Book Segment #15: "Chrsitmas Morning 2005"

Christmas morning, 2005

Christmas morning came in quietly. There were no children nudging at the foot of the bed. There was no late night preparation of stocking and neatly arranging them in their treasured spots in the living room; no sleigh bells echoing in the distance before the kids wake; no rubbing away the sleep’s residue; no charcoaled footprints across the floor; no rough-hewn note signed simply, “S.C.”; no room filled with evergreen scents. Yet, my heart still burns each moment. 25 snapshots. A delicious kaleidoscope of colors, embraces, smiles, tears, laughter, surprise, wonder, meals, the confetti wrapping remnants and then the quiet reflection. I remember that moment each year climbing into bed the night of all the day’s festivities. I would turn to Valerie, leaning over to give her a light kiss on her cheek and whisper, “Thank you for a wonderful Christmas.”

“You’re welcome. And thank you.”

But not this year.

I spent the morning thinking about something that Jim had been speaking to Valerie and me about before my trip to Dallas, three weeks building up to this Christmas. It was his idea for an interaction in which he wanted us to engage before the holiday. It seems only fitting that with thirty days remaining to our six-month separation agreement, Jim would present us with yet another “bring us to our knees” moment. The idea came during a session nine days before Christmas. Valerie and I had “successfully” met for coffee, and then for a glass of wine spanning three weeks prior to this meeting. Both times felt cordial, albeit a bit awkward. From my perspective I felt some moments of re-engagement and even caught some of the familiar blue flicker in her eyes; just two friends reconnecting after a long gap of time was both refreshing and energizing. So, I thought I would be bold, go for broke and ask her if she might consider spending part of Christmas with me. The gift of time, sharing, caring and rejoicing in the spirit of the manger, as Jim coined it. This session would be the perfect, and safe, place to ask.

The session began, as all previous, with his asking how we were both doing in our “states of heart.” He began with Valerie, who offered this response:

“I see some new things changing in Brian, and I also see some things that seem the same.”

Jim considered her comment and responded, “Are you feeling in any way that you would be open to allowing some moments for closer interaction with him?”

She paused, a pause that seemed to hover like a dense fog in the small office, and then replied, “I’m still hesitant. I’m not sure I can get past my fear of our history.” Whatever images I might have imagined of sitting by a warm fire, talking about what our children were doing, sharing and experiencing this Christmas Day were cut off like the frantic closing of window blinds. I Valerie “letting go” another piece of our relationship. And moving on. I also allowed myself to trip back inot the dark corner of the room where I took on the role of “bad guy,” responsible for all these pain and problems. Probably not her intent, a lot of it surely my deep sense of guilt and responsibility for triggering these events, but at that moment, as with many of our communication exchanges, an “edge” and “bite” and “anger” seemed to emerge, uncharacteristic to the woman I had lived with for the last twenty-five years. And I’m not sure that this is not a very healthy thing for her to express. Situations like those we have encountered over the years people certainly do change people… and still you build a fairly clear sense of a person over twenty-five years. It’s not dissimilar to how a parent “knows” their child and “knows” when something is not right from the first three or four words of a conversation. There’s one missing puzzle piece; it keeps you from completing the picture.

Jim took this opportunity to present his idea:

“I want to suggest an interaction between the two of you,” he began. “I want you to find a church which you do not currently attend; one that has a chapel. You are to visit this chapel when it is not in service, when you can both be there together, in silence, in each other’s and God’s presence. You can pray, or read the Word, or write your thoughts…but there is to be no talking. Do this for up to an hour, then leave and go your separate ways.”

I took a deep breath, imagined the feeling of doing this and glanced over to Valerie, whose expression seemed to mirror mine. Jim waited a moment, and then continued.

“Then, on one of the times you do this, I want you to imagine you are at the funeral for someone very dear to you who just died from a horrible cancer. As you sit there, I want you to reflect on your feelings of profound sadness and mourning for the loss of someone very dear. At the same time, reflect on your feelings of joy in knowing that this person is no longer suffering. Remember, no talking. No interaction. Can you do that?”

Another deep breath, then exchanged glances. I think I might have let out a “Phew!” I must have emitted some sound conveying my discomfort with this activity, because Jim immediately followed it with, “I’m not through yet.” He paused for effect, letting our reactions move through us like molasses on a mid-January morning. Finally, he continued.

“After that, during the final time you go, I want you both to bring individual pictures of the two of you together, and I want you to imagine you’re at another funeral. But this time, you are at the funeral for your marriage. You are to experience the sadness and profound mourning for the loss of someone very close and dear to you…and experience the joy of knowing that there is an end to the painful suffering from the unbearable and painful disease.”

I cannot give you a metaphor for what that moment felt like. The words were piercing. Disarming. Final. Neither of us said a word. And then he continued.

