Barking to the Choir: The Power of Radical Kinship

by Gregory Boyle

Though the words were not in his toolbox, I knew my father loved me. During my high school years, there were ten of us at home. At breakfast, my younger brother and sisters would take their bowls of Trix into the next room to eat in front of cartoons, while my mom would fuss with the endless loads of laundry. That usually just left my dad and me, eating our Cheerios and reading the LA Times in the breakfast room. He would be planted on a short bench at the end of the table, near the windows. I would sit in the middle, bowl tucked in close, paper spread out before me. We wouldn’t speak. Perkiness was strictly prohibited. “So, how’d ya sleep last night?” was never a question we asked. LA Times. Cheerios. Silence. When my dad was finished and got up from the table, he’d need to pass behind me. I’d instinctively scoot in my chair so he had room. But before moving past me, he’d place his empty bowl on the table. Then, standing behind me, he’d massage my neck, his thumbs digging deep. He smelled like Fitch shampoo and Aqua Velva aftershave. The massage didn’t last long, but he did it every day, wordlessly. Thirty years later, I’m on a silent retreat in a monastery in the California redwoods, sitting in the chapel and not having a good morning. I’m rehashing old story lines: ancient hurts and resentments. The soreness in my soul is palpable—enveloping me, actually. I’m in a chair in the last row, off to the side. There are huge windows behind me, the massive redwoods visible in t...