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…
