John made his point in Chapter Three, but what'd you give yours up for?

My father killed God for me a long time ago, probably by the age of five or six. He did it in multiple ways and through various exhibits of over-zealous Christ-cramming. The ones that were most influential in my life, aside from the final conflict of ideologies that led to this two-year rift, were the ones that happened when I was young and still receptive to the conventional doctrines of Higher Powers. I hadn't learned to question things yet, I hadn't put my faith in other places. Whiskey and women were still only things that sinners indulged in. Ah, to be young.

Naturally, in an effort to secure a spot in his precious Heaven, my father taught Sunday School. Well, he did for a few years, until they politely asked him to stay with the adults for the whole service. He was probably scaring the children. I didn't realize it at such a tender age, but he was scaring me too.

I loved art as a child. I was constantly drawing or painting or gluing some sculpture together. Many only children find ways to entertain themselves creatively; if they're lucky it carries over into adulthood. Not even my holy-rolling father could suppress my mind forever. He tried one time. I was using crayons to make a picture of Christ's unfortunately necessary crucifixion in Sunday School. The other kids could draw what they wanted, but my father wanted me to capture this particular moment in mythical time. He paced around the room and waited for everyone to finish their artwork.

My little hands moved quickly to try to please both him and God. Calvary was a huge mound and less of a mountain. And it wasn't as sad a scene as people made it out to be. In fact, the sun was shining and the grass was a bright green and colorful flowers blossomed everywhere. Hell, even Jesus and the two thieves next to him were smiling from their crosses; they must've seen the silver lining. I was proud of my masterpiece when I finally drew the last m-shaped bird.

Good ol' dad wasn't too pleased, however. He walked over to inspect my creation when he saw me drinking my apple juice and munching on my donut and figured I was done. "What is this?" he asked indignantly as if I were the Antichrist. "It's what you told me to draw, Dad," I replied innocently while chewing. "No, no. It's all wrong," he preached. "That was a terrible day in history. The sun wasn't out, the people weren't happy. Even the grass had died. Fix it." He reached down to my box of crayons and rolled the brown and gray ones my way. I knew what I had to do. I hated him for it.

The brown crayon covered up the grass and flowers if I pressed hard enough. The gray one took care of the sun and the blue sky, replaced them with clouds. I couldn't figure out a way to turn the smiles upside down so I blackened out the faces in a frustrated rage. I raised my hand to get the attention of that distant man once again. He rose from his seat and walked over to inspect my alterations.

"Good job, Michael. Much better."
"Thanks, Dad."
"But I can't see that the grass is dying."
"The brown is supposed to be dirt."
"I know. Can you draw a few clumps of grass here and there?"
"OK."
"It'll show that there once was life there, but it disappeared."
"OK."
"And why are the faces all black now?"
"We don't know what they looked like and I don't want to lie."
"Good boy. You've remembered the Eighth Commandment."
"Yeah."

He took my picture and walked back to his desk. I wished I could recover it and throw it away. Now, in my own way, I suppose I have. In twenty years I've learned that most of the ugliest things happen in the prettiest places. I'm convinced more than ever that my original drawing was more accurate.

God, if you do exist, don't blame the old man for my straying. None of us ever recognize the repercussions of trying too hard at the time. I'm not scared of Hell. I tan well.