“After that I want you to go outside and find a quiet place, take the pictures and burn them. And when that is done, you will know what the Advent is all about. And that is when I want you both to take that relationship and bring it into the presence of the manger. That is when you will understand the true meaning of Christmas.”
___________________________________________________________

I turned out the light next to the bed in my mother’s house. I turned over and thanked God for giving me this year’s gift; my time in the presence of the manger. Somewhere in the flickering candles of my heart I heard a quiet whisper, “You’re welcome.”

Book Segment #14: December 24 - Different

12.24.05

The Night Before -- Different

I called tonight to speak with Victoria and John. This is the first Christmas Eve in 25 years spent without some member of my immediate family. John is in San Diego, Victoria in Ashland Oregon, Valerie in Nashville and me in Dallas. I was sitting on the back steps of my mother’s condominium scanning the surrounding buildings for Christmas lights; to breathe in some familiar feelings. There were some white twinkling lights adorning one of the unit’s windows in the far right corner of the parking spaces. In the distance was the top of an office building with red lights…unfortunately they only spelled out “hotels.com.” The temperature was a yuletide-chilling 65˚. Good thing; the fireplace in my mom’s house was only for decoration anyway.

Different.

I sat there in between the rings, hoping the kids would answer. I just wanted to hear a familiar voice. I tried to lean into the difference of this new moment and accept it; not worse or better, just different. And then I drifted back in time to an older moment, and I thought about what it must have been like to be any one of the people who actually lived near that small manger that day before. What were the scents and sounds of animals like that were stirring in and around the unadorned space? Maybe there was a small fire burning, flickering and casting shadows that danced across the wall, anticipating a celebration. What were the sounds like as people passed by? Did they peer in? Were they drawn to the space? Did they notice the two sojourners? Or was it a non-event; people in the midst of the normal comings and goings - winter’s movements to warmer rooms and Spartan meals? Did Joseph and Mary really understand how this day would impact us for eternity? Did Joseph sit outside and look around at the surrounding lights of Bethlehem, or did he look up to the skies at what must have been a blizzard of stars spilled over an ebony blanket?

Different.

I was going to tell Victoria about the “entertaining” Christmas Eve I was spending with my mother, brother and eccentric (nicer than saying “nutty”) aunt from Branson, Missouri. It was definitely Chanukah here in the Kagan house, with the multiple menorahs, chocolate “gelt” (Hebrew for coins), a dreidel and yes, even a Chanukah stocking hanging over the fireplace. I decided that for a change I would be proactive and suggest a new interaction – game playing! We tried a game I have recently discovered; Mexican Train dominoes. Well…between my mother’s repeating…and repeating…and repeating questions...the SAME DAMN questions --- and my aunt’s VEEEEEERRRRRRRRYYYYYY SLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW studying of moves and repeating…and repeating…and repeating questions...the SAME DAMN questions. Then, my brother GROWING more and more impatient…and crescendo “JUST MOVE” exhortations. Then, the eye contacts. It was really hysterical. A scene right out of Seinfeld or a Woody Allen film. I wanted to share the scene with Victoria to make her laugh a little. She had called earlier, obviously in the midst of crying; she talked about how sad she was with the situation between her mom and me. She had just gotten off the phone with Valerie, opening the gifts that they had exchanged by mail. She told me that Valerie had sent her an angel ornament (an annual tradition) and a Snow Baby white porcelain character. I guess this is what triggered the tears. “Dad, you know what character it was? It was a girl standing with her head leaning back to catch a snowflake on her tongue.” There was a long pause on the line; we were both immediately swept back to a moment many years ago while living in our first Nashville home. It was a late winter night and Victoria, probably 11 or 12 years old, came to wake me o tell me about the blizzard we were having. Startled, I stumbled out of bed and followed her down the stairs to look out the back sliding glass door. I turned on the light, squinting from the stabbing blast of white. The first image was like a shower of large polka dots streaking across the darkness. “Wow!” That’s all we could say as we looked at each other, wonder exploding in our eyes. “I want to go out. Come on, Dad. Let’s go.”

That’s all it took. It didn’t matter what time it was or how cold it might have been outside. Victoria asked me to join her and share this rare, gossamer Tennessee moment. Our movements were instinctive, like an animal bursting from captivity towards its freedom. We both gathered the first coats we could grab from the closet. She took my worn-out old green zippered coat with a hood. She was zipped up and out the door before I even had a chance to pick a coat. I went out the door right behind her. The image I encountered is indelibly carved into my heart. She was standing to the left of the driveway near the garage door on the sloped hill in front of the house. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed, and tongue extended to catch the lucky snowflakes that would land and melt into her soul.

Different.

