Saturday, July 18, 2009
Camping Video
A while ago, I posted the short segment about camping with my family. For your viewing pleasure, the Youtube video.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
THE MUSICAL-TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK...
Upon entering the driveway, I noticed something immediately. Bright terra cotta pots ascended the cement retaining wall along the driveway. “That’s really weird,” I sighed in exasperation, with a sad shake of my head. “Dad’s finally going crazy.” Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as all of that, I reassured myself. Maybe he bonded with mother earth while we were away, and he developed a deep-seeded admiration of the delicate balance human beings have to strive for to maintain the pristine world around us. No, after careful consideration, those flower pots painted a pretty clear picture of insanity with broad strokes.
Kendall’s mom turned off the van, and we slid the large door open, and ambled out. Kendall helped my brother and me with our suitcases and sleeping bags, and moments later, we said our goodbyes. “See you at church tomorrow, Ken.” I waved, and picked up my stuff. It jostled against my leg, as I prepared myself for the image that was bound to greet me, as I cast a sidelong look at the flowers. My now-crazy, plant-loving father would probably be squawking like a duck in the living room.
When I opened the front door, my brother and I saw something completely different. My mouth gaped and eyes bulged in astonishment. My dad was sitting on the couch, not fondly caressing the leaf of a chrysanthemum, but instead had his arm wrapped around my mother’s. They turned and smiled at the both of us.
“Hi, boys,” my mom said cheerfully.
I continued staring, and when I regained my senses, I replied. “Hey. When did you get back?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“Are you staying?” I asked.
“Yes.” She smiled broadly. My face split in to a grin. Joy pulsated through my body in radiating waves. A faint rhythmic beat tumbled towards my ears. It spiraled up the street, at first as a tremulous whisper, and gathered speed until it was roaring like a windstorm at the front of my house. I know I been imagining it, because as I flitted to the open window of our living room to find the source of the noise, something astonishing greeted me. A marching band was cued up in the street. Their uniforms were a deep grenadier red, with double point waists, and trefoil sleeves. Their helmets had enormous, white plumes, and in their hands, at least 200 men and woman held gleaming, brass trombones, handsome clarinets, or large drums.
I waved at one of the trombone players. He nodded his head and whispered something to the players around him. and they began to play. Something propped against the wall near the front door caught my eye. A gleaming, chrome baton, that hadn’t been there moments before, was waiting for someone to pick it up.
Looking at my family, I grasped the baton in my hand. This seemed trigger an amplification in the music outside. It burst through the closed door with ringing clarity; it swelled in my mind, and rose effervescently in my chest. It spilled in to the house, filling it like gas, until everyone in my family was smiling as a result. Their hands and feet tapped to the cadence. The concentrated happiness that began at seeing my mom back finally forced its way from my body. I laughed hysterically until my stomach hurt, and my eyes swam with tears. I motioned to my family to rise. My parents stood, positively beaming, and fell in line behind me. My brother and sister followed suit, and soon, we began marching towards the front door in unison to join the celebration outside.
Confetti was thrown in to the air as we made our exit, and the full force of the ragtime melody hit us with the force of a semi truck. My family swaggered down the front steps, and I watched in wonder as the inhabitants of the houses surrounding our own, streamed from their front doors, marching in time. An assembly of people gathered around the band.
I paused a moment and surveyed the carnival-like atmosphere my family’s joy had created. Small children laughed and clapped as they watched in amazement as acrobats performed aerial feats high above them, suspended on telephone wires. Grown men and woman ran to greet my family with enormous smiles, holding aloft banners that read, “Welcome Home, Karen!” and “Glad to Have You Back!” Balloons held my attention momentarily as they flew in to the sky, only to be diverted seconds later to an airplane writing the words, “SHE’S HOME!” with incandescent clouds.
