This post is a slightly modified version of an essay I submit for my theology course; the name of my late priest has been censored for his privacy and for mine. If you recognize the man in the photograph or the church, and/or if you know who my parents are, and/or if you know where I am attending school, I’m imploring you NOT to make any contact that would identify myself or the content of this post.
Over the course of the terminal weeks of January and the start of February, my parents have sent me at least a dozen shipments of large boxes containing clothes, objects, memorabilia, photo books, actual books, trinkets and clippings. In one of these boxes was a tabletop font (a small, crude ceramic angel holding a baby Christ enveloped around a manger) and an envelope containing a taped together newspaper obituary, a photograph and a note written on an index card.
Last Sunday, I fully intended to post. I didn’t see myself falling off the wagon so early on in my posting regimen, especially since I was only posting on a weekly basis. I had topics scheduled out for at least ~3 months and hoped that between now and then enough inspiration would strike to keep the longevity of the blog rolling.
I also thought I had already experienced the shock and heartache of everything that Nov. 8 foretold. I had already set my sights on how ugly things were going to get and made adjustments thusly. My partner and I set up goals and credited our deadlines. We developed a ‘2 – 5 year plan’ to get out of trouble without landing in more trouble impulsively. We shifted our career and academic aspirations to be more productive and reactionary. We got married. We signed all manner of directives. We planned for the likelihood of trauma.