If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I’m a Cradle Catholic (to use my mom’s terminology). All that means is that I was baptized and raised in the Catholic faith since I was born.

Me and my brothers, for that matter- although, the level of devotion varies wildly between us three. 

But like many children raised in one faith, I began to develop my own doubts about the church as early as 10 or 11 (believe me, that was a wild age for me! A lot going on). 

I remember one day, at mass, looking around and realizing how odd it was to chant the exact same thing as everyone else. There was something about that scene that made me feel a little off; something that seemed rather manipulative, to a certain extent. 

I never expressed these reservations to my parents- or anyone really - but I definitely felt a stronger pull away from the church starting that day. 

To make short of a long (and rather tangential) story, I veered away from the Catholic faith until I was about 16 or 17 years old. I was never outright rebellious or confrontational regarding Catholicism, but I chose to keep my distance so I could explore different options - as well as different parts of myself, to a certain degree. 

Things that ardent, “true believers” might’ve found blasphemous.

The point I’m trying to make is that my personal relationship with religion has never been so cut and dry- much to my mom’s chagrin. 

I stayed part of the faith for so long because it made my mother happy. She’s a Cradle Catholic, too, like her parents before her. Dad, meanwhile, was kind of a late-comer. He was raised Baptist along with his family, but never really took to any kind of religion until adulthood. In his case he was introduced to it through my mother, and then eventually converted when I was seven years old. 

Ultimately, I think it was more important to my parents that we, the kids, were raised to have some 

 faith in our lives. To be able to believe in something bigger and greater than ourselves.

So when I started pulling away from this big part of my life, they never pushed me back into it. I suspect as much as they wanted it to be a part of my life, they understood it’s not something you can force onto another person. Otherwise, why even call it “faith?”

I came back to the church during a previously stressful time in my life. The nitty-gritty of it is this: my older brother, Travis, was being a perfect little asshole… and raising all kinds of Cain because of it.

During that time, I was doing my best to keep things running at home, even though everyone was losing their absolute shit. To put it another way, I ended up serving as the “anchor” for my family. 

It took a long time, and it wasn’t always easy (in fact, we’re still dealing with ramifications from Trav’s past indiscretions, to this day). But we managed to our way back to stable ground as a family and as individuals. That was probably the first time in my life I’d ever tasted what it felt like to be powerless, I hated every minute of it. 

Then I sampled it in full Thanksgiving Day, November 24th, 2022.

But this time there was no anchor to grab onto. God had truly forsaken me this time. And I didn’t know why.

When dad was (finally) taken to ICU, I sat on the tile floor outside the wing praying my rosary more times than I can remember. At home, I knelt on my knees and 

 for a miracle - any kind of miracle. I can’t tell you how many times I cycled through denial in the hours in between, cleaning, washing, recording dad’s favorite movies on DVR- prepping for a long recovery.

For four days I wept and prayed. And for four days those prayers went unanswered. 

November 28th, 2022, was my first day without my father in my life. And my first day without God. 

My cousin once warned me, very early on, that the first year was going to be a complete a complete blur. “You never remember the first year,” she said. 

Consciously I know I did things during that time: I got up in the mornings, went to work; quit my old job, helped clean up the house; cooked meals and went on with mourning. Logically, I know all of that and more happened. But despite that, I genuinely don't remember much of that year. Only flashes still fragmented.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to remember that year or not, but the one thing I do know is that it felt like taking my first steps through the gates of hell. One that I didn't think was ever going to end - at least some days that's how it seemed. And no matter how bad things got, and how horrible I felt, I couldn't bring myself to pray anymore. I even took off the crucifix my father had gifted me, one had I had worn everyday since I turned 25.

I couldn't understand why my prayers had gone unheard. Why all of our prayers had been unanswered. Why, of all people, was my father denied a second chance? If anyone deserved a miracle on their death-bed, it was him. He may not have been a perfect man (in fact,I have an extensive list of shortcomings), but he was certainly a good man. Someone who never met a stranger, always knew just what to say and when, and so fiercely loyal to the people he cherished.

He was someone who put more good into the world by just being apart of it... so why? Why was 

In case you couldn't tell, I was really angry with God. For a long time. But, living life in anger is no way to live - especially if it stops you from doing what needs to be done with your life. Dad was the one who taught me that. And I knew he'd be ashamed of me if I threw away the chance I'd been given.

