The Year of Living Faithlessly

The death of a father, and the rebirth of a son.

So as not to give myself away, I will not tell you the specific day my father died. But the day I write this – which I will not give away either – marks a few months since his passing. There is much that I could write about my father and his death; indeed, I have written much, in one way or another, though never in a way you’d know to see. But now, as the hustle and bustle of estate business comes to a close, as I begin to allow myself to come back to myself and my life and my grief, I have found that certain things about me have changed. This is my effort to record a few of my observations.

Where before my general mood was pleasant and easygoing, I have become increasingly short-tempered. (My temper was never very long to begin with.) The mad dash to resolve the many matters my father left unfinished, none of which were simple, occupied me day and night for several months. Bills accumulated, some going past due and into collection; tasks sprang up in the fashion of the Hydra, two born for every one finished. Later this week, I will drive an hour into the next state to cancel my father’s mobile service. All of this to say that, now, as various things are checked off and my days reopen themselves to me, I find myself anxious, tense, waiting for something, I don’t know what, some stupid bullshit I don’t want to do, waiting for another task to fill the empty time ahead of me.

My writing has suffered accordingly. I regard the act of writing much like I regard the act of prayer: as a matter of going out in spirit (as David Milch put it), best performed regularly. Where I was disciplined before, I’ve become accustomed to deferring my own pleasures in favor of estate chores. Any attempt to write on the computer inevitably leads to me clicking away, scrolling, surfing. My attention span is shot – but thankfully, not beyond repair. For now I have found a way to begin again: by writing longhand. Yes, I am writing longhand right now, this very instant! Perhaps with the further intention of transcribing all of this later on. Taking a pen and notebook outside, onto my porch, where I can enjoy the morning sun and the chirping of birds and the incessant barking of the dog up the hill allows me to leave my phone inside, out of sight.

My relationship with my phone has changed drastically. It has become the physical manifestation of the fear and anger that has taken firm root in me. I have been wedded to it day and night for most of this year, afraid of missing an important call, first from the hospital, then from the crematorium, the attorney, the real estate agent, the utility company, the assessor, the bank… No shortage of calls, text, emails, chats with representatives who may or may not be AI…

And all of that has caused me to ruminate extensively on the nature of our world today. How much has changed in the name of efficiency, which is really the name of profit; in the name of security, which is really the name of bureaucracy. These are not new observations, but they remain valuable. In fact, they gain value with time, as we accelerate further and further towards further automation and the painful death of various sectors of our economy. But the seeds were planted long ago, with the Wall Street bailout, overseas call centers, maquiladoras, the housing bubble, the dot-com bubble, NAFTA, trickle-down economics, the automobile, the factory, the cotton gin. To quote a song I’ve been playing on repeat recently: “It was not so long ago that the world was mostly slow / The age of iron, steam, and speed turned a stroll to a stampede.”

A stampede leading where, exactly? Sometimes I think of the distant future – of the children I plan to have within the next few years – and envision something not until the future of 28 Years Later, where we will have, by necessity and following great turmoil, returned to the life we lived a few hundred years ago. A life where my children will be farmers and fishermen, where their days will be occupied mostly with the quest for subsistence. Not such a bad life, except that the fields will be sapped of their nutrients, and the rivers will be polluted. This vision, where I used to have so much hope, so much assurance. Where have I gone?

I may have difficulty writing, but I read now with greater fervor. Perhaps it’s just the more passive nature of reading – the fact that it asks me to do nothing more than listen and think. In particular, I’ve found myself gravitating toward the work of Wendell Berry, and firmly in the orbit of his school of thought. His philosophy is not one of regression, but one of rejuvenation: of community, self-reliance, and slowness. An ardent environmentalist, he yet proposes a world where we farm responsibly and return the soil to its natural, fertile state; where the pollution in our waterways passes for lack of replenishment; where everything passes, including us, our memories, and our pain. No wonder I’ve found so much comfort in his work.

Old ways, and old things, have begun to call to me. In fairness, however, they are likely not "old" so much as they are temporarily out of fashion. I may stand a few steps short of buying and managing a farm as Berry does, but I go without electronics when I can, and work more with pen and paper and my own two feet and my face looking straight into someone else’s. And this has had no small effect on my return to life and peace. The churning of my mind is beginning to settle. The thoughts that come into my head are more full, more dense, and require more thorough chewing-over before I can properly digest them. Who knows? That farm is starting to look pretty enticing.

Yet, in one very significant regard, I find myself falling short: in the practice of my faith. The faith itself is as strong as ever, but I think of it less, pray less, serve less. I used to volunteer regularly, and now I’m lucky to hold a door for someone on any given day. And – as I believe good works arise naturally, as a matter of practice and a changed spirit, from the gift of faith – I wonder if my harried thoughts may not indicate the loss of my connection to God. This I fear more than anything.

For some time, I was unable to attend church services. Every Sunday called me out of town for one reason or another. Much as I missed the services, I also missed their postscript: the regular journey my fiancée and I made to our local coffee shop, where we would discuss the sermon over a pot of tea. These conversations were significant not only for what we talked about, but for our talking at all. Never are we more face-to-face than when we discuss our faith. We may have connected over other things, but church is what allowed us to truly understand one another. One of the great pleasures of our time together has been watching her rediscover herself, and her faith, at the church I attend. Now I am the one who must rediscover myself. And this may be my final, most important step: returning to church, returning to our Heavenly father, and returning to the woman I love by remembering the man I hope to be.

My final thought, as I flip my notebook closed and look up to see the haze settle over my front yard: “Hot damn, that was some good stuff!” I'm coming back, baby.