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When we were young, I remember him getting on the floor to wrestle with us and play, but as he got older… he was generally given to his work. He always said he would much rather be home with us, but by the time I was 10, if I wanted any relationship time with my father, I had to go to work with him, and so I did—often. On the job, he seemed like a completely different person. He treated his laborers like they were disposable, using them until they broke. I caught him in many small lies when he was talking with customers. When I asked him about it, he said something like, “They asked for the stars, but when I gave them a price for the stars, they said they could only pay for the moon, so I’m giving them a moon-priced job. If they wanted higher quality, they should have paid for it.”

I had a hard time accepting that, but since I was at work to spend time with dad, I knew not to push back. I could tell he was the kind of person who stayed positive and fun as long as there wasn’t a critical voice around him. But if I confronted him about the gap between what he promised customers and what he delivered, I became the bad guy. So I stayed quiet. That choice still bothers me.

My father grew up outside of Christianity—agnostic, maybe, but definitely not Christian.

His parents found their way to the faith sometime before he turned 16. They started bringing their children to church, but it didn’t stick with all of them. Only one of his siblings besides him chose to follow Christ; the other two rejected it entirely. My father left home shortly after high school, wanting to become a “beach preacher” and bring salvation to the hippies on Florida beaches. I’m sure his heart was in the right place. He said he loved God, and maybe the fairest thing to say is that he tried. I never saw him smoke or drink, never saw him stay out all night or get physical with anyone—except once, with a laborer who was trying to steal from him.

My grandfather on my father’s side worked at a nearby factory his whole life, walking to and from work every day. Along his route lived a young woman who would become my grandmother. She knew his schedule and would position herself so he’d see her, dressed up and waiting—like a spider and a fly. He was drawn to her. They married when she was 15, though he was much older. When my grandfather came face to face with God at church, he embraced it completely. The drinking and smoking stopped. In their place came prayer, Bible reading, and a willingness to help his church and neighbors with anything they needed. He was a good father and husband. He died of Hepatitis C in his early seventies, and everyone who knew him felt the loss deeply. He’s one example in my life that regardless of where you come from or what you’ve done, God can transform anything.

My grandmother on my father’s side was… a lot. She claimed the Christian name, but only God knows if it took hold, because when I visited—and visiting was difficult, being on the other side of the country—she stayed in her room watching TV all day while my grandfather sat in the living room reading the Bible. She complained about almost everything. There were moments when someone else’s joy would break through her constant sneer at the world, but those moments were rare. When she died, nearly everyone who knew her said they were relieved. About a year before the end, her other children said they couldn’t do it anymore. She was going to become a ward of the state, but my father decided he wanted her nearby. Without any other option, she agreed, though she complained the entire time. And then there was the move—I still laugh when I think about it. My father moved her across the country in the back of a U-Haul. She was strapped into her rocking chair, which was strapped down so it wouldn’t move either, surrounded by all her worldly possessions. She couldn’t stand living with my father either and eventually called 911. They diagnosed her with terminal agitation, medicated her heavily with pain relievers and antipsychotics, and her body just couldn’t keep going. When she died, her children and her nurses were relieved. She had spent her life complaining and whining, and nothing could satisfy her. That said, I believe people can speak to God in ways that don’t require words. Maybe she found repentance on her deathbed. Only God knows.

My father told me he didn’t see an African American family until after he moved across the country. My grandfather on that side wasn’t involved, but my father’s great-uncle was a high-ranking member of the Ku Klux Klan who kept his territory “clean”—meaning African Americans weren’t welcome. The only story I remember from that part of my dad’s upbringing was about one family that hadn’t been in their new home more than a week before a cross was burned in their yard at night. The next day, moving trucks came and they left. Working with my father, I saw that he wasn’t overtly racist on purpose, but the way he was raised left traces he struggled to shake. As an older teenager, I sometimes wondered how he’d react if I married someone of another race.

There’s another story from my father’s background. My grandparents knew these people were into voodoo and the occult, but they’d leave my dad and his siblings with them anyway so they could have a night out. My father remembers them showing off—making tables levitate or become unstable, then watching the table walk across the room. Other times they’d go to a nearby park and sit on a bench. My father’s uncle would point to someone walking by and ask, “Which one?” After my father picked someone, his uncle would work his voodoo doll, and the person my father had chosen would trip in exactly the same way.

Knowing only this background, I’d say that anyone who came from such people would need God to save them. To put it plainly, I came from less than ideal circumstances.