My parents divorced before my first birthday.
Faced with the task of raising a child on her own my mother decided to sent me to my grandparents farm where I spent my whole childhood.
I never saw my father much.
There were a couple of attempts for my parents to get back together but things never worked out.
So basically beside some brief visits and some awkward attempts of love and affection, all I got from my father was the promise that one day when I grow up we are going to get together, spend a lot of time knowing each other and bond as a father and son should bond.
On my last day of high school, before that magical threshold from childhood and adulthood my father died. The day of knowing each other never came.
I never thought I would live without ever having to know my father. That possibility never crossed my mind so I was totally in shock.
I was not sad and I didn’t even cry. I was mad. I felt betrayed, I felt cheated of what was rightfully mine. Some how I felt a great injustice was done to me and the person responsible for that, besides my father, was God.
We had a Christian funeral with all the religion customs and rites.
An old priest came to officiate the funeral. With his white beard and his black robe he looked old and wise. I approached him and ask him about my father death.
My question was simple: “Why?” But his answer was nothing but simple or satisfactory.
He spoke to me on an impersonal tone, like a sales person that was trying to sell me a vacuum cleaner. Same worn out speech repeated hundreds of times, same forced enthusiasm trying to convince me on the quality of his product, although he knew he was selling a sham. Same old story about God having some extraordinary plan, that we the mortals can not comprehend, and that the plan required that my father has to die.
He did not believe a word he was saying and neither did I.
So I had to draw my own conclusion and there was only one conclusion possible: “God was an ass hole!”