A Chorus of Amens

How my family returned to the Eucharist and why I finally got a driver’s license after driving illegally for about 20 years.

I found this pizza-by-the-slice spot in Old Town…

They have your standard pepperoni and plain cheese slices, but they also make all these weird little one-off pizzas that seem like some folks just met in the back, gave a cursory glance at what was in the fridge, and then ran it by a guy named Dillon who partied a little too hard the night before. Once I saw one that had mac and cheese and hotdogs with chili dolloped across the top.

On one of our daddy-daughter Monday evenings, I took the girls there. We sat at the bar top by the big windows. Apparently, Haven wasn’t feeling well, so that’s why she didn’t eat much. Luckily, Mary had plenty to say otherwise. There weren’t too many lulls in the conversation to address.  

They each picked out a bottled soda, and I carried over the plank sized slices on the thinnest paper plates ever made. I showed them the little glass shakers with Parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes. They told me about anything and everything that came to their minds while I sat on the stool between them making sure neither slipped off. 

The pizza didn’t have to be good—it was about experiencing a little moment in time with these two girls. We just had this happy time together. I was with them with no agenda, contently listening to them, and pointing out the rain clouds making their way down the street to us.

Mary talked about how things were going with her classmate, Maya. Haven listed off ideas of what she wanted to do for her science project. I made a point to ask them for their ideas about something I was planning just so I could hear their thoughts. And we also made little comments here and there as we saw all the people and kids walking past us. 

As we finished our slices, down came the rain. 

The last time the three of us were caught in a downpour, we were unprepared. I parked down the street and around the corner from the restaurant because I thought we’d like to walk around after having a couple burgers together. That hope was abruptly dashed.

We had to book it across the main strip of College Ave and then cut through a couple alleys and side roads before we made it to the car. My first idea was to grab a couple little free newspapers that were under an awning. That idea seemed the most sensible when we first left and when the rain was just a drizzle. 

Moment before the literal storm

[Quick note: The only reason we left when we did was because a man came inside, having an episode of violent pacing and extremely disorganized, nonsensical outbursts. If it weren’t for him and all the potential consequences and questions that could’ve followed, we would have just waited out the storm while splitting a milkshake.]

Once we started walking, the skies opened up over us, soaking through our newspapers, turning them into illegible globs in our greatest moment of need. Lightening crackled overhead and the thunder sent my girls into a panic. When we turned the last corner, in a full sprint, I thought I had parked just right at that corner. Sadly no, we had one more block to go. That’s when the screaming started. 

I picked up one and threw her over my shoulder like a bag of rocks. I sent the other one ahead with the car keys so she could get in as soon as she made it. We ran like we were fleeing an air raid.

This time however, I parked just across the street and under a couple towering oak trees. I checked the weather before we left the house. The girls made sure to grab their little umbrellas as well as their rain boots. Leaving the restaurant, all we had to do was a little hop over the train tracks, a cute little drizzly walk across the street, and then right into the car. The ride home this time around involved fewer screams of desperation and terror. 

The pizza didn’t have to be good—I just wanted to have a moment where I could “keep them all to myself” and nothing else mattered except whatever they had to tell me.

“I don’t really care; I just want a general appearance of things being sorted out.”

At my worst, I flirt with the notion that I somehow can be the only person in the world to achieve a moment of perfection. Real perfection—not just a good feeling or a kind of ecstatic satisfaction. I like to think that I can bring together all of my life’s goals, strengths, relationships, resources, and whatever collection of entrails and organs I can find to a kind of sacrificial table whereby I can give all of it to the good work of experiencing a kind of perfection. I’ll sacrifice all of it so I get exactly what I want. 

I’ll sacrifice everything (except myself) so I and whoever would appreciate the same can live inside what I deem as perfect.

Some might use the phrase “On earth as it is in Heaven” with a sincere devotion toward a sacrificial life. For me however, I would make an amendment to the hopeful intercession, to include, “by the work and unmatched creative expressions of John Mark Guerra, the man we could never thank enough.”

Daryl and Pam: Looking for Home Insurance

This is a series of prank phone calls Lisa and I made. We called our friend Amanda as an absolutely insane couple who recently moved up from Texas after navigating some relational difficulty.

Enjoy…

Why I Like My First Name Again

Remembering who I am with the Cageless Birds

Right now, I’m back from just trying to find a quiet place outside the house where I could write and think through the week in North Carolina. The brewery near my house that Lisa and I like was too crowded, a couple other places were closed, and the rest were too loud. So, my drive around town ended with me swinging by the taco truck we like in Laporte.

My girls are singing along to Elsa having an awakening of identity with a water horse(?) and some old videos of her parents. Fine. I’ll put my headphones in after this song is done. I mean it’s not the worst song I’ve ever heard. Actually, let me sing this part first:

Show yourself 
Step into your power 
Throw yourself 
Into something new... 

Ok, where was I? Right, North Carolina.

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The first invitation out to A Place for The Heart was from Lisa. She received the same email I did from the Cageless Birds, but she believed this little email invitation was for me and from the Lord. She didn’t know anything further, or really ask Him or me otherwise. She just believed this invitation to spend a few days with a group of men seeking the Lord together was for me. So we set aside the money and believed the Lord for whatever He wanted to bring to me.

I’ll skip over the early morning connecting flights, the sketchy Lyft drive, room assignments, bunk bed navigations with grown men who hadn’t gone to camp in a decade or two or three. Instead I’ll jump right to our first group breakout with Ryan, our group leader, and the five other grown men standing in a dance studio not sure what would happen next.

Build My House With Stone

Just so I can show Your love for me a little bit longer…

There was one night I remember when he took me to the pool house and brought with him a tiny portable keyboard. He sat in the only chair I remember ever being in there. I can’t remember him saying anything to me beforehand, only that I stood in front of him as he played this keyboard and sang with his eyes closed. Nothing else, just him singing to me.