I am now sitting in the living room in mom’s Dallas condo. My computer screen reads 11:15 PM. My mom and aunt are in bed. My brother went home and hour ago. All the lights have been turned off. The only illumination remaining is the small-iron-twin-elephants-sitting-with-lampshades-balancing-on-their-trunks-fixture-on-the-table-to-my-left. Not a creature is stirring. Not even Bentley who is laying next to me, tucked snugly between my left hip and the inside left arm of the overstuffed chair and ottoman. He slumbers with thoughts and dreams of long, sunny, warm walks and yummy Christmas treats.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

I wonder what Joseph was thinking.

Different.

Thursday's Wednesday Post

So, I am struggling (in a good way) with the idea that there are only a few more posts of segments before we reach the end of this story. This chapter of my life. I am amazed at the sense of community I am experiencing from people, many who I have never met. People from all over the world have read bits and pieces of all this and that just gives me a big smile...and a building void considering it is closing in on its conclusion. I am considering where the road leads from here. I have begun a new book, "No Thank you, I'm just looking." Still, it is not the same type of story as this one, and if I am as fortunate and God shines a glimmer more of favor my way it might bring new friends and people to share more stories. After all, it's all about the story we are, we walk, we dream, we share, we live.

Would love to hear your thoughts about what might be a way to keep it going.

Here's a wonderful comment I received from one of my Facebook friends who have found their way to the blog and into my story; and me into hers:

My friend,
I am captivated by your writing. I long to see more honest, authentic and true people in this world. People who are true to others and most of all, people who are true to themselves. The latter typically precludes or hinders the former. People are better off for knowing you whether it be in person or through your writing. Thanks for sharing your heart. I truly believe that it is through this unmasked openness that Christ is ultimately glorified.

And this is just one of the reasons I write.

GIGATT

Write on....

Book Segment #13 - "Smoke and Ashes"

December 14, 2005

(This is the morning that per Jim's coaching Valerie and I were asked to conduct a "funeral" acknowledging the "death" of our relationship and marriage as it has been to this point. We met at a nearby church, sat in silence and reflected about the pain and suffering from this lingering death, as if mourning a close friend's long battle with cancer, yet rejoicing the end of the suffering. After this, we were asked to bring one photograph each of the two of us, then burn them in each other's presence.)

The morning after the funeral. I am looking for us in the ashes that remain.

[an email sent to Valerie] Good morning, Valerie. When I was getting ready to leave my apartment early this morning I noticed the ceramic tile you gave me many years ago. It reads:

MAGIC IS IN BELIEVING
BELIEVING IS IN THE HEART
THE HEART HOLDS THE KEY
THE KEY OPENS THE DOOR

Standing in the cold grey, watching in silence as our memories burned at the bottom of a ceramic vase, tracing the last crimson embers racing across the edges of the photos...and then the silence. The ashes. The soft moaning wind of the morning. The chill in the air. The seeming finality of it all. And then, our lingering embrace. And then we left going our separate ways.

We die so that we may live again.

I pray for your heart, your peace...and the chance for a door slightly ajar.

Blessings
Brian

____________________________________________________________________________________

December 14, 2005

A Brother’s Prayer - Leaving the funeral

[an email from a close friend, sharing my walk]

Brian,

I wanted to separate the business of my ministry from the events of your day, thus this note.

The day that we talked about last week arrived earlier than I thought. Sounds like it was earlier than you thought as well. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling. After a funeral of someone I love, there’s this hollow feeling, this empty space. I think it is a soulful response to the void left by the one who dies. It will never be fully replaced, even though many things arrive to fill the space.

I wonder what the void is like for you tonight. Something has been pronounced dead. Finished. Over. Without Christ, there would be little to do other than look at porn or something. With Christ, there’s that strange expectation that death is never the end. Seeds fall to the ground, dead, only to sprout forth. Winter’s cold can be endured because Spring will surely come. An awful Friday and Saturday precedes the Sunday of the empty tomb. And two lovers broken apart by God knows what, stand in the funeral smoke of photographs, struggling to believe that out of the ashes something new can and will arise. Miracles are the stuff of this faith of ours.

Know that tonight, I believe in miracles, and I pray that one will happen to you and Valerie.

With prayers,
Your friend.

Thursday's Wednesday Post - Heavy

Well, I woke up this morning and felt a heaviness come over me about mid-morning. It was raining. Clouds were moving past my windows, seemingly rushing around to command their place in the downpour. It was unusually quiet in my condo, largely because I had taken Bentley to a friend's house the night before due to my leaving for a trip to Cincinnati. And yes, I really do miss him when he's not around. You may think it strange to miss a little dog as much as I do, but considering the fact that we have been inseparable for most of the last 7 years, shared the ups and downs and in-betweens and starts and stops and laughter and tears...and never once did he complain or tell me to "just suck it up and be a man" or "this too shall pass" or one of the many good intentioned lines people offer up when they really don't have a clue what to say. And yes, I take a lot of ribbing from friends and associates about the Bentley thing.

