What does it mean to be a patriot? Many people have Ideas of what it means. But I believe right now many people are confused. With the recent assassination attempt of former president Donald trump, it brought to light the very distinct beliefs of many people. Some people might think that he was just messed up or maybe his decision was induced by drugs or peer pressure. But I believe he knew what he was doing. Everyone has their own beliefs although some are wrong, they still believe them. Some with powerful zealous. I know captain America isn't the most influential person in the world, but he said something that resembles my thoughts exactly for this man Thomas crooks. In a conversation he was talking to maria hill when she called the twins nuts for letting a scientist experiment on them. Captain answered with “right who would let a German scientist experiment on them to help protect their country.” Maria hill replies with “were not at war captain” “they are” was his response. Did you catch that? He told her that their zealousness was the reason they did it. It was because of their love for their country that they would go to such lengths. Crooks shouldn't have done what he did but he did it because he thought it was for the best. He didn't think trump was the best thing for his country and when he deduce trump was going to win the election. He decided to take things into his own young and capable hands. He knew it would most likely mean his life would end but he was willing to sacrifice his life because of what he thought was right. I by no means am happy about the assassination attempt. But I do know everything happens for a reason. I know God has a plan for trump and for Thomas's family although they might not see it yet. Ok back to patriotism. So obviously trying to kill the former president isn't what patriotism is, I think we all can agree. So what is it then. I believe it is knowing what the founding fathers meant when they created the constitution. Why they made it and why they created this country in the first place. What are the answers to these questions? Well, they created the constitution to protect our freedoms to keep our country inline. to remind us of why they created this amazing country we are fortunate to live in. They wanted us to have the freedom they didn't have when under British rule. They wanted us to know our worth and to know how great of a people we could be if under God. They wanted to show the world how strong we can be when united as one nation. They knew how to work together, to communicate and to sacrifice all they had for the good of all people. There are people in this country who are accusing the founding fathers and other historic men/women, of genocide. However, we know that without sacrifice there is no reward. Yes, the American forefathers' hands were dripping in the blood of men who fought against there freedom. But they did it to protect the lives of millions of others. Evey country has blood stains that can't go away, no matter how hard you scrub. True patriots should know the history of your country. Why we believe in what we believe in and why others believe what they believe. Being a patriot doesn't only mean wearing a don't tread on me shirt or a I plead the 2nd although exhibiting freedom of speech is definitely needed at times. We need a filter, something that tells us what is acceptable and what is not. That is why we have laws and morals and the knowledge of right or wrong. Some men and women have abused this filter turning off crucial factors in it. I as a Christian have the holy spirit to filter my thoughts and feelings to give me control over my actions and irrational decisions. That is why the founding fathers called us “one nation under God.” They knew without him this nation wouldn't stand. That is why I believe our country is falling at a rash and horrifying speed. We got rid of our filter. Being a patriot is not about killing for what you think is right it is standing for freedom, not only for yourself but for your family and whole nation. Not backing down when they press you against the wall hoping you will lose your beliefs and faith in the creator of the world and people you are fighting for. That is what being a true patriot means. Stand strong, hold fast, and keep believing.

When it comes to enjoying a refreshing smoothie on the go, having the perfect bottle can make all the difference. Imagine sipping your favorite blend of fruits and greens from a personalized smoothie bottle, tailored to your taste and style. Not only does it add a personal touch to your beverage experience, but it also enhances the convenience and enjoyment of your smoothie routine. The perfect smoothie bottle combines functionality, portability, and personalization. Here's why personalized bottles for smoothies are a game-changer: Customized Design: Personalization allows you to create a smoothie bottle that reflects your unique personality and preferences. Whether you prefer bold colors, quirky patterns, or motivational quotes, you can customize the design to suit your taste. Adding your name or initials further enhances the personal touch, making the bottle truly yours. For More Gifts : https://www.thestylesalad.in

If Father's Day hits you anything like Mother's Day hits me, I would imagine your thoughts are casting images of your unmet dreams and countless regrets of the parent you tell yourself you ‘should have' been. It's so absolutely hard not to fall prey to the father of lies on days that cast through our defenses. For now, and until your last breath you can count on your family in Christ's PRAY to be 1000X's greater than Satan's prey of lies. I sit in church as I write this letter to you, my brothers in Christ, hearing …. ‘This is my story, this is my song…perfect submission…filled with His goodness, lost in His love' being sung by a multitude of people with their souls longing to receive the validation of being relevant on this Earth. Your life, brother, is unlike any book read. Why?