It's a time of remembering this great man. He's a man who believed in individual liberty and resisted the temptation to group people, but saw us each as individuals. He encouraged others to do the same.

A nice excerpt from one of his sermons:

“Let’s go for a walk,” my dad said to me on a Saturday morning.

No words were spoken until the cold December air made its way into my bones.

“What’s going on, Fab?” my dad finally asked.

“Nothing.”

“It’s almost time for you to go to boot camp. Do you think you’re ready for the Marine Corps?”

“Yeah.”

We stopped in an empty parking lot next to a small office building.

“So what went on in Florida?”

“Nothing. I just hung out with Marcel.”

“What did you do to your hands?”

He looked at the big red spots on my hands that resembled rug burns or scabs, but without any scrape lines. One was on the back of my right thumb. The other was on the side of my right hand, next to the pinky. I had another circular burn on the underside of my right wrist. Yet another was on the back of my left hand, where the index finger meets the thumb.

“Dad, I already told you. I fell off a skateboard.”

A gust of cold wind made me tense. I looked at the bricks on the building and wondered, “Why are the lines between bricks black on some buildings?”

“How come you don’t have any scrapes on your palms? When people fall, they put their hands out.”

He was testing me. He was obviously looking for me to change my story or at least mess up on some detail. I was no dummy. I was an expert liar. I had been through this type of drill with teachers, disciplinarians, principals, and police. I would just keep to my story until he gave up.

“It happened fast and I fell sideways. I didn’t have time to react,” I retorted. I watched a squirrel scurry by the bushes at the edge of the parking lot.

“Then you should have scrapes on other parts of your arms, like your elbows,” my dad insisted. “I know you didn’t get these marks from falling, Fab. They look like burns, not scrapes.”

“Where do squirrels sleep during the winter?” I wondered silently.

“Fab, tell me what happened. I’m not going to get mad. I just want to know.”

He’s not going to give up.

“They’re from a lighter,” I finally revealed.

We started walking again – this time back towards the heated condo.

“What do you mean, ‘from a lighter’?”

“I held the flame under my skin.”

“When did you do this to yourself?” my dad asked.

“When I was in Florida with Marcel and Roberto.”

“Why?”

“I just felt like it. I showed Marcel and Roberto that I don’t feel pain.”

“Did they make you do it?”

“No!” I was offended. “I just felt like it!”

“Did they do it to themselves, too?”

“No.”

We walked up the stairs to his building. He opened the door and we walked downstairs to his condo. We stood on the wood floor in his living room.

“Why do you do these things to yourself?”

“It’s not a big deal, dad. It didn’t hurt.”

“Why did you do so many burns?”

“First, I showed Marcel and Roberto that I could hold my hand over the fire longer than they could keep the fire lit. They thought I was crazy. They were afraid to hold the fire too long, so I kept winning. Later, Roberto wanted to show his friend, so I looked for a spot on my arm that didn’t have a scar, then let him hold the lighter under it,” I proudly recalled.

I went to use the bathroom. When I was done, I walked into my bedroom and sat on the bed, reaching for my walkman. My dad walked in to continue the conversation.

“Fab, how do you feel?”

“Fine,” I stared at a little bump on the wall.

“Are you happy?”

“Sure.” I thought about the rubber cement in my night drawer.

“Do you feel forsaken by God?”

What did he just say? What does that mean? Why would I care about God? Satan’s cooler. God just screws up people’s lives.

I looked at my dad. “What does ‘forsaken’ mean?” I asked.

“You know. Shunned. Forgotten.”

Each word pounded into me. Forsaken. Shunned. Forgotten. My chest started to hurt. His words were ripping my heart out. How familiar this pain was. I buried the pain long ago. Why must he disturb the dead? The pain spread to my throat. I could hardly answer. I knew that I’d cry if I spoke. I was afraid to cry. My eyes watered. My lower lip began to curl. “Yes,” I answered. “I’ve felt like that my whole life!”

The words came out. The pain in my throat let itself out through my whimpering voice. There was no controlling my heart now. I looked at the bed as my body shook with the tears. I didn’t want my dad to see me like this. I was weak. My deepest secret that even I forgot was now revealed. I almost felt naked. Nobody has ever been able to cut straight to the root of who I am. My dad just did it. How did he see it? I knew God hated me, but I never told anyone.

My dad rushed to get his Eckankar dictionary. He opened up to the definition: dark night of the soul. He pointed it out to me. It said something about the necessary step in a soul’s journey where they feel forsaken by God before coming to God realization, the ultimate enlightenment according to Eckankar.

What the hell is God realization, anyway? God hates me.