When you meet Verus he is NOTHING you would expect from an author promoting contemporary spiritualism. There is no “carnie” or TV evangelist hokum to this guy. He is big and loud and thirsty for life and vodka. He is an artist who enjoys writing. He dresses like a rock star pirate and never travels without his very attractive wife Harmony. He can speak on advanced levels of business, politics and for sure theology but prefers sports and music feathered into funny conversation. He is a person everyone gravitates to. When I finished the book I hoped DeiAmor Verus really has a direct line to God because Verus’ world would be a great place to live.
Really? Do you really care where I am from? Would you like to know where I grew up or where I went to school? The question you should be asking, the question that keeps me up at night is why me? Why does a book like Talk To God crawl out of my soul, pump through my heart, get seasoned in my mind and poured out on those pages. I can’t figure out why. Why me? I never was religious. I went to church, more like physically forced to go, every week. Hell, I was even an altar boy and little stuck.
Like most teens or young adults who were crow barred into church week after week, as soon as I had a chance not to go, I didn’t. I drifted away forgoing Sunday mass for hangover brunches with college cohorts who put all things spiritual neatly ensconced in a gray matter shoe box until their mom gets terminal cancer or a brother gets their ticket punched on the interstate. All of a sudden God is there, hands are being held and everyone is saying prayers. Still, as the skies cleared and summer-hot sun seemed to boil the freshly fallen rain water on the sidewalks at graduation in East Lansing, I had no passion, no gravitas or writing degree to write Talk To God.
Marriage, new babies, baptisms means getting back to church. Three boys, my holy trinity, and those toddler to pre-teen days are the best days a dad has raising boys. And I love raising boys. That kid sweat, mixed with the garage floor dust, rubbed across their brow, reminds me of little war painted Indian Chiefs with Twizzler breath and a smile that reminds me that everything
is going to be alright in the world. That unconditional love in their eyes, God was in them and I wanted them to know God. I wanted them to know there was a bigger daddy watching us and when Grandma died she went to a better place than her house.
But what God, my religious God, the God that came with guilt, suffering, penance and dark messages in Latin, the God that was not in the room throughout my childhood beatings? Fuck it. Will my God make them better men? The mirror answered that question.
It started with long winded, crushing, opinions at dinner parties that frightened all the devoted, the pedophilia law suits sickening me with every faceless, child-victim that I supplant my son’s faces to. This isn’t The God I wanted my children to know or any child in the world. There has to be a better God.
I became vexed, uneasy about faith. My idle time was consumed with the question; who is my God and what would I say if I had a chance to talk to him. And then it happened. With little formal training and less ability, the story spewed from my mind, through my fingertips, filling page after page. Possessed? Directed? Was this Divine? Fuck if I know. I could barely write a proper paragraph before much less a book about the real God. But within a few months 92,000 words sit in front of me, editors and publishers oohing and ahhing over the “book that will change the world”, a book from God. The book we all hoped it would be like. The book we could share with our children.
My biography? Really? Do you really care who brought you the message? I am a man, a regular man, with a passion for sports, Dave Mathews, Absolut vodka and cold beer. I am a working dad with a wife and kids, family, and bills to pay, just like you. I am just the guy in line behind you at the grocer. I am just the guy sitting next to you at a ball game with my kids. Was I asked by God to write Talk To God? You will have to decide. The question that still haunts me, as the next offering spills out on pages in front of me, is why does this book crawl out of my soul? Why me?