-- Because your story book is enteral—it lives on forever. This may seem odd or overwhelming. I get that you may be thinking ‘Are you about to get weird?' but as Frankie Mazzapica says, “No, I'm about to get spiritual”. The world of heartache that consumes a father's heart right this very moment is merely the close AND start to a chapter of your story. Your story is your testimony and testimonies replace the chaotic spiraling those falling prey to lies with JOY by casting light on TRUTH that reveals hopes, dreams, blessings, and opens hardened hearts (Ezekiel 36:26-27). ‘Test' is in the word testimony. God's in this with you, brother. He's calling upon you because HE longs for YOU because on this day, your true Father wants nothing more than you to experience His love and for that experience to go past a feeling in your heart and into a transformation of your self-image/worldview. Satan has been attacking you on all fronts. He doesn't attack weak men. He doesn't attack men unless God created you to be a warrior, intended to conquer lies and capture hearts during your time THIS SIDE OF ETERNITY. Brother, your purpose, your gifts, and yes even your failures are crucial to life right here, right now! I implore you to open your heart to the possibilities God has waiting for you with or without the status of your occupation. The sword you weld is far more powerful than anything ‘the job' brings. So many men and women like you NEED YOU to speak into the lies Satan has been using to rip their lives apart. One thing I KNOW is that He is desperate for joining his son's (YOUR) life. Right now, today, and all the days thereafter. Isaiah 49:16 “I have tattooed your name on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me.” Grasping onto things like addiction, trauma, resentment is like living on the dirty side of a hurricane longing to reach the eye of the storm for a quick reprieve only to be spit right back out on the dirty side. It's a fleeting moment similar to striving to 'feel happy'. Recovery (wellness) is living on the edge of the clean side-- knowing with one slip of a choice you risk being pulled right around to the dirty side again. While I can't promise the journey to Recovery (wellness) will come with lasting feelings of happiness it will offer the opportunity to experience living in a state of Joy. This path is exhilarating and taunting all at once. It's an adventure far more rewarding than the false sense of security of reaching the eye of the storm or of watching life chaotically spiral outside our fingertips while. When I make the decision to put my pain to purpose it usually finds me staring at the crossroads of choosing between one good choice and one God choice. Life is hard, brother, and walking out those hard times is meant to be done WITH your circle of support. The center of your circle is you and the Father. I'm so thankful when our heavenly Father appears to us through the life of my brothers. Men have an especially hard job as husbands and fathers and this sister in Christ appreciates your efforts to help the world see The Father through you.

Year eleven is biding your time, playing Kelly Pool and stuck on the problem of the square root of minus one, which sounds more like poetry than maths. I get poetry but not maths pretending to be poetry. And not the teacher looking at me like it's funny that the boy who thinks he can do anything is defeated by something. Enough of this. It's time to catch the freezing midnight train to Coolabah. We make it to the station via a cigarette-smoked taxi. Here comes the rolling, banging contraption, nicknamed the Midnight Mole. I make my way to a dog box with a foot-warmer! So love these huge steel encased cylinders—full of acid and sand. I wrap my whole body around it to keep warm. A banging, shunting night of sleep passes. A station sign says Coolabah. It's just me with no brothers this time. Dad takes ages. It's hot. There he is: in his new Toyota smiling under that big hat. ‘Had some good rain,' he says, throwing my gear in the back with petrol drums. ‘Uh huh,' I say, looking around at red dust. We get into a cabin that's layered in red dust and smelling of gun oil. The ABC news is up loud and we're hammering our way along the red gravel road home. I doze off and wake just as Dad stops and gets out. ‘Look at this,' he says, examining some fresh green shoots. ‘Reckon we might have more rain on the way. ‘Reckon so,' I say. Another forty minutes and we're home: passing hundreds of acres of green paradise, kangaroos and sheep. A piece of livestock bliss that astonishes my sleepy sixteen year old eyes. As usual, while we've been at school, Dad—the magician—has conjured beautiful farm land out of thick masses of box and mulga scrub. Audacity is what this is. Mostly what I'm remembering is drought, dead sheep and misery. And then this grand plan: Dad bulldozing trees, windrows of dead timber and a green paradise. And field days with crowds of admiring block-battlers from all over. Dad parks the ute in the big shed. Days of stock work and fencing pass. Bruises and cuts accumulate. Clothes are torn. The lovely smell of red dust is in everything. A quiet day comes. I'm on a step in the shaded side of the house, facing the dam and the big pepper trees. This is a good think-time spot. The old black tom cat brushes past me. A thousand thoughts rush by. Just can't seem to get my head around it. Mum's gone. And look at this place! The filthy kitchen, the greasy dining room. The grime. Those old wheelchair marks against the door frames. This monster of a world seems to have a thing against us. Dad walks past and—in his friendly way—wants to know what's on my mind. I ignore him. He keeps walking. I'm sulking: rivetted on that red and green expanse and beyond that, the shadowy secrets of the box flats and the mulga: my painkillers. More days pass. We talk of plans for our other block, up north. ‘We've got some mustering to do at Bre,' Dad says, smiling. ‘Okay,' I say. The block at Bre is the one that's saving us. The ute is loaded with bikes and, of course, rifles. There's always plenty of pigs there. We make the hundred and sixty kay trip and set up camp. The stars come out. The fire is lit, the steak cooked. Such juicy steak! And we talk. Do we ever talk. The sulk fades. This big, fat beast called the world isn't so bad after all. If you have a go. Just jump in. Nothing lives long. Go hard as you can before it dies too. Even if you get killed in the process. Might as well. What else is there? Dad falls