When he preached, there was a mighty thunderhead
to his voice. Sermons of Resurrection in the spring,
of Judgment in the summer, and from the time I was five,
I knew that our God was a jealous God. After his son died
while night training on V-22 Ospreys for the Marines,
he found the heroin Gabriel left buried in his room
under a box of letters from my sister. He grieved
for some months after that and I feared his voice
would never carry the thunderhead again. Gabriel died
in the month of April, and every year I resurrect him,
how he played the drums and drove a Chevelle. And I think
that maybe things are better than they would've been
if I had kept faith. Had I not broken things off with my
King of kings. But I knew. My love, it was never the agape kind.
Today marks the ninth year of marriage to my lovely wife, Vida. And in those nine years, we've gone from having nothing to traveling the world, to living in Santa Barbara, to being better with each other than without. Because of her, I've accomplished things that were only dreams. Only wishful thinking. Because of her, I'm still alive and thriving. Because of her, the world is worth saving and life is worth living and it's because of her that I am a better person. A more significant person. A more whole person.