The atmosphere finally overwhelmed me, and I bolted from the street in a blur of movement. I seemed to catch everyone’s attention as I leapt up the cement retaining wall, sidestepping the newly potted plants along the way. Along the uppermost step, someone had placed a small trampoline in a divine moment of serendipity. I charged it and jumped. It allowed me to perform a perfect 360-degree, midair summersault, and I landed neatly on the top of the garage with the dull thud of sneaker meeting vinyl. The sound had driven all others away, and as I turned to look at everyone’s faces, I found they were already staring at me. Absolute silence filled the scene, until, perhaps sensing what was about the happen, everyone began slapping their knees and the tuba players created a steady beat. I bent my knees in time to the tempo.
“Friends,” I smiled, as I sang with a force only a nine year old could summon.
“We might all be strangers here,
Behind closed door you might not know what you failed to see.
For the last eight months you’ve been unaware of my domestic catastrophes.
I’m talking ‘bout the loss of dear old mom in my brand new home.
I had trouble (“Trouble, trouble,” the crowd whispered, raising their arms),
I say trouble, she was living with Willie
That was trouble with a “D,”
What could it be?
I mean divorce!
I surely had trouble (“Trouble, trouble”),
She was livin’ with Willie (With Willie?!).
With Willie!” I added emphatically, pumping my fist. “Surely none of you would disagree.”
With my knees continuing to bob, I made a sweeping gesture with an outstretched finger, pointing at the disconcerted mob.
“Now, before you all get worried, I’m glad to say they’ve reconciled
My world’s intact; my mother’s back, she’s with my dad!
For the next eight months, and maybe more, there’ll be no fights behind closed doors
Because my dear old mom is finally home.
I had trouble, my friends, right here.
I say trouble she was living with Willie.
That was trouble with a “D,”
What could it be?
I mean divorce!
I surely had trouble,
Gasping for breath, I shouted the last line, “But, now it’s gone, because she’s home!
Laughter and applause rent the still air. The women were crying and the men were clapping vigorously.
I paused, and spun in place, overtaken with joy, and fell backwards. Wind rushed past my ears momentarily, until I was caught with a gentle nudge, born on the arms of my neighbors. When they set me down, I continued, “It’s a brand new day, and I’m glad to say—” The noise reached a frenzied pitch, as the marching band began to part down the middle like the red sea, and through it came a float carrying my mother and father. They were waving and smiling. Laughter errupted from my mother as she caught my eye. She took a breath and finished my song, I'm finally HOME!
Kendall’s mom turned off the van, and we slid the large door open, and ambled out. Kendall helped my brother and me with our suitcases and sleeping bags, and moments later, we said our goodbyes. “See you at church tomorrow, Ken.” I waved, and picked up my stuff. It jostled against my leg, as I prepared myself for the image that was bound to greet me, as I cast a sidelong look at the flowers. My now-crazy, plant-loving father would probably be squawking like a duck in the living room.
When I opened the front door, my brother and I saw something completely different. My mouth gaped and eyes bulged in astonishment. My dad was sitting on the couch, not fondly caressing the leaf of a chrysanthemum, but instead had his arm wrapped around my mother’s. They turned and smiled at the both of us.
“Hi, boys,” my mom said cheerfully.
I continued staring, and when I regained my senses, I replied. “Hey. When did you get back?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“Are you staying?” I asked.
“Yes.” She smiled broadly. My face split in to a grin. Joy pulsated through my body in radiating waves. A faint rhythmic beat tumbled towards my ears. It spiraled up the street, at first as a tremulous whisper, and gathered speed until it was roaring like a windstorm at the front of my house. I know I been imagining it, because as I flitted to the open window of our living room to find the source of the noise, something astonishing greeted me. A marching band was cued up in the street. Their uniforms were a deep grenadier red, with double point waists, and trefoil sleeves. Their helmets had enormous, white plumes, and in their hands, at least 200 men and woman held gleaming, brass trombones, handsome clarinets, or large drums.
I waved at one of the trombone players. He nodded his head and whispered something to the players around him. and they began to play. Something propped against the wall near the front door caught my eye. A gleaming, chrome baton, that hadn’t been there moments before, was waiting for someone to pick it up.