asleep. I'm by the fire, taking it all in. Especially the shadows and the way they play with the moon as she touches the skin of the trees, and those dead-pan, dead-still leaves. This my real home—here in the dark with the silver. Kookaburras announce a new day and away we go. Me on my bright green motorbike with a rifle and a pig that's going hard through deep grass. This is more like it. Bang! We've hit something. Up in the air, high over handle bars. The bike falling away. Crunch! Headfirst at a low angle. Face ploughing through dirt like a cow-catcher. Everything blanks out. I wake up. I'm alive! Tasting dirt and blood. Lying here for a bit under a hot blue sky, waiting. It's okay. Just need to find water, to wash the mouth out. Time for school. Back on the train. Feeling silly with this great scabbed face that's scrubbed the surface of the planet. What will they all think? And now, we jump decades into the present to a room and a chair by a fire: me, the old man growing old, together with his wife. Astonished at how Dad won my heart. And how he, the moon and Bre turned the shadows into a wonder. And even now, over there on the wall of this room: a photo full of shadows. A woman in a long dress (my son's wife) walking through a glade of trees like some great queen. And three children running and laughing: one of them—caught in mid-flight—her feet off the ground, like a faery floating on air.

When I was a kid, my father had to work hard to make ends meet. He loved to travel, and he looked for opportunities without spending a lot of money, usually by working while traveling for the job. Sometimes we traveled for months, unlike other people who had maybe 15 days per year of vacation. Dad and I were close; he often took me with him, especially to the sea. We loved the sea and fishing. Each time I went with Dad, it was an adventure because he taught me a lot about life, and respect, especially towards animals. He taught me to observe and appreciate how animals and people share the space and how we should live together. The summer of 1974, I was six years old, and Dad took the whole family to Colmuyao, a small town on the central coast of Chile. It is a humble and beautiful town, with very affectionate people, most of whom are farmers and fishermen. The streets are stone and earth, and the houses are adobe. Surrounded by trees and a beautiful river that flows into the ocean, the area is dreamlike. The weather there is usually cold and windy; however, I found it very pleasant. The beach is huge, with coarse gray sand that feels like a foot massage. Colmuyao was our paradise and whenever we could, we went there to spend some time. However, this first adventure in Colmuyao was burned into my memory, for a very special reason. When we arrived at the beach that day, we saw birds lying on the sand. My dad said, "Look! Those are penguins!" It can't be, I thought; they live in Antarctica. We approached very carefully, and there they were, calm and close to each other. As we got closer, they noticed our presence and began to alert each other. Imagine a hundred penguins rhythmically singing a song that is a cross between a trill and a squawk. Dad asked us to sit in the sand and move forward very slowly without making a sound. We were so close that we could almost touch them. They were beautiful birds; their black and white feathers were bright and delicate, and they seemed dressed for an exceptional occasion in their “tuxedos.” I didn't hold back my desire and I tried to touch one of them, which caused a colossal stampede of well-dressed birds rushing into the sea. It was a lot of fun to watch them run with their wings spread and taking small leaps. They are very brave, I thought; the sea was raging and very cold, yet they jumped in with energy and decisiveness. I impulsively wanted to go after them, but my dad stopped my madness. I was astonished. It was like being in the middle of a dream or with my own Jacques Cousteu filming a documentary. I would never have dreamed of being so close to such beautiful and rare birds. My eyes were filled with their deep colors. Every detail was amazing, and watching them walk with difficulty and then, watching them ride the waves and fly in the water at an impressive speed, grabbed my attention completely. I felt like I could stay there forever without ceasing to marvel. Every day, we revisited the penguin colony. My family and I learned to tiptoe among them, and we often sat very close to them. We never touched or hugged them; although we really wanted to, we didn't want to scare them and make them flee again. On another day, my dad and some of my brothers fished from the shore of the beach while my youngest brother and I played with the penguins. I can't remember exactly how it happened, but we found one with a wound on one of his wings. Dad took it carefully to the house where we were staying. The poor penguin was very scared. My dad cleaned his wound and bandaged his wing. For many days, the penguin was with us; my dad fed him fish while his wound healed. I spent a lot of time staying with him and many times my dad allowed me to feed him fish or other seafood. The first time that I fed him, he approached me very carefully, and with a quick big peck he snatched the fish out of my hand. That was amazing. After more attempts, he trusted me, and received the food with more confidence. Finally, after a few weeks, the penguin recovered his health, and my dad returned him to the colony. For a few days, we saw him walking among the other penguins, completely healthy. My dad had named him “Muñeco,” which means “doll,” in Spanish. I learned a lot about the penguins; actually, they've been one of my favorite birds since then. Seeing my father walk through the colony made me feel so proud of him and the time we spent that summer with Muñeco is one of my family's most treasured memories. Each time that I feel bad or wounded, for any reason, I close my eyes and take a trip in my mind to that beautiful beach. Surrounded by penguins, with my parents and brothers walking around that marvelous scenario under the cold summer sun, I always feel better. Colmuyao is my inner paradise, a place in my mind where I can run away when I need to find peace and gain balance again in my life.

