water, cold air, chemicals—as I held my hands out-
stretched, turning them this way and that, as though
he could heal me.
~~~
As a small child, I would play with my fa-
ther’s hands, turning around and around the sim-
ple gold band on his left hand, unclasping and then
clasping again the fake silver and gold Rolex-type
watch he wore, also on his left wrist. I would click
his fingernails with my own until he batted my hand
away, then I’d touch the white crescent moons in
them, turn the ring again and unclasp the watch one
more time, trying it on then replacing it once more.
I usually did this in church or when sitting on his lap
while he was talking to one of his friends in one of his
many hours-long conversations about god, religion,
law, politics, nutrition or the like. I even remember
doing this believing that a child of a similar age was
watching me, wishing they could do the same, wish-
ing they had a father like mine.
~~~
When I was 17, I started going to a church on
the fringe of Christianity. It took an hour and fifteen
minutes to get there. I would dance and sing and cry
my eyes out on the burgundy colored carpet in the
old gym of a long-defunct middle school near the
shores of Lake Michigan. A year later, in the throes of
legal battles of A. Lenau vs. the State of Michigan—
fighting the rebel fight, an inevitable losing battle as
a Sovereign Citizen on the Soil of Michigan, attempt-
ing to claim my right to travel in a motor vehicle un-
encumbered by any government tax or licensure—
my hands began to break down. I had evaded my
last two court dates with two warrants out for my
arrest for failure to appear in court. I had also been
working, under the table, at a restaurant across the
street from my house as a short-order cook and
dishwasher. The eczema had come back, but this
time with a vengeance, a latex allergy spreading all
the way to my elbows and going unchecked by my
ignorance of such a simple thing as a latex allergy. I
was miserable. That winter I hid my arms under long
sleeves and kept my hands down, hoping none of
the customers could see their garish hideousness as
I passed the plates up to the window for the wait-
ress.
One night, I asked my pastor Gary Kozicki and
another pastor to pray for my hands. Instead of pray-
ing, Pastor Gary said, “I think this really represents
the confusion you are experiencing with your dad.
This is a matter where you need to decide between
the Lord and your father. When you decide what to
do, the confusion will go away and your hands will
heal.” What he meant was, I needed to decide what
to do about the trouble I was in with the law. I felt
devastated by this. I just wanted the trauma of my
hands to go away. I didn’t want someone to tell me
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