Looking at my family, I grasped the baton in my hand. This seemed trigger an amplification in the music outside. It burst through the closed door with ringing clarity; it swelled in my mind, and rose effervescently in my chest. It spilled in to the house, filling it like gas, until everyone in my family was smiling as a result. Their hands and feet tapped to the cadence. The concentrated happiness that began at seeing my mom back finally forced its way from my body. I laughed hysterically until my stomach hurt, and my eyes swam with tears. I motioned to my family to rise. My parents stood, positively beaming, and fell in line behind me. My brother and sister followed suit, and soon, we began marching towards the front door in unison to join the celebration outside.
Confetti was thrown in to the air as we made our exit, and the full force of the ragtime melody hit us with the force of a semi truck. My family swaggered down the front steps, and I watched in wonder as the inhabitants of the houses surrounding our own, streamed from their front doors, marching in time. An assembly of people gathered around the band.
I paused a moment and surveyed the carnival-like atmosphere my family’s joy had created. Small children laughed and clapped as they watched in amazement as acrobats performed aerial feats high above them, suspended on telephone wires. Grown men and woman ran to greet my family with enormous smiles, holding aloft banners that read, “Welcome Home, Karen!” and “Glad to Have You Back!” Balloons held my attention momentarily as they flew in to the sky, only to be diverted seconds later to an airplane writing the words, “SHE’S HOME!” with incandescent clouds.
The atmosphere finally overwhelmed me, and I bolted from the street in a blur of movement. I seemed to catch everyone’s attention as I leapt up the cement retaining wall, sidestepping the newly potted plants along the way. Along the uppermost step, someone had placed a small trampoline in a divine moment of serendipity. I charged it and jumped. It allowed me to perform a perfect 360-degree, midair summersault, and I landed neatly on the top of the garage with the dull thud of sneaker meeting vinyl. The sound had driven all others away, and as I turned to look at everyone’s faces, I found they were already staring at me. Absolute silence filled the scene, until, perhaps sensing what was about the happen, everyone began slapping their knees and the tuba players created a steady beat. I bent my knees in time to the tempo.
“Friends,” I smiled, as I sang with a force only a nine year old could summon.
“We might all be strangers here,
Behind closed door you might not know what you failed to see.
For the last eight months you’ve been unaware of my domestic catastrophes.
I’m talking ‘bout the loss of dear old mom in my brand new home.
I had trouble (“Trouble, trouble,” the crowd whispered, raising their arms),
I say trouble, she was living with Willie
That was trouble with a “D,”
What could it be?
I mean divorce!
I surely had trouble (“Trouble, trouble”),
She was livin’ with Willie (With Willie?!).
With Willie!” I added emphatically, pumping my fist. “Surely none of you would disagree.”
With my knees continuing to bob, I made a sweeping gesture with an outstretched finger, pointing at the disconcerted mob.
“Now, before you all get worried, I’m glad to say they’ve reconciled
My world’s intact; my mother’s back, she’s with my dad!
For the next eight months, and maybe more, there’ll be no fights behind closed doors
Because my dear old mom is finally home.
I had trouble, my friends, right here.
I say trouble she was living with Willie.
That was trouble with a “D,”
What could it be?
I mean divorce!
I surely had trouble,
Gasping for breath, I shouted the last line, “But, now it’s gone, because she’s home!
Laughter and applause rent the still air. The women were crying and the men were clapping vigorously.
I paused, and spun in place, overtaken with joy, and fell backwards. Wind rushed past my ears momentarily, until I was caught with a gentle nudge, born on the arms of my neighbors. When they set me down, I continued, “It’s a brand new day, and I’m glad to say—” The noise reached a frenzied pitch, as the marching band began to part down the middle like the red sea, and through it came a float carrying my mother and father. They were waving and smiling. Laughter errupted from my mother as she caught my eye. She took a breath and finished my song, I'm finally HOME!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Long Awaited Return-THE CHAIR
Hello. This is a portion of the book that deals with me forgiving my mother. It's pretty long, and I didn't feel like spending 20 minutes trying to make it look nice in blogger either. But, I suppose you take what you can get, eh?
