A Chorus of Amens

How my family returned to the Eucharist and why I finally got a driver’s license after driving illegally for about 20 years.

I found this pizza-by-the-slice spot in Old Town…

They have your standard pepperoni and plain cheese slices, but they also make all these weird little one-off pizzas that seem like some folks just met in the back, gave a cursory glance at what was in the fridge, and then ran it by a guy named Dillon who partied a little too hard the night before. Once I saw one that had mac and cheese and hotdogs with chili dolloped across the top.

On one of our daddy-daughter Monday evenings, I took the girls there. We sat at the bar top by the big windows. Apparently, Haven wasn’t feeling well, so that’s why she didn’t eat much. Luckily, Mary had plenty to say otherwise. There weren’t too many lulls in the conversation to address.  

They each picked out a bottled soda, and I carried over the plank sized slices on the thinnest paper plates ever made. I showed them the little glass shakers with Parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes. They told me about anything and everything that came to their minds while I sat on the stool between them making sure neither slipped off. 

The pizza didn’t have to be good—it was about experiencing a little moment in time with these two girls. We just had this happy time together. I was with them with no agenda, contently listening to them, and pointing out the rain clouds making their way down the street to us.

Mary talked about how things were going with her classmate, Maya. Haven listed off ideas of what she wanted to do for her science project. I made a point to ask them for their ideas about something I was planning just so I could hear their thoughts. And we also made little comments here and there as we saw all the people and kids walking past us. 

As we finished our slices, down came the rain. 

The last time the three of us were caught in a downpour, we were unprepared. I parked down the street and around the corner from the restaurant because I thought we’d like to walk around after having a couple burgers together. That hope was abruptly dashed.

We had to book it across the main strip of College Ave and then cut through a couple alleys and side roads before we made it to the car. My first idea was to grab a couple little free newspapers that were under an awning. That idea seemed the most sensible when we first left and when the rain was just a drizzle. 

Moment before the literal storm

[Quick note: The only reason we left when we did was because a man came inside, having an episode of violent pacing and extremely disorganized, nonsensical outbursts. If it weren’t for him and all the potential consequences and questions that could’ve followed, we would have just waited out the storm while splitting a milkshake.]

Once we started walking, the skies opened up over us, soaking through our newspapers, turning them into illegible globs in our greatest moment of need. Lightening crackled overhead and the thunder sent my girls into a panic. When we turned the last corner, in a full sprint, I thought I had parked just right at that corner. Sadly no, we had one more block to go. That’s when the screaming started. 

I picked up one and threw her over my shoulder like a bag of rocks. I sent the other one ahead with the car keys so she could get in as soon as she made it. We ran like we were fleeing an air raid.

This time however, I parked just across the street and under a couple towering oak trees. I checked the weather before we left the house. The girls made sure to grab their little umbrellas as well as their rain boots. Leaving the restaurant, all we had to do was a little hop over the train tracks, a cute little drizzly walk across the street, and then right into the car. The ride home this time around involved fewer screams of desperation and terror. 

The pizza didn’t have to be good—I just wanted to have a moment where I could “keep them all to myself” and nothing else mattered except whatever they had to tell me.

“I don’t really care; I just want a general appearance of things being sorted out.”

At my worst, I flirt with the notion that I somehow can be the only person in the world to achieve a moment of perfection. Real perfection—not just a good feeling or a kind of ecstatic satisfaction. I like to think that I can bring together all of my life’s goals, strengths, relationships, resources, and whatever collection of entrails and organs I can find to a kind of sacrificial table whereby I can give all of it to the good work of experiencing a kind of perfection. I’ll sacrifice all of it so I get exactly what I want. 

I’ll sacrifice everything (except myself) so I and whoever would appreciate the same can live inside what I deem as perfect.

Some might use the phrase “On earth as it is in Heaven” with a sincere devotion toward a sacrificial life. For me however, I would make an amendment to the hopeful intercession, to include, “by the work and unmatched creative expressions of John Mark Guerra, the man we could never thank enough.”

Build My House With Stone

Just so I can show Your love for me a little bit longer…

There was one night I remember when he took me to the pool house and brought with him a tiny portable keyboard. He sat in the only chair I remember ever being in there. I can’t remember him saying anything to me beforehand, only that I stood in front of him as he played this keyboard and sang with his eyes closed. Nothing else, just him singing to me.

"My heart is hungry
My soul is pure
I want to worship
Like David did"

I can’t recall a single moment before or after my dad sang to me like that. I must’ve been twelve or thirteen, and I probably said something small and non profound, but I don’t remember him having a problem with how I responded to him and what he did. I wasn’t a part of the conversation prior to the invitation and I didn’t help him write the song. I didn’t ask why James or Jessica wasn’t there. In fact, James might have been there and I just forgot it. Knowing James, he probably has his own memory of that night if he was there, but we just haven’t shared it.

There was something about that moment and others like it that have become a kind of iconography for the man he was.