Subjective and Objective Claims For many years, the only answer I have is that God, Eloi, or Elijah, does not exist as a constructive and logical and conceptual figure from the Holy Spirit for which Jesus was entitled to. He is not there. All was just an illusion in that "9th Hour" of pure hell. Otherwise, it would not be exactly the same thing you as a father, a brother, a mother, a friend, would do to one of your siblings. If there was a relative who needs you, just kind of blood, will be different what God's attitude has depended so deep in human's psychic? Whether the claims about what's wrong or right, or whether he's a cruel or a saint, doesn't make sense from a believer's viewpoint. Every one of us will act to rescue our loved one, even though we will die try. In the course of the differentiations of God's silence, the event is not anew. It's old but it is still having that disturbing primary essential question of comparable or parallel common sense to what I feel in this disturbed environment we live. This particular sentence, however, makes me to wonder since I began reading the Bible by my own pace — "Eloi, why have you forsaken me?" Everyone is trying to convince me that expression from Jesus he did not mean to say. It was just a vague sentence that have a truth-value sense of his earthly persona only, and not by the conquering power in it to alert his daddy these humans were about to kill, and any “practical outcome” should be in the way they were treating him. To let him die? With many things that Christianity world's fighting for? Knowing that below were still struggling for power? That the whole city of Jerusalem was in chaos? People were dying by strange faith? All the blackjacks for the kings and rulers under that justified clouds of injustice and gods seem to laugh during those such process of fructification? That's silly, isn't it? That's the truth. There was the condition. There is no objective claim that Jesus' death will bring a whole process of peace to the world. This silence however of God is a fallacy of his own rule. Eloi-Elijah's motivation is the most savage definition of abandonment, and only for Jesus who seems to depend completely to the conceptual and protection of God, knew the ultimate meaning with dealing with human's senseless productivity and his father God when he chose to make this world a little better, even though for others it appeared to be plausible by the diminished theory upon which we seem to be trapped inside that intersubjective claim of God's silence. I all know that Jesus was in pain. He was dying. That your brother and your sister were in pain, as well. And that your father and unclear as he was, he was in pain, too. And that your loved ones were in pain who are imbedded in their own destruction, and you do not have any sense of morality to safe them -- just as God has his responsibility toward Jesus. This connection cannot be devoid in its own sense of humanity. Jesus was in pain and that cry, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me" is a logical meaning that he was in a painful position of dying. I understand that his words said all what he was suffering, and that his words cannot mean to those humans who were watching either laughing or crying but any meant to God's attention. I cannot take them as nonreal because there was no definition to serve only the transition to bring God's attention and his pain to the earth because there would be no spiritual value. But that doesn't mean anything to God, who is masquerading a claim as the maker, the superior, which he appears to shadow Jesus with no mercy, through his silence?