I ambled through the halls of my dormitory with a specific mission in mind. Jonathan had lent me twenty dollars to take a girl out on a date, and I was returning it to him. When I reached his room, the door was open, and he beckoned me inside.
“Hey, man,” I said, plopping down on his bed. He swiveled his computer chair to face me. “What’s up, Donkey Kong?” he said, using one of the many nicknames he had bestowed upon me.
“I was just returning the money you let me borrow the other day.”
“Oh, right. I’d forgotten about that. Well?” he smiled. “How’d it go?”
I smiled ruefully. “It went all right, until we reached the topics of families. That’s when I started talking about my mom, and had to fight back tears like an overgrown man-child.”
“Ah.”
“I just don’t know what the problem is, man. She died three years ago, you know? And every time I start to talk about her, I burst in to tears. I wish I could just—” I trailed away, tears already threatening my voice. I forced them down. “I wish I could just forget about it, and move on.”
He nodded slowly, got up from his chair, and walked across the room. He shut the door, and locked it. He sat down across from me on the weight bench he used for working out. ‘You know, there is a way, Dan. Something I could try with you.”
I was willing to do anything. My nightmares were increasing, and I awoke several nights a week with tears on my face screaming, “Mom! NO!”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Something Professor Welch did with us today in my Minister as Counselor class. It’s called the ‘Empty Chair Technique.’ It’s used in Gestalt therapy. You basically visualize the thing you are angry with in an empty chair, and work through your problems. In your case,” he replied gravely, “it would be your mother.”
“Why do you think I need to do this?” I had my own reasons, but I needed to hear my suspicions confirmed from a friend as well.
“I think you have a lot of unresolved bitterness towards your mom, that you won’t be able to get through unless you face it head on.”
It was all I needed to hear. Apparently, my friends were observing the inner turmoil I was experiencing as well. I quietly braced myself for the confrontation, and whispered, “All right. I’ll do it.”
“Yeah?” Jonathan sounded surprised. He smiled sheepishly, grabbed a chair with his calloused hands, and set it in front of me. He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, this might be a little weird at first,” he chuckled, “but bear with me. I really think you need to do this.”
I laughed nervously. “All right.”
“Okay, I want you to imagine your mom in this chair. Picture the way she looked in your mind.” He paused a moment, while I tried to summon the image from my memory. “And now,” he continued, “I want you to tell her how you felt when she makes you feel.”
I ran my hands through dense curls and laughed. “Okay…Mom, I—What do you want me to tell it—the chair? Tell ‘her.’ My mother. What do you want me to say to my mom!”
He chuckled. “I told you this might be a little silly at first, but hang in there. All right, just tell your mom how you feel about her.”
“I’m mad at her because—”
“Don’t tell me. Tell her.” Jonathan indicated the empty chair once more.
“Uh…um...I’m mad at you—mom. Satisfied?” I blushed, and looked at Jonathan. This was humiliating.
“Tell her why you’re mad at her.”
I smiled. “I want you to know that I’m never borrowing money from you again.”
Jonathan threw his head back and laughed.
I cast the chair an uneven look. “I’m mad at you because you cheated on dad and abandoned your children.” I turned my attention back to Jonathan.
“Why else?”
The surrounding noise in Snowbarger’s hallways seemed to fade; absorbed by the protective barrier of the thick, cement walls. The exercise was losing its novelty. It was intrusive and embarrassing. “Do I have to do this?”
He hesitated, “Yes. I think that you have to get through some of your bitterness you have towards your mom. You have all of these feelings pent up, and it’s tearing you apart. I honestly think this is the best way to work through those.”