I’ve written about my dad before, countless times privately. I’ve probably shared this story of him taking me to the pool house and singing a song at least a dozen times. And yet, when pain and suffering arises or when loss and trauma find their way inside my house, I remember that moment. I need to remember that moment, because after what I have gone through as of late, I need every father I can find to come and quiet me and tell me they’re proud of me and that I’m a good dad.

I need my fathers to remind me that everything is going to be okay. The girls will be okay. Lisa will be okay. Even if I am in incredible and constant pain that will not relent despite my most sincerest efforts, everything will be okay.

---

The Good Enough Gang Rides Again

Right now, we’re switching between “The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe” and “Encanto.” In total we have seen Bruno restored to his family about 37 times, and my patient wife has answered each and every one of my daughters’ 429,000 questions that would be answered by simply watching the movie. I have beans on the stove for tonight. We had leftovers last night I think. The night before we had Chinese food and the night before that we had pizza.

Last night there was oh so much screaming. This morning too. Oh so much screaming and inflexibility and harshness and unkind talk. The girls were having a hard time too. (ba dum tiss) The Guerra family caught something. The tests so far came back negative for COVID, but who knows any more. We’re actually waiting on one more test before seeing if we need to quarantine any longer than we have already.

I think I got what people are calling the “Flu-Rona” which is a double whammy of Omicron Covid and the flu. Lisa meanwhile has been mostly sat upon and seemingly undergone a weeklong interrogation of each and every moment of uncertainty experienced in both the village of Encantó and Narnia.

He Took Two Deep Breaths

The last time I sat with my Pawpaw, he told me how he makes pimento cheese. It’s a simple enough recipe, but as a kid all I thought was “you made this?!” It’s literally cheddar cheese, pimento or roasted red peppers, some spices like garlic powder and cayenne, and mayo. Just mix it together and let it sit awhile in the fridge, and voila, you have a very happy grandson. I think I ate all of what he made that weekend, without hesitation or any feelings of guilt for not sharing any of it.

Pawpaw is dialectical or colloquial term of address for a grandfather. It comes from native cultures and cajun folk, and used in Southern Louisiana. My Mexican grandfather on my dad’s side is Pawpaw Jesse and not abuelo. And only outside of Louisiana I first encountered these crazy people who chose what they would like their grandchildren to call them. It’s just insanity to me to think of asking a child call someone their Bella or their Scout. Who do these people think they are?

He showed me how to store extension cords, how to cut a bevel, and how to use a rubber band to work a stripped out screw head. He told me how he would leave out the eggs and cream cheese on the counter overnight so all the ingredients for his cheesecake would be at room temperature before he mixed them. He showed me a curved pipe with hooks screwed alongside it that would hold his garden hose up so he could clean out the gutters without having to climb up on the ladder. He let me play with his drill press and scrap wood in his backyard shed. He showed me how he would place the French bread on the dashboard on the way home from the store, and then he showed me the intersection on Jefferson that was the exact halfway point from Breaux Mart and their house on 7th Street. When we crossed that intersection, he would have me flip the bread so both sides would be evenly warmed by the sun by the time we got to their house.

You are Like a Bag of Fireworks

Your face. Everything about you is in your face.

I never wonder what you are feeling or what you’re thinking. I can see it on your face like when the sun is in my eyes in the late afternoons. You scream with the best of them, but when you love, it’s with everything. You can’t hug tight enough, you squeeze my cheeks like old ladies pinch babies’ faces.

You announce yourself. You are the least subtle person there has ever been, and I’m smiling just thinking about it. If the sunrise creeps into the morning, you are the joy that comes with it.

You Fight for Love

I want to be the one who fights for you. I don’t know what that means, but it’s from the complete center of my heart. I want to be something other than a protector, because I know you can stand up for yourself. It’s more like I want to be the guy wearing a t shirt with your name on it. But more than a fan. Because I want to do all I can to see you become who I hope you can become.

I want to cheer you on when you’re brave, because you can be so brave. I want to tell the world about you when you’re kind, because you are insurmountably kind. 

Maybe he wants me to hear the music like he did

He laid down on my twin bed. The overhead light was on. I stood between my bed and my closet, holding an acoustic guitar my aunt gave my sister, but she never used it. I stood straight, not knowing how to be calm about it, but he asked me. He heard me practicing in my room, and he didn’t want to make a big deal about it. He just wanted to hear me.

The guitar was out of tune and I didn’t know how to play all the chords in the song. I remember everything sounding muffled and my face being red. But slowly I played a song for my dad and he said nothing while I played. He just laid there and watched me.

And Then He Met Me While I Looked For Him

When I was in middle school, I played football.

I was a lineman and second string. So this meant that most games I played for about a minute and then hung out with my friends on the sidelines while the other (read: better) kids played football.

One game night was different. We were playing against a playground team, and the big deal was that the other team had a girl player. I remember our coach talking to us about it on the bus ride over like it was a big deal. She was a lineman like me, and there were a couple plays where we were lined up against each other. That’s mostly it for her. She played football in middle school just like everyone else who played football in middle school.