I've been away.
I've been to other places, heard other voices.
Some by choice.
Others not.
What were they trying to say?
What were they trying to be?
I've been away.
I've been to other places - in my mind, in my car, in my heart, in my gut.
I've heard other things - in churches, in boardrooms, in voicemails, in silence.
I've heard other voices - of disbelief, of outrage, of disgust, of denials, of lies.
Wondered what they were trying to say - to me, to themselves, to the church, to each other.
Wondered what they were trying to be - illusions, shadows, delusions or all three?
I've been away.
Now, I'm back.
It matters not what they were trying to say
It matters not what they were trying to be
None of their sour dissident clamoring stands up to the Truth.
One day they'll try to explain, make account for, defend their noisy painful clanging
But it won't be to me.
It won't be for me.
It'll be for their souls, for their flickering and fading lights
Which when given the chance to grow, to shine, to mature, to give truthful witness
By choice
They declined.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
Dementia and the Restaurant
Tonight I received an email from an old friend of my parents and it started with, "How is your mother getting along? We sent her a Christmas card but as you had indicated she might not respond."
No, she didn't respond because she thinks he's someone who worked at a restaurant in Libertyville, Ill., where she and my Dad used to go in the 1980's.
When I talked to her on Christmas Day she said, "I got cards from all these people I don't know, but I think they worked at that restaurant." My Mom's always loved the idea of people working for her so as she moves deeper into the fog of dementia it makes sense to me that she's starting to place extraneous people into such a group. Soon everyone will be her cleaning lady, accountant, cook, waiter, or hairstylist. She always loved beautiful jewelry, lovely clothes, expensive meals out, good wine, and keeping track of her money. But, all of that has changed now.
Last week she received a small package from me with two pairs of quite inexpensive slacks with stretch waistbands. On Christmas she'd told me she only had one pair of pants. Of course, this wasn't true, but that doesn't really matter at this point. The facility director told me she was very happy with them and Mom told him she's going to write me a thank you note.
She's most likely written it in her head. It won't be coming in the mail. She just can't write anymore. When I sent her new address to people she'd lost touch with over the past several years I mentioned she couldn't write back. Many of them have known her since the early 1960's, but now they just work at the restaurant.
Should I tell them?
No, she didn't respond because she thinks he's someone who worked at a restaurant in Libertyville, Ill., where she and my Dad used to go in the 1980's.
When I talked to her on Christmas Day she said, "I got cards from all these people I don't know, but I think they worked at that restaurant." My Mom's always loved the idea of people working for her so as she moves deeper into the fog of dementia it makes sense to me that she's starting to place extraneous people into such a group. Soon everyone will be her cleaning lady, accountant, cook, waiter, or hairstylist. She always loved beautiful jewelry, lovely clothes, expensive meals out, good wine, and keeping track of her money. But, all of that has changed now.
Last week she received a small package from me with two pairs of quite inexpensive slacks with stretch waistbands. On Christmas she'd told me she only had one pair of pants. Of course, this wasn't true, but that doesn't really matter at this point. The facility director told me she was very happy with them and Mom told him she's going to write me a thank you note.
She's most likely written it in her head. It won't be coming in the mail. She just can't write anymore. When I sent her new address to people she'd lost touch with over the past several years I mentioned she couldn't write back. Many of them have known her since the early 1960's, but now they just work at the restaurant.
Should I tell them?
Monday, January 21, 2013
The Inauguration and the Vet
Right here he's saying: "And why did you take me to the vet today where I wedged my 104 lb body under a chair so Dr. Johnson couldn't reach me? And why did we have to wait for 45 minutes? And why did I get three shots and a prescription for antibiotics? And why is Dr. Johnson so interested in what I eat? And what's with everyone being worried about my allergies and skin infection? And why does Dad call me a wuss?"
Yes, this is Tahoe. He's had a rough inauguration day. He was so upset about everything that after his photo shoot he threw up his breakfast which Rod ingeniously scooped off the hall carpet with the small snow shovel. And you thought snow shovels were only for snow! No, they are very versatile and ready for dog scooping of all kinds.
