When Faith Betrayed Me

by Sofia Villafaña 

Faith betrayed me when the strongest man I ever knew got sick. Got a life-threatening illness, that kind of thing. 

My dad was, and still is, the strongest man I know. He’s worked for longer than I’ve been alive, and faith betrayed me when I watched him lose weight. Lose hair. Lose color under his skin. 

The image of my dad in my head is one that is round and plump, strong and full of life. Every other sentence was punctuated with a laugh, and every word was exclaimed louder than the last. He had a slightly balding head, but it still was pretty full of grey and white hairs. His beard grew long during the winter, long like Santa. And during the summers, he shaved all his facial hair off, and trimmed his hair short too. He rarely wore a shirt, showing off the weight he gained since leaving the Dominican Republic so many years ago. He pushed me high on swings with a strength I couldn’t believe. He taught me how to ride a two wheeler bike, and saved me when I crashed in a bush of tulips. 

Now, he was skin and bones compared to who he used to be. Now his chest was concave, showing that he had lost weight and muscle and fat too. His hair has thinned out so much that you could see the skin on his scalp. Now, when he took off his shirt, a part of me felt like throwing up. 

“Sofia,” he’d say. He’d wave me over, too tired to talk, and pat the seat beside him on the couch facing the TV. 

“Yeah, Pa?” 

“Dame un abrazo,” his watery eyes told me today had been a hard day. 

I let him lean his head on me, wrapping my arms around him the way he used to do to me when I was a kid. We’d sit there for a few minutes before I left him to do homework or write these pieces. I left him in near silence, the only sounds now coming from the TV, all the life drained out of him. These moments felt the worst because I was filled with so much guilt for every time I chose to hang out or stay out late with friends instead of being here with him. Even if it was being the same house, even if we weren’t in the same room, because at least we would’ve had each other’s presence. 

Faith betrayed me by taking the foundation of my entire life, my dad. Faith betrayed me when, instead of giving karma to one of the millions of people who deserve it, my dad got sick. Faith betrayed me in turning the strongest person I know into this weak shaky, bubble that could burst at any moment. Why did it have to be my dad? When my dad got sick, I prayed. I can remember the last time I did that. 

Faith did more than betray me. It stabbed me in the back. 

Faith betrayed me when it made the backbone of my family, my grandmother, into a near deaf and blind shadow of a person. When she was alive, she was brave and strong. She fought wars for her kids, climbed mountains, planted a farm, and hunted animals. 

My name, she always got wrong, but the love in her eyes told me she knew exactly who I was. She recognized me under the years of life and travel, and survival. She recognized me as the girl who used to nap on her floor over a pile of blankets and pillows. Or who used to swear apple juice was better than orange juice. 

Faith gave my older cousins years with my grandmother that I will never get. Years where she walked out of her chair and met them at the door, where she picked them up on her hip. Faith gave my mother heartbreak when she died. 

My grandmother’s funeral was the last time that I prayed. It was the opposite of short and simple. I went on and on about how sorry I was, all my regrets, all my guilt, everything. I laid it all out bare for God, and he still decided my dad might have to be next.