The world was waiting for my response. My mother was on trial. To my right, I saw Jonathan standing by his bedside, coaxing me onward, drawing me out, and forcing me deeper in to my pain. The shoddy, wooden chair wasn’t empty anymore. My mother was sitting in it. She looked the way she did before she was diagnosed with cancer. Her head and shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. She looked at me, but said nothing. She never had any answers. Her whole life seemed to be a question mark, and I was the dot that punctuated her life. I dove in.
“You robbed me of an adolescence, mom. You were too busy watching of for yourself to even think about your children. You didn’t seem to have any problems discarding us, for—what? Your occasional, afternoon visits? You kept coming and going. I wish Dad never took you back. You should have been lonely. You should have suffered!” I leaned forward in my chair; my voice wavered. Every hateful thing I had longed to say for years, fell from my lips like toxic bile. Still more came.
“And that doesn’t explain why you left! Was it dad? Wasn’t he good enough for you? Didn’t you love him? I’ve been trying to figure things out and I keep coming up with nothing! Did you even love me?” Tears swam in my eyes and fell down my cheeks. “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand you. You had everything and you threw it all away.” I jabbed a finger towards her and wept, “You could have tried, but you dumped everything on us, and you left! And now you’re dead and I don’t have anything!
She was crying as well. She was beyond redemption and she knew it.
Several minutes passed in silence as I let her absorb the weight of my accusations, while Jonathan stood by his bed, presiding over her trial.
He cleared his throat. “This next part is going to be hard.”
“Why?” I croaked.
“I want you to forgive her now.”
“What?”
“You can’t hold on to this anymore, Dan. You have to realize that your mom was human. She was vulnerable and had weaknesses like you do. I know what she did was pretty bad, but you have to forgive her.”
“I don’t know if I—”
“Do you love your mom?”
Unwillingly, I remembered the camping trips, the Christmas cookies, her laugh, and her boxy glasses. “Yes,” I muttered.
“Then you have to let this go and accept that she made mistakes. They were pretty big mistakes, but you can’t blame her anymore. It’s killing you.”
A stray memory came to mind, and my sister in law’s voice echoed in my ears. “Your dad found $14,000 worth of credit card bills.”
“I don’t know if I can do this, Jonathan.”
“If you can’t, there’s no use going on with this exercise. You have to be able to accept your mom’s humanity.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. My mom sat opposite me, shame faced, with her face wet with tears. Despite my hatred, I wanted to hold her. I wanted to go back to the basement when I was nine years old, with the faint chords of Stand by Me drifting from the television. If I could have stopped her from leaving, if I could have just made her stay, things would have turned out so differently. And in realizing that childish dream, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, and I saw my mother for who she really was. Not as a malicious villain who intentionally ruined my life, but as a person who made mistakes. I still hated those choices, but I was finally able to separate them from mother. I lifted my tear-stained face, and met her eyes. “I love you. I forgive you, mom.”
“You may not feel like you meant those words,” Jonathan encouraged, “but it’s a huge step you were able to say them. Yeah. I’m really proud of you, Dan.”
“Thanks.”
“Now comes the hardest part, Dan.”
“What could possibly be harder?” I thought. I had finally come to terms with my mother.
“Now, I want you to say goodbye to her”
“What? Why?” This had been unexpected. How could I let her go now?
“You can’t stay chained to your mother’s ghost. You’ve told her what you needed to say. Now you need to let her go, so that you can finally move on.” He moved in and patted me on the shoulder. “I’m going to leave while you say goodbye. Take as long as you need. But when you’re done, leave your mother here, and move on with your life.” As he made his way to the door, he turned again. “I’m really proud of you, Dan.” The door opened, and I heard laughter pour in from the hallway. He closed it quietly locked it behind him.
My mother sat perched on her chair; her face cradled in her hands. I gasped for breath, and fresh tears poured from my eyes. Why did it have to be so hard? “Mom?” I began slowly. “I—I h-have to say g-goodbye now.” My heart broke as I watched her body shudder with renewed sobs. “I can’t k-keep holding on t-to you. I can finally look at you without feeling angry or upset. That’s a big step for me, mom.” I imagined her lifting her glasses, and wiping her eyes. She looked at me. You l-loved me, and you did the best you could. I know that n-now. I miss you—And I love you, but I have to let go now.” I stood from my chair, and whispered, “Goodbye.”
