Things Not Discussed (12.03.05)

Growing up we never talked about things as a family; we brushed it under the rug and hoped to never see again. Talking about things that had happened meant admitting that they happened. They couldn’t be ignored, yet ignoring them was just easier. Out of sight and out of mind, that became our motto. So when I began to talk about things—things became problematic. My mother often told me, “We don’t talk about this,” “We don’t talk about that,” and especially “We don’t talk about religion. We just don’t do that.”
Funny how I would grow up to talk about the things they never wanted me to talk about. After so many years of not talking about anything I broke our silence and began to tell my story. I talked about the this’s and the that’s and all the things my mother never liked me talking about, like: my dad, my depression; and my faith.
As much as mother would like that I don’t bring it up I can’t help it—I talk about dad. Dad didn’t live us. He lived across town. Mom kicked him out before I can remember and for a long time I was never sure why. He was a big man, red hair, red skin, and a distinct smell: gin and cigarettes. Dad was not a nice guy- he drank a lot and smoked like a chimney. He used to beat up on my brother and I, but he drew the line when I came to my sister- he never touched her. After years of being fearful of him, my brother and I stopped seeing him. It was November of the seventh grade. He had come over to Mom’s and I just knew it was my turn to get beat. I was sick of it and took off. That was last time I saw him—he died four years later.
It was best and worse day of my life. That day led to the two others things I am not to discuss: depression and faith. The depression was always there. I always seemed to feel sad and often never wanted to be around others. I wasn’t shy- I just didn’t care to be with others. Strange as it may be it was just how I was-how I am. I never knew it was depression until I was in college and I stopped being able to do the things I normal could do. For the next several years I struggled to make sense of my every changing moods and questioned what could be causing them. Was it my father? He wasn’t there, he never was. Was it my faith? It seemed as if all those good looking Christian kids never struggled with the shit I dealt with on a daily basis. Maybe I wasn’t good enough—was that it. Or maybe this made me more spiritual. I could enjoy the good times because truly I had seen the dark times. I seemed to be okay with not fully being able to make sense of it until the day God was silent.
God stopped speaking to me about year ago. I stopped hearing the Audible Voice the told me which way to turn. Okay, not really. I just stopped feeling His presence. My faith wasn’t gone—it just appeared that God was. However, these days I am a seminary student and in the minds of many spiritually closer to God then the average person. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am just a guy who is trying to make sense of those things not discussed so I can discuss them. Funny. When I entered into the family of God I never expected I would enter my own family. We don’t talk. We simply brush things under rug: our past, our heartaches and to be quite honest, our faiths.