"My heart is hungry
My soul is pure
I want to worship
Like David did"

I can’t recall a single moment before or after my dad sang to me like that. I must’ve been twelve or thirteen, and I probably said something small and non profound, but I don’t remember him having a problem with how I responded to him and what he did. I wasn’t a part of the conversation prior to the invitation and I didn’t help him write the song. I didn’t ask why James or Jessica wasn’t there. In fact, James might have been there and I just forgot it. Knowing James, he probably has his own memory of that night if he was there, but we just haven’t shared it.

There was something about that moment and others like it that have become a kind of iconography for the man he was.

I’ve written about my dad before, countless times privately. I’ve probably shared this story of him taking me to the pool house and singing a song at least a dozen times. And yet, when pain and suffering arises or when loss and trauma find their way inside my house, I remember that moment. I need to remember that moment, because after what I have gone through as of late, I need every father I can find to come and quiet me and tell me they’re proud of me and that I’m a good dad.

I need my fathers to remind me that everything is going to be okay. The girls will be okay. Lisa will be okay. Even if I am in incredible and constant pain that will not relent despite my most sincerest efforts, everything will be okay.

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The Good Enough Gang Rides Again

Right now, we’re switching between “The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe” and “Encanto.” In total we have seen Bruno restored to his family about 37 times, and my patient wife has answered each and every one of my daughters’ 429,000 questions that would be answered by simply watching the movie. I have beans on the stove for tonight. We had leftovers last night I think. The night before we had Chinese food and the night before that we had pizza.

Last night there was oh so much screaming. This morning too. Oh so much screaming and inflexibility and harshness and unkind talk. The girls were having a hard time too. (ba dum tiss) The Guerra family caught something. The tests so far came back negative for COVID, but who knows any more. We’re actually waiting on one more test before seeing if we need to quarantine any longer than we have already.

I think I got what people are calling the “Flu-Rona” which is a double whammy of Omicron Covid and the flu. Lisa meanwhile has been mostly sat upon and seemingly undergone a weeklong interrogation of each and every moment of uncertainty experienced in both the village of Encantó and Narnia.

He Took Two Deep Breaths

The last time I sat with my Pawpaw, he told me how he makes pimento cheese. It’s a simple enough recipe, but as a kid all I thought was “you made this?!” It’s literally cheddar cheese, pimento or roasted red peppers, some spices like garlic powder and cayenne, and mayo. Just mix it together and let it sit awhile in the fridge, and voila, you have a very happy grandson. I think I ate all of what he made that weekend, without hesitation or any feelings of guilt for not sharing any of it.

Pawpaw is dialectical or colloquial term of address for a grandfather. It comes from native cultures and cajun folk, and used in Southern Louisiana. My Mexican grandfather on my dad’s side is Pawpaw Jesse and not abuelo. And only outside of Louisiana I first encountered these crazy people who chose what they would like their grandchildren to call them. It’s just insanity to me to think of asking a child call someone their Bella or their Scout. Who do these people think they are?

He showed me how to store extension cords, how to cut a bevel, and how to use a rubber band to work a stripped out screw head. He told me how he would leave out the eggs and cream cheese on the counter overnight so all the ingredients for his cheesecake would be at room temperature before he mixed them. He showed me a curved pipe with hooks screwed alongside it that would hold his garden hose up so he could clean out the gutters without having to climb up on the ladder. He let me play with his drill press and scrap wood in his backyard shed. He showed me how he would place the French bread on the dashboard on the way home from the store, and then he showed me the intersection on Jefferson that was the exact halfway point from Breaux Mart and their house on 7th Street. When we crossed that intersection, he would have me flip the bread so both sides would be evenly warmed by the sun by the time we got to their house.

He Holds Me Together, Not Me

He healed me. He healed all of me, and I want to be just like Him.

I’d Love to Smoke Right Now…

It’s perfectly quiet outside, the rain just stopped but the lightning is still rolling over, and I’m completely alone right now in our little backyard. This would even be a good moment for a drink too. But I don’t do that any more really.

I quit smoking right after Lisa found out she oh so wanted to marry me, so almost seven years ago. And yet, I still have the lingering feelings of missing that familiar simple pleasure of a light blue American Spirit lightly crackling between my fingers as I inhaled intentionally. I miss that bright orange glow that would spark on the ground as I flicked the tip of the filter. I don’t miss the stench of the smoke staining my clothes and my teeth and my fingers, but I do sometimes have the fleeting nostalgia of those slow and meditative feelings. I miss the moment the act once filled.

Back then, years and a different life ago, I would find myself absolutely sleepless and filled with every kind of asinine and tempestuous thoughts. Every running thought back then seemed to hold within it some kind of lofty and romantic idillic weight of inspiration and possible creativity. Even my prayers had more to do with my own feelings of insight and the power to drum up holy thoughts. There was no real interest in some kind of Divine Communion, or really any interest in anyone else for that matter. I would think that the flash of a thought would be the kernel that would maybe become a book. Relationships weren’t really a driver, it was about me, my own comfort in my state of moody, and self-indulgent melancholy. So the cigarette was the perfect foil for my own little destructive comforts, and tonight feels like a looking back to that old way…

I Don’t Miss Writing

I wrote this last night, a couple hours after the girls went to sleep and I couldn’t find anything worthwhile on TV.

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I don’t miss all that empty space I used to have that I filled with lazy work. But now that the space is so full of pre-bedtime ice cream runs, perfecting a manageable four person, no leftover spaghetti and meatball recipe, and a new influx dueling early-morning leaping wake up calls, I just don’t have the space to write like I used to.