And then I thought about my family spread across the country. I wondered if maybe I was getting one of those...vibes...you know, the X Files kinda stuff. Telepathy. Twilight Zone.

And then I looked at the top of my computer and noticed the date: September 11. And the images of that day spread across my consciousness like the billowing clouds of flames mushrooming around the towers that morning. I remembered Valerie calling down to my office in the house while I was talking with my son, John, and her short and indelible sentence, "Turn on the TV. We are under attack!" I remember being frozen in time for that entire day. I remember walking outside that evening and noticing the amazing quiet in the air with no planes flying overhead as they would do in the flight pattern near our home. I remember.

A little dog. A family at the other ends of the country.

There have been times when people ask me why I write. We all carry stories. They are written with permanent ink. Sometimes the weight seems unbearable. Writing releases some of the pain's prose; the ballast of memories.

Hug someone today. Simply because you can.

Book Segment #12: "And many returns."

December 4, 2005

And many returns.

I am safe for the moment, here in my compact space at 35,000 feet, 90 minutes into my flight to Denver from Ashland. I have been distracted with planning for the upcoming two-day retreat I will facilitate for one of my clients. Adequate time to allow the morning’s goodbyes, glances, images, and embraces to fade like wayward clouds. The short visit with Victoria and Rick has given me the courage to write the following. What immediately comes to mind is a moment many years ago when I had stopped in Dallas on a flight to… wherever my business happened to be taking me this particular trip… and asked my parents to come to the airport to say hi. This was when it was still permissible to come to the gate to greet arriving passengers. It had been far too many months since we had seen each other.

My parents were living in Dallas; me in Nashville. I was always way too busy to come and visit. “Working hard to support the family, you know. Client demands. Would love to come more, but you know how it is. I’ll get there soon, I promise, just don’t know when.” Harry Chapin’s sobering song, “Cat’s Cradle” comes to mind, with its famous refrain about being too busy with life to spend time together; “…and we’ll get together then, Dad. You know we’ll have a good time then.” I do not remember the content of our conversation at the gate, but there was one moment I will never forget, a snapshot forever pasted on the calendar’s frayed pages. I was walking towards the jet-way door, and had just crossed the entrance when I turned around to see if my parents were still there. They were, and for some reason I made a laser-like eye contact with my Dad. It was one of those moments, a freeze-frame in time. Just the two of us, alone. He was crying and smiling at the same time. I smiled back, lingered a moment, then turned back and continued onto the plane. I wrote a poem shortly after that, that I sent to him about life’s series of syncopated “leavings.” I wanted him to know how much I loved him and that my heart is and always will be with him.

Today, many years later in a small airport in Ashland, Oregon I met myself, walking the other way down the road. When Victoria, Rick and I arrived at the airport the morning I was leaving for home, I intentionally got out of the car, quickly gathered my stuff, wanting to avoid any lingering goodbyes. I was holding back the emotions erupting inside me, putting on a strong game face to portray the model of dad-like toughness and strength for Victoria. We hugged tightly, and I whispered in her ear “I love you so very much. We will get through all this.” She returned the embrace, and then I moved to my right to hug and say goodbye to Rick. It was all working “perfectly” until I glanced back her way and our eyes met. Just the two of us, alone. A single tear swelled in the corner of her right eye. My eyes filled up, and spilled. We smiled, turned and walked away. I walked through the automatic sliding doors and joined the line at the check-in counter. I took three deep breaths and wiped the tears from my eyes. “Control. Get it together, Kagan.” And then, instinctively, I turned around to catch a glimpse of the car; it appeared that they had already driven away. My heart sank. And then a slight movement to my left caught my eye. It was Victoria. She had come back. I thought for a moment that I might have left something in the car that she was bringing to me. But the instant our eyes met, I knew why she had come back. Her smile illuminated the room. Her tears shimmered on her cheeks like June fireflies. I would not deny my tears their freedom. And the resulting embrace is one I will cherish the rest of my life. We held each other so tightly.

The world vanished. Just a father and his daughter. She whispered something that sounded like, “I love you so much, Dad. We don’t have enough times like this.” And as that single moment froze, I watched, once again, that young man from so many years ago walking away down the jet-way, turning to catch his father’s eye; foregoing the chance to run back for one more hug before leaving.

I whispered, “I will always be with you, Victoria. I cherish you.”

In these types of moments I am certain God whispers to us. I am certain I heard Him say, “I will always be with you, too. I am.”

Post Question: Anyone reading this willing to share a moment you remember when "you met yourself coming the other way down the road?"