Excitability God and Jesus, the meaning of filial love or the hatred souls between father and son. It is not always easy to see the entirely connection between the two unreasonable individuals. It's easy to get confused. Of what the massive argument has that both of them have just a suggestion by the intersubjectivity of their own philosophy. By saying that the heredity has been disabled them from the Scripture and the compassionate relationship has been written by furious thinkers. Some believers perceive that among these individuals there is a claim being unknown by their own definition of God and Jesus. As we can consider them as father and son cannot be made up and misused of their own claim with much justification we should. There is no difference if I am aware, you that the connective element on the linguistic sense links to that definition whose function can be related to the conceptual transition from son to father or father to son, or what foreseers have said and sped up like a production of chickens, bring a sense of distorting representation. In the death of Jesus, during nine hours in that position of torture, we heard him cried out in an aloud voice, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!" With these sentences it makes me say, “How crude God has been! At the same time, I objected that cruelty is the transition of our duality and the question that assume so painful toward a son's love, as well as the punishment if a son has disobeyed some kind of rules could not be broken. Since I was very small, however, it had strained me. I cannot help feeling that this was God's implication for humans' justification. An ordinary, illogical process to tell us that there is a clear message to us. Which one if there was one? It goes almost without saying that if there was one, just one — ascending from Jesus' pain, then regarding the human implications of Jesus calling for help is indeed inhumane. Yet, I am still unable to see the reason of God's unanswered motive. It's crushing me as if I am an old car over unpaved roads. A stream filled with pins and wastes. An unreal world that is based only by the great commission of uncertainty. I defend my decision as a biblical student as well as a sociologist, reacting as I believe it does not have any reason why God had forsaken Jesus. It could be for his own glory? For his personal gain? Was there a hidden attitude toward Jesus' sole reality? If it did not, why really was the reason?

From the day I was born till now, I've always known my father as a businessman. I mean how else could he raise 15 children, right? The first business my father ran, as far as I can remember was our bakeshop. But after the sudden price hike of flour and sugar, we had to close the shop and think of another business. Making hollow blocks was then my father's next business venture. And even though he only had very little knowledge about construction and engineering he still managed to run the business for a while; up until a lot of construction companies opened up. Not being able to compete with other competitors my father had to think of another business that can sustain and provide for us. Then came our piggery farm, and again my father had only a very little knowledge of raising pigs, but we were still able to manage to run the farm for a couple of years until we have to move out of the place where we lived in. Unfortunately, we move to a more urban side of town where it is harder to raise swine because of odor/smell control issues. So, my father had to think of another business again; v-hire express services, which is what we currently have now. You see, I grew up watching my dad ran a multiple of businesses. That's why most of my childhood memories are related to his businesses. I remember having fun watching the mixing of cement, sand, gravel, and water. I remember watching a sow giving birth. I remember one time, I, my older sister ate Liit, and younger sibling Arniel had to attend a sow gave birth at midnight. We all went crazy when we thought we heard the sound of a manananggal or something scary. I remember we used to climb at the top of the brick oven, we even used to hide inside then come out covered with coal. I remember making dough, which was a lot more exciting than playing with clay dough. I remember being scared of the huge rolling pin machine in our bakery, it had caused a couple of finger injuries. I've seen fingers being rolled in it. It was traumatic! Most importantly I remember how amazed I am to my father having been able to shift from one business to another. I always admire my father's work ethics and his dedication on something he is passionate about. He is always a risk taker, a leader, a dream chaser and above all my father is a businessman. Other people think that as a businessman, my father is a failure. As because none of his businesses lasted very long. For me though, he will always be a true successful businessman. He may not have a big and solid business to pass on to us and later on to his grandchildren; but he gave us more than that. He gave us the heart of a true businessman. Not only chasing for the profit but to actually do it with joy and contentment; not to give up when something goes wrong but to work harder and think better. My father have always wanted to see us, his children, make a corporation. I always dismiss the idea before, for me it sounds so ambitious. But seeing my siblings running their own businesses now, I can't help but think that my father has actually a very good vision for us. That it is actually attainable for us to work or rather to run a business as a corporation. As I am writing this down right now, I actually think he didn't only say it because he have confidence in us but actually in hopes that we may do it in the future. But, why? The same reason why he started to do business over and over again. He wants us to be able to stay and have time for each other, for our family. He wants us to be able to pursue our own interests, passions and goals in our own pace. The road maybe far for the corporation dream, or even if it may not happen; but the fact that I am able to see that we can actually get there makes my heart really happy. And that my friend is the story of my father as a businessman.

