Book Segment #16: "Separation Anniversaries"

January 18, 2006

Separation Anniversaries

I.
My heart is emptying. It is spilling ink, syrups of emotion. In solitude I lean into the six-month anniversary of this separation. I really don’t know what I was realistically expecting to happen on this date. I suppose in the shadows of hope I pictured packing my boxes and reuniting my “spaces” with Valerie’s. That the differences and pain of the past would yield to the promise of redemption and reconciliation close in the distance. That is not to be. During our last conversation on the phone she conveyed her lingering hesitation to re-engage, fearing I still wasn’t “getting” her need to have her turn in our relationship. And I remembered Jim’s last comment when we met: “There is no us or we in this relationship any longer. The cancer has won. The relationship as it was, is dead. Now, you must take the time to bring the I and I into the room to see what can or might be in the birth of a new relationship. A relationship between each of you, in the presence of God.”

And then I screwed up, yet again, when I interrupted her in response to a comment she made during the call. “See, you still will not allow me to say anything; just accept it without a comment turning it around to be about you,” she said. I hesitated, replying, “That was not my intent, and for that I am deeply regretful. You know, truly I want to re-engage with you, Valerie, and I am trying to be a better man; bringing the mistakes and hopes and everything I am all at once. My greatest obstacle is finding any words at all that I can say without making things worse. And so, through my ongoing silence and seeming lack of response, I feel as though to honor your need I have to say nothing.” A long pause. “It stings too deeply to keep hurting you, when really what I want to do is love you well. I do not want it to be about me. I want to serve you and pour my life into you.”

Even as I write this at this very moment, operating via my intrinsic dumbness, I want to make it clear to any reader that Valerie is not acting in any way to convey that she is not working towards some way to redevelop our relationship. Her pace and path are between her and God; not for me to judge. In my own struggle, like in the Prodigal Son living the dichotomy between the pig sty and the father’s feast, I accept her path… in her time, in her way.

So, on this anniversary date the separation continues. My longings adapt to the road. Hesitating, I limp toward the asphalt horizon. The solitude is my whispered companion.

II.
Later, the same morning of the previous entry, I am sitting on a plane on my way to Minneapolis to attend a gathering of 400 pastors. They are coming together to discuss a proposed revision to the Statement of Faith for a major denomination. NOTE TO READER: To feel the impact from the following story you must understand that when I fly I DO NOT WANT TO TALK with ANY of my fellow row mate(s). EVER. You might recall John Candy and Steve Martin in Planes, Trains and Automobiles with John Candy sitting next to Martin on the plane and sharing (and sharing) his passion as a manufacturer’s rep for custom shower curtain rings. Martin is suffering, not so graciously. I vigilantly protect these moments of peace…reflection…napping…writing…IN SILENCE. Not that I do not care about these people, mind you… just not right now, please. Settling in “cozily” with an empty seat between me and the man in the aisle seat, and a two-hour flight ahead of me… a deep sigh and smile cascade through me. And then I did a really dumb thing --- I looked over, noted the book he was reading, The Case for Faith, by Lee Stroebel. Now, work with me here...you see, the first book I ever read about Christianity was Stroebel’s The Case for Christ, which I must say was the first crack in the door to my faith. Having not read any of his other books, I was jussssst a bit curious. The guy seemed fairly harmless, intermittently napping and not snoring (always a good sign that he might not be an overly “energetic” communicator). I thought some slight contact might be safe. I reviewed the process of taking my seat when I boarded, giving him the “textbook” head nod and eye glance gesture towards the window seat, followed by the universally accepted and concise, “I’m sitting there,” to which he smiled and WITHOUT a verbal response stood to clear my path. This was another good sign that he likely shared my desire for anonymity, peace, and quiet. So now, noting his eyes were now open, I took a deep breath, leaned over and said “Good book?” Just two words. I mentally calculated the also universally accepted 5 MINUTES MAX discussion, followed by the return to our respective sanctuaries. IT WAS NOT TO BE!

OK, I have now set this scene up for you. What transpired was a lengthy interaction mostly orated by him. And the last 3 minutes of our conversation brought a blessing that I could have never anticipated. It was delivered through a few connected sentences that made it clear that my peace & quiet is not something I possess or control, and certainly not when God wants to offer a message. I quickly learned that the man was a missionary who was on his way to Jakarta, via Tokyo. He was very passionate about his calling and very curious about my faith journey, my marriage situation and God’s unerring role in guiding it all. When the wheels finally touched the ground, after this very long chat…it happened. Ed (yes, we had exchanged names by this point) leaned over and began,

“You know, Brian, about 6 months ago I went to the doctor about some problems I was experiencing. She came in after some blood tests, took a deep breath and said somberly, ‘Ed, you have acute leukemia. It is my opinion that based on the tests, you probably have two months to live.’ I paused, smiled and replied with the question, ‘Well, is there an ugly type of leukemia…not as cute as this one?’”

Ed paused, a glowing smile spreading across his rough-skinned face and then delivered the following message. “I’ll never forget the look on the doctor’s face, and her response, ‘Do you realize what I have just told you? You have only two months to live, and you are joking.’ Smiling a wide, comfortable smile I responded, ‘What you do not know about me is that I have a very close relationship with my Lord and God, and the idea of dying is something I celebrate, not fear in any way.’ Her being Jewish led to a very special interaction and closeness between us that has endured since our interaction. Oh, by the way, as of this date, one year later, the leukemia is in full remission. I watch it very closely and feel confident it will come back and finally take me. But, you know, none of us will get out of this alive!”

I let this all settle in for a bit. Ed had just revealed this very personal part of his life to a perfect stranger. He glowed with an effervescent joy and peace about his life…and death. I considered my earlier self-centered behavior, wanting to ignore his airplane-induced invasion into “my” space. I was guarding my personal needs and comfort. And, then, if the previous message was not enough to unravel me, he gave me the parting comment as he stood up and prepared to leave.

“Brian, we all live our lives in separation. It is through knowing that there is a promise of eternal connection that makes all the rest bearable. You know, knowing what I know now in my life and journey, if I had the chance to do it all over again…I’d still choose leukemia. Bless you.”

And he was gone.

A Statement of Faith, indeed.

III.
I jerked awake. Sleep’s hushed embrace shattered by the strident tone from my cell phone. Semi-blind I groped through the items gathered around the base of the lamp sitting on the small table between the hotel beds. I found the phone, and blurry-eyed noted that the caller ID on the phone read “John (M)”, my son’s mobile number. The digital alarm clock read 2:20 A.M.

“So,” I answered, elongating the “o” to emphasize the drama of what I knew he was getting ready to tell me.

“Well, you’re a grandfather, Dad!”

“Wow! That’s wonderful, John. And congratulations… you’re a father.”

My first grandchild, an 8 pound 14 ounce boy, Kinley Corbin, was born at 1:10 A.M. in a hospital in San Diego.


IV.
And through the darkness emerged the light of a tiny candle, flickering in the eyes of a newborn child. And in that moment, separation was lost forever.