Tahoe is sacked out right now. He has no clue, nor interest, in Michelle Obama's gorgeous ball gown tonight. He doesn't care about what the President said this morning. He doesn't even care about what Dr. Johnson decided. He really doesn't care that I need to find a dog food with only one source of protein and one source of carb. Woe is me. But, he's my buddy and I love him.
It's almost bedtime, Tahoe. Almost bedtime.
This Table
This table is very important to me. At least 11,000 meals were shared by my nuclear family of four as I grew up and well into years beyond. I certainly don't have 11,000 clear memories, but the other day my brother, Mark, said to me on the phone, "Well, when you grow up looking at the back of the Wall Street Journal during dinner you become quite interested in business cycles, stocks, etc." Well, he did. I didn't. But, his point is smartly taken. He recalls our Dad perched behind the paper every dinner and I remember many other things. Some good. Some not. But, when our Mom was ready to pitch, literally throw the teak table and chairs into the garbage bin at her condo in 2007, it only took me a matter of seconds to jump in my car, drive the ten hours to her place, just so I could get the table and chairs into my car, into my house, into my life. Since then it has graced our dining room.
For some unexplained reason, last night I had the urge to create a lovely meal in the dining room. As I set the table and made it really pretty I realized the TV would be on during dinner so Rod could see the last, thank God, NFL football play-off game. Apparently, Ray Lewis and Tom Brady would be at dinner with us, too. As Rod closely tracked the game during dinner, I started noticing all the other people there with us. There were only two place settings, but it was a very crowded table.
My maternal grandmother, Edith Larsen, was there in the beautiful crocheted lace tablecloth. Our friends Kristin and Cary Linton from Nebraska were there in the three winter candles burning. My parents and brother were sitting there with us. My friend Evie Duncan from California was there in the handmade placemats we bought in San Anselmo. Rod's mother and grandmother were there, too, in the handmade Amish quilt hanging on the wall purchased in Indiana on a day in the early 90's when they sat bickering in the backseat of our Subaru.
When I look outside the dining room window to see the winter ice and snow, it's particularly warming to take note of all the people, all the relationships represented by the simple and beautiful objects in our home. I'm separated by time, death, space, distance from those mentioned above. But, as the Communion of Saints attests, we continue to live within the tender bounds of each other's love and grace. Whether we are here or there. Whether we are alone or with the gift givers. Whether we are warm or cold. Life and memory keep us in the one place of grace, truth, and wholeness. Thank, God.
For some unexplained reason, last night I had the urge to create a lovely meal in the dining room. As I set the table and made it really pretty I realized the TV would be on during dinner so Rod could see the last, thank God, NFL football play-off game. Apparently, Ray Lewis and Tom Brady would be at dinner with us, too. As Rod closely tracked the game during dinner, I started noticing all the other people there with us. There were only two place settings, but it was a very crowded table.
My maternal grandmother, Edith Larsen, was there in the beautiful crocheted lace tablecloth. Our friends Kristin and Cary Linton from Nebraska were there in the three winter candles burning. My parents and brother were sitting there with us. My friend Evie Duncan from California was there in the handmade placemats we bought in San Anselmo. Rod's mother and grandmother were there, too, in the handmade Amish quilt hanging on the wall purchased in Indiana on a day in the early 90's when they sat bickering in the backseat of our Subaru.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Truth vs. Perspective
There are lots of ways to quantify a snowstorm. Inches of snow can be measured, the number of passes over the driveway with the snow shovel can be counted, the feet of snow piled along the driveway can be measured, and the hundreds of ice sickles hanging from the eaves can be numbered. In order to perform the last task I'd have to tramp through the mounds of snow around the house in sub-freezing weather. No thanks, I can see the truth of the ice sickles decorating the edges. The truth of a snowstorm is easy to see. Other truths, not so much.
When I asked my friend last Sunday why he didn't want to know the truth of the situation at hand he replied that it was more important to move forward. He, and others, said it was far more important to keep relationships just as they are and forget what's happened. After all, he said, isn't it more important to forgive than to focus on something that someone has done and lied about, because after all, we really don't know. His wife added that it's all in the perspective. Ah, the beauty of perspective.