THE TEACHER There was once a small school, located right within the heart of a small yet endlessly flowery prairie. It was not something flamboyant, only a timid marriage of rocks and bricks, happily constructed and designed to serve as a cover for our heads, when it was raining or when the sun was attacking us with his love rays. That school only had one teacher, and its sole students was me and another girl. We were not always the best example of students, usually coming without having done our daily homework, or with albeit adequate preparation for our courses; though we always wanted to attend, because the teacher always had something new to present to us. He had his special way to make us feel right at home, his speech was magical, his manners were impeccable, his presence being monumental to our very souls. I can still remember the day he told us that we humans, are equal to the other beings of nature, and that we are the only ones who have the need to go to school, because we have to train ourselves to be polite and generous, whilst the other animals are being grateful from birth. At first, I was scratching my head when I tried to decode his message, but now that I am old enough, I know he was right. Another day, we were trying to do an exercise in mathematics. The girl right next to me, was excelling at it, and proudly answered with haste his questions, smiling cheerfully to his beaming visage. I was not doing so good, stuffed with stress and anxiety that I would probably fail. In the end, I also answered, but what surprised me was him announcing us that we both passed with flying colors. “But, we made very different choices and picked diametrically opposite answers mr. Alex” I told him. “How can this be possible?” The teacher left us speechless. “Every answer is a matter of perspective, my boy” said the teacher. “For example, your colleague wrote that 1+1 =2, which is correct, I ‘ll wager. I have to admit, though, that you, son, advocate that I+I = II, which is also right. Either you write that as 2, or as 11, I am only interested that you support your thoughts with zeal and reason. That is the meaning of life”, he pointed at us. Some other day in the calendar, he took us up to the hills that were overlooking the great blue lake of our village. His eye color was identical with that of the lake. The vista was mesmerizing, both in his eyes and in the scenery, and his teaching was so soothing in our hearts. He told us that we must love our family, and honor our mother, for she was the towering of our future, and would always be there for us. We took heed and as we walked back to our class, he stopped us and kneeled in front of us. “Take a flower from me, and put it each in your pockets, and when you go back to your mother, give it to her as a present, as I can't do that. Please remember that she is the garden with the roses, and you are the raindrops of water that this garden so desperately needs to flourish”. That afternoon, we returned home filled with joy, and sadness as well. Joy because we realized that the teacher was right, and we hugged our mother like octopuses that stick to a submerged anchor. She also seemed delighted to see us act like that. But, as our hands reached our pockets, we realized the roses were not actually there, at least in physical form. That is, because our teacher, was ethereal, invisible. What that means? In fact, he was not a teacher, but a captain. That was his real-life profession. But having sailed over all the corners of the earth, he always had great deeds to tell us. And, because our school needed a teacher, he gladly offered to be our teacher. Well, our school, that harmonious amalgamation of stones, bricks and a handful of concrete, in reality was our home. The girl next to me in class, my colleague, was my sister. And what about that captain, then? Who was he? That moustache wielding champion, was our father, who passed away years ago. However, his ethics and lessons were still following us, and his presence was right next to us, watching us over. His reign as a king to our hearts will still live on, and we will never forget him, as he captained our lives with wisdom and honor. A teacher, is a beacon of light and hope. We all need a teacher. We all need a father. Our father. And he was the best teacher of them all.

You are the tree in the yard just like the one when I was little You are the clocks ticking from the alarms we brought with us You are the cement on the sidewalk we carved our names into You are the photo in my memory box upstairs You are the dark due to non-belief in nightlights You are the monster under the bed that wont let me hang my leg from the side of it You are the figurine in my room you gave to me as a young child You are the blanket you won for me at the carnival You are the gifted shoes I never wear since it came from your very own self You are father of all things.. Except for the father of me. Most importantly you are the shadow that follows me I am scared of it and why it is apart of me But just like the past it's always behind me And never where I want to go I keep moving forward without a father but a father of all things It will always be there, and it will always be apart of me It will not be my future or present but nearly a dark part of myself that once existed before and shaped me into who I became Although you may be a father to all these things, you were never one to me.

(This article may be triggering: caution) Nothing hurts more than a lost parent who is still physically here. In my eyes either feared or loved. I hated you but loved the idea of you. You were abusive and a helpless narcisisst. I never understood as a child how much pain you really brought until the flashbacks kicked in. Suicide attempts leaked in my mind at the age of 6. As a kid, i wanted to believe the person you were when you built me forts was who you truly were. That's the part of you that you lost, it was barely there when i was a kid, and as i grew, it faded more and more. It faded until it drifted into an abyss. It's going further and further deeper into the abyss. Mom, me and my brothers left you, I am sorry, but I wish you were sorry you led us to that. I could'nt bring myself to contact you in any way for years. Finally one day I wrote you a letter saying if you would get help i would want to see you again. I said you could only make me happy if you were happy. I know you have a troubled past, though the pain hurt, I didn't want you to feel that hurt. You refused and justified your actions, blaming me or saying my mother intoxicated my brain. Where did you go? I need the real you back, throw a rope into the abyss and save yourself please.. before its too late. I love you and need you on earth to get better. I need you back. You refused. I tried to text you again. Same thing, wanting you to apoligize of at least get help. Refused.. again. I miss you. I miss the idea of a father. Not a father figure, a father, my father. You are lost, and you dont want to save yourself. Having a father with no empathy, sympathy, nothing.. but narcissism. Please, Dad, Come back to yourself and see me again. I need you, the real you back.