I strode across the room and wiped my eyes. Without looking back, I walked out of Jonathan’s room, feeling lighter than I had in years.
I ambled through the halls of my dormitory with a specific mission in mind. Jonathan had lent me twenty dollars to take a girl out on a date, and I was returning it to him. When I reached his room, the door was open, and he beckoned me inside.
“Hey, man,” I said, plopping down on his bed. He swiveled his computer chair to face me. “What’s up, Donkey Kong?” he said, using one of the many nicknames he had bestowed upon me.
“I was just returning the money you let me borrow the other day.”
“Oh, right. I’d forgotten about that. Well?” he smiled. “How’d it go?”
I smiled ruefully. “It went all right, until we reached the topics of families. That’s when I started talking about my mom, and had to fight back tears like an overgrown man-child.”
“Ah.”
“I just don’t know what the problem is, man. She died three years ago, you know? And every time I start to talk about her, I burst in to tears. I wish I could just—” I trailed away, tears already threatening my voice. I forced them down. “I wish I could just forget about it, and move on.”
He nodded slowly, got up from his chair, and walked across the room. He shut the door, and locked it. He sat down across from me on the weight bench he used for working out. ‘You know, there is a way, Dan. Something I could try with you.”
I was willing to do anything. My nightmares were increasing, and I awoke several nights a week with tears on my face screaming, “Mom! NO!”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Something Professor Welch did with us today in my Minister as Counselor class. It’s called the ‘Empty Chair Technique.’ It’s used in Gestalt therapy. You basically visualize the thing you are angry with in an empty chair, and work through your problems. In your case,” he replied gravely, “it would be your mother.”
“Why do you think I need to do this?” I had my own reasons, but I needed to hear my suspicions confirmed from a friend as well.
“I think you have a lot of unresolved bitterness towards your mom, that you won’t be able to get through unless you face it head on.”
It was all I needed to hear. Apparently, my friends were observing the inner turmoil I was experiencing as well. I quietly braced myself for the confrontation, and whispered, “All right. I’ll do it.”
“Yeah?” Jonathan sounded surprised. He smiled sheepishly, grabbed a chair with his calloused hands, and set it in front of me. He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, this might be a little weird at first,” he chuckled, “but bear with me. I really think you need to do this.”
I laughed nervously. “All right.”
“Okay, I want you to imagine your mom in this chair. Picture the way she looked in your mind.” He paused a moment, while I tried to summon the image from my memory. “And now,” he continued, “I want you to tell her how you felt when she makes you feel.”
I ran my hands through dense curls and laughed. “Okay…Mom, I—What do you want me to tell it—the chair? Tell ‘her.’ My mother. What do you want me to say to my mom!”
He chuckled. “I told you this might be a little silly at first, but hang in there. All right, just tell your mom how you feel about her.”
“I’m mad at her because—”
“Don’t tell me. Tell her.” Jonathan indicated the empty chair once more.
“Uh…um...I’m mad at you—mom. Satisfied?” I blushed, and looked at Jonathan. This was humiliating.
“Tell her why you’re mad at her.”
I smiled. “I want you to know that I’m never borrowing money from you again.”
Jonathan threw his head back and laughed.
I cast the chair an uneven look. “I’m mad at you because you cheated on dad and abandoned your children.” I turned my attention back to Jonathan.
“Why else?”
The surrounding noise in Snowbarger’s hallways seemed to fade; absorbed by the protective barrier of the thick, cement walls. The exercise was losing its novelty. It was intrusive and embarrassing. “Do I have to do this?”
He hesitated, “Yes. I think that you have to get through some of your bitterness you have towards your mom. You have all of these feelings pent up, and it’s tearing you apart. I honestly think this is the best way to work through those.”
