I went to church with a fury of hands that were full of twisted fates in the horizon. My brother got to skip church and go with grandmother from my father’s side. I went in head-locked into the bench where I met my pastor that made himself mine without permission. Why are kids forced into church? How tragic. I went in looking for the next hour to pass. I found the power I had with the power of the bible by my side. I read the verse that could kill a million. My pastor punished me by attacking me with a gust of wind that swayed me away from the benches are cold to grab and hot to touch in the small town of my Mexican town. Ciudad Hidalgo, Michoacan, Mexico. I never went back until they forced me to stay in the bench my pastor died in. My mother’s wedding. A person who sits at the top of the stairs exclaiming words from a bible that is not the version but the one that called to them to teach in but in the long-run lead so another could go in and do different work. They do not know how to work a church. Yuck. That was me at the age of three.