It's not secret that my dad's death was a devastating blow. Not just to me, but to my whole family. Coming on the heels of a quick secession of tragic breaks, I think I can confidently say that each and everyone one of has has need a long while to heal.

Some still have a long road ahead, and others are coming to the end of the beginning. As for where I stand - well, I choose the latter, as of writing this. 

So much has happened in these past two years that has brought me to this moment - too much for me to include in this chapter. But the long and short of it is this:

I tried to put my past behind me in the way my dad used to - put it all in a box and put it all away, with no intention of ever looking at it again. But here was the problem: that's not who I am. And that's certainly not my way.

But before I could start again, and chase after what I feel I've been put on this earth to do, I had to get my house in order first. In this context, I had to get right with myself and my feelings regarding God.

Even though I haven't prayed as much lately, this loss wasn't enough to sever my spirituality. I have, and still do, believe in an afterlife, and still firmly hold onto the idea that there is a higher power at work. But that's purely for personal gain: the idea that I'll never get to see my dad again - that we'll never get have our "proper" goodbye - is just too painful to even consider.

An agreement needed to be struck between me and God. 

And this Lent Season seemed like the perfect opportunity to 'clear the air.'

During this Lent, I had something very specific in mind. I chose to give up drinking alcohol - all alcohol - for more than a few reasons: 

For one thing, as stated in part 1 of this chapter, I needed to make sure that I'm not an alcoholic. That meant essentially seeing just how long I could go before the cravings ceased - and taking that time in between to reflect on 

 I want to drink so much in the first place. What was it in my psyche that was making it so hard to stop? 

For another thing, I needed to discern exactly where I stand with God moving forward. And for me personally abstinence, of any kind, typically involves a lot of talks with THE Big Guy. And it was time for a showdown.

I'll never have the answers I want, for why things turned out the way they did. I know that now. I knew consciously, when it was all going down in real time. But it was something I couldn't make my heart understand for months and years after the fact.

I wasn't ready to make peace with not knowing. 

However, I was able to find other answers along the way.

Upon these 40+ days of reflection, I realized why I was craving alcohol even though I thought I was fine. Even if I wasn't drunk all the time - and never plan to be, if I may mention - having it constantly in my system made it easier to avoid my own feelings.

I realized this one day in particular when my laid-back uncle ripped me a new one over the phone - and completely unprompted, to boot! To say I was a unsettled would be an understatement... I was a nervous-wreck for days.

Because I couldn't drink my feelings away, I had to really sit with them for a long time, and come to face some very hard truths about myself. Truths that I don't think I was ready to confront previously, but ones that needed to be addressed if I ever hope to move forward. I've come to learn that that's what grief really is: simply moving forward. 

Acceptance has always been the referred to as the last stage of grieving, and for good reason. It's hard to make peace with your life until you acknowledge all of the pain in your past. But the idea of acceptance is also a little misleading...

I know my mom and younger brother will never get over the loss of my dad. I know my beloved cousin and her husband will never "get over" their own painful loss. The same goes for anyone who has lived long enough to love another person so dearly. Acceptance isn't about "getting over" our losses. It's more about making a little room for them, so that they don't stop you in your tracks.

It's okay to be powerless when bad things happen in life - pain is inevitable.  It's all part of being human. But so is joy. For me, that's how I choose to move forward, because that's the best way 

 can honor my father's life and memory: by just bringing joy to others.

I'll always be a little angry over this part of my life. I know it, He knows it. And our relationship will never be the same as before.

My dad's sickness and passing was no one's fault - not even God's. But He sent dad home for a reason, and I'll be sure to ask Him why, one day.

You could say we have something of a truce. He knows full well what's still in my heart. Always has. I've never tried to hide it from Him.

I can't trust Him like I did before. But I can trust that there's at least a good reason behind every step of "the plan." I do trust that He's still got my back, even if I'll always be angry. I don't think He minds it too much.

 I have bee praying a lot more lately, so I guess that means I'm willing to build a new relationship with God. This is where our truce comes in: it may be His plan at work, but it's also 

 life thrown into the mix. That alone counts for something. He doesn't need my permission - but a heads up would be appreciated from time to time.

Now then, with all that said and done: Onward.

Ein Kruzifix an einem Rosenkranz - gefunden bei einer Höle ✝📿

Patrick Pahlke

Faith Renewed

Well…sorta…

If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I’m a Cradle Catholic (to use my mom’s terminology). All that means is that I was baptized and raised in the Catholic faith since I was born.



Faith Renewed

Well…sorta…

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Faith Renewed

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