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 that 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 right version but the one that called to them in teaching to teach in. But in the long run lead a town so another could go in and do different work. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s run. They do not know how to work a church. Yuck. That was me at the age of three. I will never go back into a church. They released something unto me that I cannot remember until now.