He was finally going to get to visit. This had been a long time coming, years in fact. Through a fortunate circumstance, here he was, almost two thousand miles from where he lived. Arriving late in the afternoon, the office was getting ready to close, though the grounds would stay open. The secretary found the information, pulled out a map and marked the spot. When he found the right area, he admired the scenery around him. To the West, the thick stand of trees blocked the view of the Missouri River. The North, East and South were grassy knolls dotted with headstones. He headed up the East hill. One, two, three, four rows up. Count six headstones over. Here was a man who had been proud, talented, and had a volatile temper, much like himself. Here was a man who had fought in a World War, practiced a valuable trade as an electrician, and had been cut down in the prime of his life. Here was his grandfather. He introduced himself, told a little about his life. The more he talked, the easier it became. He told his grandfather about the man's only child, the son who was also a father. He talked about siblings. As the evening gently rolled through the trees that blocked the river view, he talked and talked. There was so much to tell: stories that had been passed down, events where he had participated or at least been present. He stretched out on the grass. He told his grandfather how he regretted not having the chance to meet him in life. He told him how they'd been compared, how the similarities had been seen, both good and bad. Then he listened. He lay quietly as wave after wave of emotion washed over him. There was happiness at meeting one of his grandchildren. There was pride that swelled and almost shimmered with light at how well his boy had done. There was amazement at hearing about some of the places lived, trips taken, events in life. There was sadness, and a touch of bitterness, too: the regret at not having lived to be a part of it. Too soon, it was dark and time to go. He was only mildly surprised that he had to wipe his eyes. He thanked his grandfather, and told him that if there was any way possible, he'd visit again. Driving away, he felt both lighter and exhausted. He didn't wonder about what had been real, what had been imagined. What mattered was the connection, a connection he hoped would last.

Grief. We all experience it at some points in our life. The death of a beloved pet, the death of a loved one. It comes for us all, eventually. How do you explain that feeling, though? If you haven't lost someone yet, how do I explain that hole? How do I explain trying to fit that square peg of their memory into the round hole of the loss in my heart? Especially when that peg is spiked and tainted with negative memories of abuse and neglect. The person who is gone wasn't a saint, they weren't even a good person, but I still miss them! Amanda Palmer's song “The Thing About Things” put it so well. “If you aren't allowed to love someone living, you learn how to love someone dead.” No one stopped me from loving my father when he was alive except me, and it's a damn good thing I did, too. He was toxic. He was abusive. He was neglectful. He was manipulative. He was everything negative that you shouldn't have in your life. And now that he's gone, I'm trying to learn how to love his memory, the GOOD parts of his memory (because, despite all the negative, there WERE some good parts), and it's so damn hard. Every time I think about him, I think about how he hurt me and how he hurt others around me. Every time I think about his memory, I think about his mental illness that he refused to get help for. Every time I think about his presence in my life, I think about how adroitly he manipulated me every time he was in my life for any length of time. I can't extract the good from the bad. I can't just remember the man who was there for me when everyone else bailed. I can't just remember the man who taught me, as a toddler, about life and death by explaining that he couldn't resurrect the dead grasshopper on the asphalt. I can't just remember the times we would talk and laugh and share stories. I can't just remember the man who took me to San Francisco when I was a teenager, for my 13th birthday, because he knew I loved the city. I can't just remember those things, because those memories are constantly crowded out by the bad ones. I write Dead Letters to him on occasion. The irony of doing so now that he's actually dead is not lost on me. I tell him how he made me feel, how he screwed me up, how much I wished he would have been a better dad. I learned the routine back when I was a kid, from a counselor who gave me many tools to deal with an absentee father. So I write my letters and pour my heart out to a father who never would have read them anyway, even before he died three years ago. Now it just feels pointless, and I realized today that somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I was writing them to get my thoughts in order to confront him. I honestly thought, deep in the subconscious, that I would be able to talk to him about these things someday. I don't know what I expected to happen, but I thought it would be… cathartic. Some closure. Release. I hoped for it, since I was a little girl--the chance to confront him about what he did to my psyche with his behavior--and now I am faced with the stark reality that I will never get that chance. I don't like permanent doors closing on me--ever. I've never been good with that. I struggle with goodbyes, I struggle with permanence… let's just say I have “commitment issues”. Even when I was a kid, I was afraid to put stickers somewhere, for fear of finding somewhere better later. Now that anxiety plays out in various ways in my life, all because I'm terrified of something going wrong later. That “future fear” is something I've always been afraid of, and it has led me to catastrophize almost CONSTANTLY about the people in my life. When my father died, one of my biggest Future Fears came true. It was one that was in the back of my mind for decades--I even had nightmares about his death, some in which I even killed him myself--but this time it was really happening. Now here we are, three years on, and I still can't process the permanence of it. I still remember his phone number, and every once in a while I will reach for my phone to call him, to try to reach out one last time. I can't parse in my brain the fact that he is actually GONE. The reality of his death is so much different emotionally. I have lost people before, but never someone that I simultaneously loved and loathed. It has made grieving for him difficult. I swing between missing him and hating him, between wanting to talk to him for reassurance and wanting to confront him for the abuse. I am a strange dichotomy of grief. My grief is an ugly animal sometimes, eating me up inside. Other times it lies dormant, just a hole in my heart. Every once in a while, I smell his smoke in the elevators at my apartment building. When I go out for my last smoke, I try to time it where the light is just right, and it reminds me of him--of the good times with him--and I put on music in my earbuds that remind me of our good times.