The world was waiting for my response. My mother was on trial. To my right, I saw Jonathan standing by his bedside, coaxing me onward, drawing me out, and forcing me deeper in to my pain. The shoddy, wooden chair wasn’t empty anymore. My mother was sitting in it. She looked the way she did before she was diagnosed with cancer. Her head and shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. She looked at me, but said nothing. She never had any answers. Her whole life seemed to be a question mark, and I was the dot that punctuated her life. I dove in.
“You robbed me of an adolescence, mom. You were too busy watching of for yourself to even think about your children. You didn’t seem to have any problems discarding us, for—what? Your occasional, afternoon visits? You kept coming and going. I wish Dad never took you back. You should have been lonely. You should have suffered!” I leaned forward in my chair; my voice wavered. Every hateful thing I had longed to say for years, fell from my lips like toxic bile. Still more came.
“And that doesn’t explain why you left! Was it dad? Wasn’t he good enough for you? Didn’t you love him? I’ve been trying to figure things out and I keep coming up with nothing! Did you even love me?” Tears swam in my eyes and fell down my cheeks. “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand you. You had everything and you threw it all away.” I jabbed a finger towards her and wept, “You could have tried, but you dumped everything on us, and you left! And now you’re dead and I don’t have anything!
She was crying as well. She was beyond redemption and she knew it.
Several minutes passed in silence as I let her absorb the weight of my accusations, while Jonathan stood by his bed, presiding over her trial.
He cleared his throat. “This next part is going to be hard.”
“Why?” I croaked.
“I want you to forgive her now.”
“What?”
“You can’t hold on to this anymore, Dan. You have to realize that your mom was human. She was vulnerable and had weaknesses like you do. I know what she did was pretty bad, but you have to forgive her.”
“I don’t know if I—”
“Do you love your mom?”
Unwillingly, I remembered the camping trips, the Christmas cookies, her laugh, and her boxy glasses. “Yes,” I muttered.
“Then you have to let this go and accept that she made mistakes. They were pretty big mistakes, but you can’t blame her anymore. It’s killing you.”
A stray memory came to mind, and my sister in law’s voice echoed in my ears. “Your dad found $14,000 worth of credit card bills.”
“I don’t know if I can do this, Jonathan.”
“If you can’t, there’s no use going on with this exercise. You have to be able to accept your mom’s humanity.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. My mom sat opposite me, shame faced, with her face wet with tears. Despite my hatred, I wanted to hold her. I wanted to go back to the basement when I was nine years old, with the faint chords of Stand by Me drifting from the television. If I could have stopped her from leaving, if I could have just made her stay, things would have turned out so differently. And in realizing that childish dream, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, and I saw my mother for who she really was. Not as a malicious villain who intentionally ruined my life, but as a person who made mistakes. I still hated those choices, but I was finally able to separate them from mother. I lifted my tear-stained face, and met her eyes. “I love you. I forgive you, mom.”
“You may not feel like you meant those words,” Jonathan encouraged, “but it’s a huge step you were able to say them. Yeah. I’m really proud of you, Dan.”
“Thanks.”
“Now comes the hardest part, Dan.”
“What could possibly be harder?” I thought. I had finally come to terms with my mother.
“Now, I want you to say goodbye to her”
“What? Why?” This had been unexpected. How could I let her go now?
“You can’t stay chained to your mother’s ghost. You’ve told her what you needed to say. Now you need to let her go, so that you can finally move on.” He moved in and patted me on the shoulder. “I’m going to leave while you say goodbye. Take as long as you need. But when you’re done, leave your mother here, and move on with your life.” As he made his way to the door, he turned again. “I’m really proud of you, Dan.” The door opened, and I heard laughter pour in from the hallway. He closed it quietly locked it behind him.
