This is a candid post about what’s going on in my life right now.
It’s been interesting to me, since Father Luke moved to Portland, seeing how people react to him.
It’s not easy adjusting, introducing a man to your children, worrying about how they will receive him or how he will receive them. I was worried how the kids would deal with having him around. Originally, after he moved to Portland, we had decided we wouldn’t introduce them for a very long time. Months or a year. But eventually I couldn’t hold off introducing them. I knew they would hit it off, and they did. The kids know who their Dad is, and they love him. But they know they also have Father Luke, and that’s a different sort of love all together.
The children have never had a hard time calling him Father Luke. For the older ones it’s Father Luke. For the younger ones it’s more like Pah WOOK, or Fadder WOOK. Fadder WOOK come HERE!
It’s interesting introducing your boyfriend as Father Luke. Mostly, I just make the introduction and let him take it from there. There’s usually a remark… ‘So you’re a priest? What church are you with?’ Or people will ask me as an aside, ‘What should I call him?’ Usually I say, ‘Well, I call him Father Luke, but you can call him whatever you’d like. Or maybe you should ask him what he would like to be called.’
Then, as my mind is apt to do… it starts wandering. Why do people have such a hard time calling him Father Luke? Sometimes it’s even met with open hostility, there is a tone of accusation that comes along with the questions. But why should it be any different than calling someone by their name? Or a nickname? If someone has a preference for what they be called, is it really putting yourself out so much to just call that person what they would like to be called?
For those who want to know the whys, he is always very patient.
But anyways.
I call him Father Luke. There are a couple of nicknames I have… but those are usually saved for private.
Another issue I have faced, since separating from my husband, are those who assume that I left Chris for Father Luke, which I didn’t. My marriage was over a long time ago. Neither of us had been happy for years. But we have, on a couple of different occasions, been confronted by someone who wants me to understand this or this or this or my ex should or would or could feel this way because I left him for Father Luke, which apparently justifies all sorts of things. It’s a nifty excuse. But it just isn’t true.
I left Chris because our marriage was over.
Then there are those who assume that it can never work. Those who may have encountered Father Luke over the internet and cannot believe in any way shape or form that there is even a remote possibility that he could be good to me. But in reality, he treats me like a princess. He does dishes. He helps fold laundry. He takes the garbage out of the garbage can and takes the can to the curb. He fixes me chicken soup and banana muffins from scratch when I am sick. He not only tolerates, but loves my four screaming, whining, running, jumping, coughing, giggling, snotty, sweet little kids.
There is really something to be said for a man who not only tolerates, but really actively loves another man’s children.
That alone tells me that my Mom would have loved him.
And all the things he does for me every day are not even a consideration. He does them because it’s who he is. He does them without expecting anything in return. He does them because he is a good man.
And good men are very, very rare anymore.
Which isn’t to say we don’t have our share of struggles. But as the Bright Eyes song goes: ‘I’d rather be working for a paycheck then waiting to win the lottery…’
You stand
on hardwoods in front
of a dirty
four pane window
with no curtains, head
tilted sideways
and up,
the faintest
hint of a smirk tugs
your mouth, bowed
and full bottom lip.
Eyes empty, you are somewhere
deep inside,
behind the creases
in the corners,
holding your life
steady
for someone
yet to come.
It’s really weird
when someone is trying
to manipulate you
but you can see
them doing
it like watching
through a window.
Piece by piece
it starts coming back
to you,
a winter coat here,
a printer there,
an alarm clock
someone didn’t need.
Pretty soon,
you may even have
your own place
to stay.
Does it all come
back someday?
And if it does
will it be
completely different
or frighteningly
the same?
It’s the tip
of hatred brushing my back,
fingernails dirty
with the film
of barroom floors,
(open mics
where no one cares
what you’re reading
if you have nice tits)
and the frantic loneliness
of masturbation.
It’s the frustrated whoosh
of a scream on my neck,
(her breath,
Reeser’s potato salad,
fried chicken
and cigarettes)
unheard, or barely
audible. The howl
of the dead to the living,
rustling a curtain
stirring a tree branch.
Outside, the sky
alternates, blue,
to grey, rain
to sun. The weather
undulates, pushing clouds,
lighting leaves
on fire. It’s cold
then warm, then cold
again.
He wraps his arm
around me, pulls his
massive coat across my
shoulders, and we
walk along
the river
beneath
the Hawthorne Bridge.
Today is my mother’s birthday. Were she alive, she would be sixty-one years old. She died eleven years ago at age fifty. She is loved and missed every day. Happy birthday, Mom. Wherever you are now, I hope you are finally happy.