He was the wisest man I have ever known. And the cruelest. He taught me to love art, music, poetry, to enjoy the free and open exchange of ideas, creativity, and the purity of thought for the sake of the purity of thought.The poet, the rebel, the non-conformist, I am all these because I am his son. Like him, I don't suffer fools kindly. He told a story when I was a child. He was in a meeting with the vice president of the company who asked him what he thought. My father picked up a napkin from the table, shredded it, and said, “This is what I think about your idea...” Then he told them all how it really needed to be done. A few weeks later, he was without a job. Again. The only difference between my father and me is that I have learned to hold my tongue. Usually. His cruelty scars every day of my life. Anorexia, at 7, alcoholism, at 16, the disdain I carry for myself - I can't look in the mirror - all stains he placed upon my life. His ill-health and his alcoholism forced me to work at 7. His cruelty cost me my childhood and my innocence. One day, my father had cornered my mother in the kitchen. I watched as he raised a hot pot of coffee high over her head. The pot was shaking. Coffee burning his arms. The more his arms burned, the angrier he became. I knew that if he hit my mother, I'd kill him. So at 13, I left home. At 16, he broke his hand on my face. I didn't cry. I just stood there calmly. I felt nothing, not even the pain of impact. He screamed in pain and told me what he'd do to me when he got his hands on me. I just turned and walked away. Just before he died, liver cancer caused by alcoholism, we took a walk to the church near where I grew up. “I have one regret,” he said. “That is?” I said, coldly. “We are not as close as I hoped.” “What are you talking about?” I said, lying. Whatever love I felt for him was beaten out of me long ago. Eight weeks later, we buried him. Life went on. I had every reason to fail. Abused children usually fail, at least it is what has happened to most of the ones I have met. When I teach, I can identify them quickly, especially the brightest. The story is always the same, and it leads to the same life-long suffering I have endured. When I was about 7, my father took me to the factory where he had worked before becoming an engineer. His father and brother still worked there. It was a terrible experience. The factory was dark, dank, loud, and smelled of urine, sweat, and machine oil. My grandfather and my uncle were filthy. My grandfather lifted me up on to his workbench and my uncle bought me a ginger ale. The pounding of the machines made it hard to hear anything. The floor of the factory and the workbench pulsed with every smash of the machines against the steel and aluminum they were machining. At one point, I watched as my uncle crawled under a machine as long as a football field to fix a part. “What will happen,” I asked, “if the machine falls on him?” “It will kill him,” my father said. As we left the factory, my father, who was 6'4,” looked down at me and asked, “What do you think?” “Horrible,” I said. “I don't ever want to work there.” My father spun me around, got down on his knees and took hold of me by the shoulders. “Fuck up your life,” he said, “and this is your future. There is no Plan B.” Honestly, I had no idea what Plan B was. I guess I didn't need to. The last thing I wanted to do was to spend my life in that factory. I can't say that experience turned my life around. I wasn't old enough to turn anything around. However, I never forgot it. I talk to my students about it. Whenever my life gets dark and I face failure, or, when I just get to the point where it is all too much for me, I remember looking at my father's face. The anger I saw in his eyes as well as the concern. I am because he was. The days are shorter now, The nights are longer and darker. If you knew me, chances are you'd say that I am loving, kind, patient, gentle, and caring. I am always surprised when someone says that. I don't know why I am or how I can be. Not after all the cruelty. Or, perhaps, I have found a way to love despite all I suffered. It doesn't matter. The past is past. “When the dead are left to bury the dead,” Koestler wrote, “the living are left alone.” I have been alone a very long time. Sometimes I wish he were still alive. Not because I need him in my life, I learned to live without him long before I turned 13, but because I want to know why someone who was so wise could be so cruel, and why I can't ever seem to leave the scars he cut across my life behind. As he lay dying, his stepmother, a miserable person, came to see him. There was an intercom in the bedroom so that if he needed my mother, she'd hear him call out. “Did you ever love me?” he asked his stepmother. “What do you mean?” she responded. He died without ever knowing the answer to the question that meant so much to him, and, sometimes I fear that I shall as well. I am because he was.