careful that I don't abuse it. That's there for the really bad days, and on those days I just stay home while I make plans to go see a priest.

On that note, I am thankful for this job, and for the understanding from my employers, friends, and family.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

I have an expressive personality. Whether hurt, sad, happy, or upset, I vocalize what is on my mind. Moreso than usual that is; especially when I am stressed. All my energy is focused on getting through a matter, and there nothing available to maintain any kind of patience. You do something stupid in front of me, or, God forbid, you do something stupid to me, I am going to divide your ass like the red sea and cram it with my size 16's. I am not a stoic, nor are my life issues nice and pretty. If that is you that is you, and place no judgment. However when that is expected of me, then we have a problem.

People who have called me friend in times past are nowhere to be found now that I am watching my pop get worse. It's taking it's toll on me. I am angry. I am frustrated. I am hurt. My dad is an old warrior. He's superman. Now he's just a pale facsimilie of what he used to be. The reality sinks in harder and faster when I am around him. He convulses violently. He halluciates. He is disoriented about the day because he sleeps so much. Every five steps, he needs to stop because he will pass out. He has fainting spells. I cannot find the right words to best describe what is going on inside of me, but it is spilling out into my relationships and at work. These last few weeks, I have been talking to a chaplain here at work, but everything is out of control still. It's affecting people around me, and most of them have taken their leave of me. It wasn't announced. It was done silently. Typical passive aggressive behaviour. Typical behaviour of cowards and people who are afraid of things getting a little to messy for their shallow standards of friendship.

Carrie has been experiencing that by default. Because when you ignore me, or don't invite me to events, you exclude her. If you're too much of a pussy to face me, I could care less. I chalk it up as you not worth my time. I have other friends who show that they care about me, and you can fuck off. However, you do that to Carrie, then we have a problem.  Well actually, you will have a problem because you will feel the business end of my sharp tongue and blunt fists, and I have no problems taking a rod to the backsides of such fools.

Furthermore, I have seen that there is a difference in treatment concerning me and others.  I had a friend who does nothing but creates wounds and problems for himself, and then blames it on his bad childhood, or biochemistry, or some other childish bullshit excuse he can think of to escape personal responsibility. Here is what happens: People surround him, placate him, and enable him. I am over my head with something I cannot control, and I am left to the wayside. I do not understand that, and quite frankly I don't want to.

There is another friend, who went through something similar that I am going through. In fact, her father died not to long ago. Her manner of dealing with this is keeping it to herself, and avoiding people. Like I said before, I have no judgment, because that's her.  People are there for her because her dealings are in a nice pretty package, and not a malestrom raining destruction and chaos. This is bullshit.  I get the excuse that nobody understands what I'm going through, or they have nothing to say. Which justifies their avoidance, but doesn't explain why they don't avoid her. If you're going to call me friend, then fucking act like it! Because if you can't be honest with me in saying that you don't give a whit, or uncomfortable, then I will beat it out of you. I am sick and fucking tired of these goddamned liars who don't want to sit with me in this, but go to sleep just the same thinking we're friends.

Fuck
Off

Sixteen years ago when I was in college, I met a friend's dad. He was a short man. Maybe 5"5 or 5"6, and he was bald. His baldness was in the pattern of a clown costume: Full, thick hair on the sides and the back, but absolutely no hair on the top. He kept it relatively short. The kind of short where you can manipulate the hair.with a brush or a comb.  The three of us decided one afternoon to walk to taco bell for some lunch. I was behind my friend's dad, and I saw him look into his reflection on the door and primp his hair. I was dumbfounded. I mentioned this to my friend and other friends who knew his dad, and they just laughed.
When I went home, I told my dad this. "What would you do if you started going bald?" He looked at me and said, "You know damn good and well what I'd do." I really didn't, and asked him what he would do. He said matter of factly "I'd shave it." Which makes sense to me. Because that's what I do. I have let my hair grow for three weeks or four weeks. I look at the back and top of my head in a mirror, and remember why I take a razor to it in the first place. Some guys are ok with baldness, and some even wear it well. I don't, I look like a clown so I maintain my dignity by shaving it.
Fast forward to his cancer, and chemotherapy. While I was hanging out with him after church most of his hair started falling out. He would run his fingers through, and pull out tufts of hair. The original plan was to wait after the cubs game, but he wanted it done right now. So I got everything ready. He sat down on a chain in the kitchen after he had taken off his shirt, and I put a towel on his back. I plugged in the clippers, and started to shear his head. After I brushed away the cut hair, I noticed the huge patches of skin. I asked him if he wanted me to take razor to his head, he said yes. 
I soaked a small towel with hot water, and wrapped his head. Since I wanted to wait for the skin on his head to soften, I swept up the hair off the floor. Dad was really bothered by this. He thinks that a real man should be able to grow hair, and not fit the look of someone diseased. He was even told by my godmother who has been an oncology nurse for thirty five years that when the chemo is over, his hair would grow back. Mom had her head against his reassuring him that he is stil a man.
Of course, it is hurting me too, but I just turn into a wise ass. When mom leaves the room, I look at him and say "Ah, quit your fuckin' whinin' ya big baby. At least your hair will grow back when the chemo is over." I had not shaved my head for a few days, and I stooped my head down and pointed. "You see that? That's not coming back...ever."  He cracked a smile, but he was still pretty upset about it. However, with his build now, he does wear it well, and has received compliments from the nurses.

