My father went in for a “simple” heart surgery on a Monday. Nothing to worry about. The same heart surgery Bill Clinton once got, from the same surgeon who performed it. But on Tuesday, something went wrong and he was in the ICU. On Thursday, my brother said, “Come home before it’s too late.” On Friday, I was in New Jersey. On Saturday, I sat by his bed for 12 hours straight. On Sunday, I was in church with my mother, a devout Catholic.
I sat in the pew next to her and stared at the crucifix. This was not the church I grew up in. My parents moved three towns over when I went to college. So I was unfamiliar with these ceiling beams, and this statue of Jesus who looked a little less buff than then one I was used to. I stared at Him and started thinking. “Hi. Long time no talk. This is kind of embarassing. But you know why I’m here. My dad isn’t doing well. His surgery got fucked (sorry). I think he’s going to die. I need you to save him. Can you perform that miracle for me? Please? I’ll come back next week and the next week and the next one. I promise. Just save him? I heard you can do that still?”
A week passed and so did my dad. We went back to that church to honor him. It was raining, just like in Guns N’ Roses’ “November Rain” (sidenote: I now live near the church in Los Angeles where that video was filmed). I sat in the same pew, stared at the same crucifix. I was extra cross. I spat at Him in my head: “You. WTF? You did the one thing you weren’t supposed to do. And now you know what happens next. We’re breaking up. We are through… I know I am not supposed to test you, but if you don’t prove to me before the end of this mass that you exist, we are DONE. I mean it. Seriously.”
I looked around. And I saw nothing. Okay, fine. What did I expect?
But then I heard it. A voice. A familiar one. It was the deacon, reading about my dad’s passing. He sounded so familiar. Who was he? Finally I realized who — he sounded exactly like my high school musical director, Mr. M. The one who cast me as the lead every year, the one who wrote my letter of recommendation for college, the one who saw nothing wrong with a Taiwanese-American girl playing “Maria” in The Sound of Music. Quite possibly the reason I ended up becoming a professional actress.
Mr. M. This dude sounded just like Mr. M! I decided this was God’s way of telling me to watch the video recordings my dad made of me from high school, maybe they would reveal something. Maybe my father had said something meaningful about me from behind his camcorder.
Good sign, God. I mean, good enough. It’ll do.
I walked up to the deacon afterwards to thank him, trying to act cool and unemotional, so it wouldn’t be too awkward. As I approached this man, he took my face in his hands. Weird. He stared deep into my eyes. Weirder. And he said, “Lynn, I’m so sorry about your dad.” My mind tried to do the math. Familiar voice plus caring touch = THE DEACON IS MR. M.
What was Mr. M doing in my mom’s church? Did he do this on weekends? Did he still direct high school musicals? I recognized him now, through his white bushy moustache. He was so much older, and so was I.
I stared at my mom.“Mom! It’s Mr. M!” She just nodded and was like, “Yeah, he’s here every Sunday.” I turned to my cousin Hannah, who was also in my graduating class. “MR. M!!!!!!!” She casually shook his hand, as if to say, “Oh hey, you’re a deacon now, huh?”
Nobody seemed to understand what a huge deal this was. But God did. When I stumbled outside of the church, it was still pouring. There was such a deluge that the entire parking lot was filled with a few inches of water. I waded through it in my flip flops, marveling. “Hannah!” I shouted as we swam to her car, “Can you believe this?”
I still can’t.
