I am sitting here in this wooden pew and my lower back is absolutely killing me from hauling drywall all week. I’m only twenty. I shouldn’t feel like my spine is eighty years old but here we are. The preacher is up there talking about "divine providence" and "trusting the plan" while the AC is barely humming and I can smell the old lady’s perfume next to me. I’m just staring at the back of my dad’s head. He’s been working six days a week since before I was born and he still looks like he’s about to cry every time the property tax bill comes in the mail. It's ridiculous. It’s just me and him now. Ever since mom got sick and the bills started piling up, it fell on me to handle everything (because god forbid my older sisters actually help with anything or even answer a text). I’m the one who handles the meds, the one who does the grocery shopping on a shoestring budget, the one who skips classes just to make sure she’s okay. I’m supposed to be "finding myself" or whatever kids my age do at college, but instead I’m worrying if the truck is gonna start tomorrow morning so I can go break my back for twenty bucks an hour. I feel like my entire identity is just... being the guy who makes sure everyone else doesn't fall apart. I look around this room and all I see are people who are GOOD. Like, genuinely good, honest people who work their asses off. There’s the Millers who lost their house last year and still show up every Sunday to put their last five dollars in the collection plate. Why? Seriously, WHY? If there’s someone up there watching us, why does He let them lose everything while some asshole in a suit gets a promotion for cutting their benefits? It makes me sick. It actually makes my stomach turn sitting here listening to how much we’re "blessed." We aren't blessed. We're tired. If we’re so loved then why are my dad’s hands so cracked they bleed every night? Why am I the one who has to choose between a textbook and the electric bill this month? It’s bullshit. It is total and complete BULLSHIT. The more I sit here, the more the words coming out of the preacher’s mouth sound like static. It’s just noise meant to keep us quiet while we get screwed over. I want to stand up and just scream. I want to ask him where the hell the help is for the people who actually do the work. (I won't though, because I don't want to embarrass my dad in front of the neighbors.) I’m just done. I’m sitting here typing this on my phone under my hymnal because I can’t listen to one more word about "having faith." Faith doesn’t put food on the table. Faith doesn’t fix the roof when it leaks. I’m the one doing all of it. I’m the one holding this entire house together by a thread and I am EXHAUSTED. I’m twenty years old and I feel like I’ve lived three lifetimes already and for what? Just to keep struggling? To keep watching everyone I love get beat down by life while we're told to be grateful for the crumbs? I'm not grateful. I'm just pissed off and I don't think I can do this anymore.