My mom is a scientist my dad is a monk.
Some people are born with it. They are born with it so far down their throats they choke and gag and never want to see it again. My mom was born with it. It was in her bones. Etched in the geometric patterns of Celtic knots. It was in her first intake of air. She hates it. It still lines the walls of her lungs and she pretends it's not there. But she can feel the grooves when she flexes and she can taste the tint in her breath.

My mom was born with it. It's certified I can show you. An official document, an unofficial title, a brand; a birth certificate, a race, a shock of red hair. Coincidentally the same color red you would find on papal robes. She was branded with it. If you packaged her today the label would read 100% Irish Roman Catholic, because it never really goes away.
My mom was born with it. She used to belong to her name, used to be entitled to it. Virgin Mary. Saint Mary. Mother Mary. Until she realized all it takes to be canonized into the Mary club is a piece of paper. Now she wants to be a Marilyn.

"They make their own fate, Marilyns," she says.

Some people happen upon it. They trip on it. Break noses that never set quite right no matter how many times they are bandaged. My dad happened upon it. He was an angsty teenager no older than myself and he wasn't watching where he was walking. He was mad at his mom and mad at his dad and mad at his short legs. He was mad at the sublets around him and at the fire escapes and at the upper-east side. He was madder when he tripped. When he happened upon it. I say mad in the most literal meaning of the word. Mad as in Hatter. Mad as in the King.

My dad tripped on it. Years after my mom coughed it out, my dad tripped on it. If it weren't so epiphenetic it would be gross. My dad broke his nose on it. Once you break something that bad, happen upon something like that, it doesn't go away. It takes naps in your lungs and skips rope in your mind and plays the bongos on your kidneys and cleaves your cartilage in two.

My dad happened upon it. He tripped on it in Central Park and it made itself at home.
It likes to prey on the weak. It likes to pray for the weak. She was born with it. He happened upon it.
She quantifies it, draws me graphs. He makes shapes out of smoke and tries to get me to understand.
My mother was born with faith. Chewed it up, and then spat it out.
My father happened upon faith. Burned worldly ties in a fire of Sanskrit renunciation.
Sometimes I wonder if he would've burned me. Or if the intangible flame of faith would outshine a bundle of flesh and worldly connotations. Flames lift balloons; flames save lives, flames are ravenous. Flames are ineffable, but so is faith and I should stop.

How do I put this?
Some people are born with it. Some people happen upon it. Some people dig for it.
My faith is under my nails. My faith is on the back of my neck next to a birthmark that I forgot I had until my doctor checked for cancer. My faith is in every piercing on my body, every scar. My faith is there.

My parents aren't special. Others are devout like my mom, devoted like my dad.

But have you ever met me?
Have you ever met someone with yin and yang and Lakshmi and God curled around her ribs like snakes? Have you ever met someone with an afterlife of confliction. Someone fated to ascend only to be brought back down and reincarnated? Have you ever met someone who willed faith into herself?

My mom goes to church now, wishes she could still name all the saints and talk to God. She looks through the lost and found. She gets x-rays and tries to interpret the knots on her bones. She takes bigger breaths to clear the dust in her lungs, hoping for something ancient and familiar.

My dad scoffs now. He jabs your back and picks apart your morality leaving a chain of dharma and karma. He walks over cracks and around pebbles, not because he is superstitious, but because he can't bear to break his nose again. He has a bundle of worldly ties to weigh him down.

My parents met me and I want to say I'm sorry. I want to apologize. I want to cut off my hair that turns as red as my mom's in the right light. I want to roll up my spine like an old carpet and leave in on the side of the road so my dad can't see the absence of light in my chakras. I want her to forget God and her birth. I want him to remember what it was like, what having that flame meant.

But it's too late. All I can do now is look at the faith under my fingernails and pretend I know what I'm doing. I can ink crosses on my arms or memorize the words of prophets. I can light incense to cover the smell of my ignorance and I can sip wine to feel something in my throat, even if it isn't indigenous.

My mom is a scientist and she draws knots on her arms. My dad is a monk and he builds walls to forget. My mom was born with faith in her throat and she exhaled prematurely and I can see the regret when she looks at me. My dad happened upon it and pledged, shaved his head moved to India, and I can see the wall he put up crack when he looks at me.

Maybe one day you will meet me. And maybe I can show you how to find your faith. And you can be the fourth kind of person. The person who has faith eased on to them by someone who knows, someone with good intentions, someone with no agenda but to walk towards her afterlife with her body split in two. But remember faith sticks like coal to your lungs and faith disfigures your face. Your pain is frostbite and faith is fire. Your sanity is combustible and faith is fire.
Don't say I didn't warn you.