In the last week, though, things have gone downhill rapidly. He has been halucinating, not really eating, and every five steps he takes he has to stop and hang on to somebody. He has been passing out quite frequently. Yesterday was no different. He was well enough to come up with my mom when she came to pick me up from work. I noticed that he had shaved his face, but that there were still whisps of hair coming out. I know he hates that so I asked him if he wanted me to shave his head when we got to my place. He agreed, and it took a few minutes between the car and my front door.
Carrie was home sick, and I had him sit in my recliner to rest and to visit. After fifteen minutes, I got him ready for his shave. It was unnerving, because the whole time shaking uncontrollably. At first, I thought he was crying. So I stopped for a minute to look at his face, but he had a zen like look to him while his body convulsed. While I continued shaving, I told my mom that pop was shaking. She replied that he's been doing that alot. Another unnerving thing. We both got through it, and they decided to go ahead and go home. I needed to take out the trash so I walked out with my dad to make sure that he didn't fall along the way.
We said our goodbyes, I threw away the garbage, and I went inside. I don't know if there are degrees of numbness whether in lightness or intensity, but mine was pretty high. I felt my body wanting to cry, but the energy wasn't there. I decided to drive to the monon, and run for half an hour. I sat on the bed changing. Albeit slowly. Then Carrie came in and just sat with me. She put her head on mine, and we just sat there. I don't know what to say. I do know that words, and tears don't change the fact the man you knew as superman is wasting away, nor do they heal him.

Things suck right now.
I am sad.
I am also numb.

And what is a man? He is someone who has risen when life has knocked him down. He is someone who raises his fist to heaven when a storm has ruined his crop - and then plants again. And again. A man remains unbroken by the savage twists of fate.
Than man may never win. But when he sees himself reflected, he can be proud of what he sees. For low he may be in the scheme of things: peasant, serf , or dispossessed. but he is unconquerable.
And what is death? An end to trouble. An end to strive and fear.

-Druss, Legend(pg. 98)-

The internal wreckage has been quite hard to conceal in the last few weeks. It has been spilling over into all aspects of my life.  I've noticed that I have been quite hostile with people who I don't know, but annoy me. There have been people that I didn't  know harass me. In both instances, I wanted to fight them. Not teach them a lesson, or anything silly like that, but to have them absorb all the anger, frustration, fear, and nihilism that is wracking my body. To give you an idea, I have been feeling constrictions in my aorta. Yesterday, I banged the wall with my forearm, and roared. I didn't realize how loud it was, until the cops came over while we were having house church. They thought it was a domestic disturbance, and doug told them what was going on with me. They were very understanding, but I told them of my embarrassment, and that they were right to be out here.  I've been paying attention to myself, and there are many red flags coming up. I am seeing to this, because I don't want it to blow up.
My friends, family, and coworkers have been great in showing me patience and leniency. It bothered me at first, because I thought they were giving me a license. I don't sit there, and say "Sorry, I was a jerk, but I'm dealing with my dad dying." No, I simply say, "I'm sorry I was a jerk." Period. Because in my mind anyone can be a saint when the times are good, but it only counts when you can be a saint during the bad times. I understand now that these people are giving me grace and mercy, and not an excuse.
I also appreciate it when my friends let me know that they are praying for me, or doing charms, or whatever my various friends do in their various religious practices. I also appreciate it when they respect me enough to not ask me how my dad is doing. While I appreciate all this support, I do have one thing to say: Don't forget about Carrie. She needs just as much, if not more of the same support as I get. She's walking through this too, and while she may not know what to say sometimes, or even identify with what's happening she feels it because I do. She even has to deal with her stubborn, prideful husband to be who thinks that he has to suck it up, move on, and cry later even though he would rather stop for five minutes. The constant packing winds everything tighter and tighter until a small and insignificant thing lands, and unleashes all the raging hell from within.

Carrie deals with a lot when it comes to this, because she is torn up like I am. So next time you see me, and she's with me: ask her how she's doing also. Let her know that you're praying for her, saying a charm for her, or even sending good wishes her way. She needs support and hugs too.

Don't forget about her.