I cried Monday. A lot. It was at my home parish decked out in Christmas celebration. Poinsettias and glittery Christmas trees and a standalone, gazebo-like structure with cream-colored silks for a cover, while underneath a nativity scene. I cried for the baby who would just wind up getting insulted and berated His whole adult life. He still does.
I cried for my mother who was buried 35 Christmas Eves ago, on Christmas Eve. Fuck sake, it doesn’t get any easier.
I cried for my boy who’s seen his fair share of licks just this past month or so.
I cried for no reason.
I cried for everything: self pity, gratitude, pain, joy, apology, want, a friend who I thought was upset with me popping over with his daughter unannounced to drop off some homemade jam and pickles the day before. Man, I cried.
There was a lot of snot I was trying to keep dammed up, too. There was a small window where I thought I could hold it back, but very small. It was no use. Screw it. I cried. And it took me everywhere I just briefly described.
I’m not special. I just believe I see His face a lot in every day living. What others call “karma,”‘I guess, which, isn’t that from the same art school that incorporates magnets and crystals and . . . “vibrations?” Shit, at least mine’s a real dude. Had the flaws and the acne and the BO and everything. Seems more plausible to me than “karma.” More relatable, at least.
Sure, then, I had snot coming out my nose at Christmas mass. I’m thinking a lot of people do this time of year, at mass or somewhere else. I guess where I may differ (apart from karma) is I don’t give a shit talking about it, either. This baby’s watched over me more times than anyone else has. Helped me get this job or that. Kept me free of vd, too. I don’t know how given all the times I–
It’s not sexy, though, faith. In some of my online profiles, like the ones based more or less on just non-committal sex, I avoid talking about my relationship with Him. It’s just not gonna get me many . . . “likes.”
Others, though, like the ones where I say I’m looking for my “person” or my “best friend,” shit yeah. I don’t care anymore. Not even in this town, where being an atheist is gonna definitely get you more . . . “likes.”
Here’s a quick, funny story: we got assholes out here lashing trees down to the rooves of their Subarus and cheering on Hamas at the same time. I can’t make this shit up if I tried.
But yeah, I’m just not Peter as much as I used to be. You know, that dope who kept his relationship with Him to himself when it counted the most, denying Him three times before the cock crowed three times. I get it, he was scared, but come on man, you got to lay witness to all of it, you lucky bastard. You had box seats.
I just volunteer it now. In my online profiles. Here, in front of all of you. But we’re a men’s magazine; aren’t we supposed to be all smart-like, secular and shit?
Check it out, though: it doesn’t hurt I’ve got some decent company. Big guns more like it. Mark Wahlberg, Mel Gibson (yeah yeah yeah, we’ll get to him in a separate post), Jim Cavaziel. They’re very open about their relationship with this baby in the manger. They’re manly. They’re sexy. Not to mention the athletes on gridirons and basketball courts and boxing rings who after winning give thanks first and foremost to this baby. Shit, they–we!–can’t all be wrong about Him, can we?
I wrung the snot out my nose and wiped it on my pants at some point. My eyes the same. Mass resumed. The good Mexican padre in his red and gold vestments delivered a thickly accented homily. I usually listen because he says severe stuff like, “Hate to break it to you, but Heaven isn’t where you reunite with all your homies and family, Heaven is better.” Or, “Atheists are generally good people, but they don’t really have a conscience.”
But I was distracted. Those torrential tears–yeah, sure, tears. But were they something else, too, that morning?
Were they Him?
Things Men Carry 