My mother sat perched on her chair; her face cradled in her hands. I gasped for breath, and fresh tears poured from my eyes. Why did it have to be so hard? “Mom?” I began slowly. “I—I h-have to say g-goodbye now.” My heart broke as I watched her body shudder with renewed sobs. “I can’t k-keep holding on t-to you. I can finally look at you without feeling angry or upset. That’s a big step for me, mom.” I imagined her lifting her glasses, and wiping her eyes. She looked at me. You l-loved me, and you did the best you could. I know that n-now. I miss you—And I love you, but I have to let go now.” I stood from my chair, and whispered, “Goodbye.”
I strode across the room and wiped my eyes. Without looking back, I walked out of Jonathan’s room, feeling lighter than I had in years.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
More, New Holy Craps.
Tell me what you think! I'm trying to gauge their humor.
1. Me? Believe in Evolutionary biology? When pigs fly.
2. People would stop underestimating God if He stopped using the conjunction "ain't."
3. I think the first thing Adam said when he saw Satan in the garden was, "Snakes. Why'd it have to be snakes??" And his name was actually Indiana Jones.
4. Jesus said a lot of great things. They should put them in a book. And put one in every bathroom so people could have something to read.
5. If I were John the Baptist, and everyone thought I was crazy, I would have clucked like a chicken every time I spoke. Hey, I’d be crazy not to.
6. I bet Jesus is just waiting for gas prices to go back down before He returns, because come on, three dollars? Not on a carpenter's salary.
1. Me? Believe in Evolutionary biology? When pigs fly.
2. People would stop underestimating God if He stopped using the conjunction "ain't."
3. I think the first thing Adam said when he saw Satan in the garden was, "Snakes. Why'd it have to be snakes??" And his name was actually Indiana Jones.
4. Jesus said a lot of great things. They should put them in a book. And put one in every bathroom so people could have something to read.
5. If I were John the Baptist, and everyone thought I was crazy, I would have clucked like a chicken every time I spoke. Hey, I’d be crazy not to.
6. I bet Jesus is just waiting for gas prices to go back down before He returns, because come on, three dollars? Not on a carpenter's salary.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Deeper Holy Crap
Holy Craps I'm working on...
1. Samson was the first successful hippie. He had long hair and brought down the establishment with his bare hands. Oh yeah, he also ate honey from a dead donkey’s jaw bone. Hippies do that, right?
2. If planes were around when Pontius Pilate was alive, I bet he would have bought a jet, and flown that thing all over the place.
3. When Judas looked in to the eyes of Jesus on the night he betrayed him, he was shocked. Had his beard always been that long?
4. I walk a fine line between blasphemy and heresy. Unfortunately I walk it like a college student on spring break.
5. When the Devil sneezes, it’s blastphlegmy.
6. One of the Israelites who were fed up with the Manna God was miraculously providing, often complained, “Manna, I’ma tired of thisa bread.” His name was Mario. He just wanted some mushrooms and to save the princess, but she was in another castle.
7. When the floodwaters started pouring down, Noah probably opened an umbrella and said, “Tut, tut, looks like rain.” One the red-shirted, yellow bears on board replied, “Oh, bother.” Time to lay off the peyote, Noah.
1. Samson was the first successful hippie. He had long hair and brought down the establishment with his bare hands. Oh yeah, he also ate honey from a dead donkey’s jaw bone. Hippies do that, right?
2. If planes were around when Pontius Pilate was alive, I bet he would have bought a jet, and flown that thing all over the place.
3. When Judas looked in to the eyes of Jesus on the night he betrayed him, he was shocked. Had his beard always been that long?
4. I walk a fine line between blasphemy and heresy. Unfortunately I walk it like a college student on spring break.
5. When the Devil sneezes, it’s blastphlegmy.
6. One of the Israelites who were fed up with the Manna God was miraculously providing, often complained, “Manna, I’ma tired of thisa bread.” His name was Mario. He just wanted some mushrooms and to save the princess, but she was in another castle.
7. When the floodwaters started pouring down, Noah probably opened an umbrella and said, “Tut, tut, looks like rain.” One the red-shirted, yellow bears on board replied, “Oh, bother.” Time to lay off the peyote, Noah.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
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