I experienced a new perspective the other night when I came across a newscast from Berlin. It was quite enlightening to hear news from other parts of the world, i.e., Africa, South America, etc., that our media rarely covers. It was also quite educational to hear their report on the activity of the US Congress. It's always valuable to know how others see us and what they value as important. It was important to them to report that Ireland currently holds the EU Presidency and what their plans are. Who knew? I never hear about that on CNN. Anyway, perspective is very important in our complex world.
However, I think people can also use perspective as an out, an exit from the truth. In contrast to this statement, it'd be hard to find anyone in Utah today who'd say, "Well, it's just your perspective that we got hit with a major snowstorm." I venture to guess that person would also be a member of the flat earth society.
When we don't want to hear and accept the truth, saying "It's just your perspective" is an easy route of escape. For instance, if I said, "From my perspective I'm ready to compete as a snowboarder in the next winter Olympics," it'd be quite appropriate for the US Ski Team to laugh in my face because they'd know the truth of, "This woman doesn't even know how to use a snowboard!"
But, when we're talking about clear actions witnessed by others and we choose to say, "Well, that's just your perspective" we tread on dangerous ground that will give way, at some point, under the burden of lies swept under the rug. Either she attacked or she didn't. Either he threatened to shoot someone or he didn't. Either she was paid or she wasn't, etc.
These are not difficult situations to understand. They are more similar to counting inches of snow than the perspective of Europe as it gazes across the pond.
Truth or perspective? In some situations it is difficult to discern. The one I live in right now is not one of them. What is lacking, however, is the courage to clearly delineate between the two. The floor is getting heavier by the day and the rug is fraying from all the garbage it keeps trying to cover.
When I asked my friend last Sunday why he didn't want to know the truth of the situation at hand he replied that it was more important to move forward. He, and others, said it was far more important to keep relationships just as they are and forget what's happened. After all, he said, isn't it more important to forgive than to focus on something that someone has done and lied about, because after all, we really don't know. His wife added that it's all in the perspective. Ah, the beauty of perspective.
I experienced a new perspective the other night when I came across a newscast from Berlin. It was quite enlightening to hear news from other parts of the world, i.e., Africa, South America, etc., that our media rarely covers. It was also quite educational to hear their report on the activity of the US Congress. It's always valuable to know how others see us and what they value as important. It was important to them to report that Ireland currently holds the EU Presidency and what their plans are. Who knew? I never hear about that on CNN. Anyway, perspective is very important in our complex world.
However, I think people can also use perspective as an out, an exit from the truth. In contrast to this statement, it'd be hard to find anyone in Utah today who'd say, "Well, it's just your perspective that we got hit with a major snowstorm." I venture to guess that person would also be a member of the flat earth society.
When we don't want to hear and accept the truth, saying "It's just your perspective" is an easy route of escape. For instance, if I said, "From my perspective I'm ready to compete as a snowboarder in the next winter Olympics," it'd be quite appropriate for the US Ski Team to laugh in my face because they'd know the truth of, "This woman doesn't even know how to use a snowboard!"
But, when we're talking about clear actions witnessed by others and we choose to say, "Well, that's just your perspective" we tread on dangerous ground that will give way, at some point, under the burden of lies swept under the rug. Either she attacked or she didn't. Either he threatened to shoot someone or he didn't. Either she was paid or she wasn't, etc.
These are not difficult situations to understand. They are more similar to counting inches of snow than the perspective of Europe as it gazes across the pond.
Truth or perspective? In some situations it is difficult to discern. The one I live in right now is not one of them. What is lacking, however, is the courage to clearly delineate between the two. The floor is getting heavier by the day and the rug is fraying from all the garbage it keeps trying to cover.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Epiphany
Tahoe, our big black lab, has an epiphany every time we sit down to eat, "What? I don't get to sit on a chair next to you with my own plate on the table? Ah-ha! I must be a dog after all." In his canine world he has this same epiphany, this same ah-ha moment several times a day, every day of his life. He's been at this for four years now. Poor guy. I hope it gets easier for him soon.
But, I am sympathetic to his plight. Coming to terms with the truth of our ah-ha moments, with our personal and even community-wide epiphanies is a daunting task requiring a rare form of courage. Sometimes it just works better to walk away, like Tahoe from the table, only to return the next time to try again, to repeat our version of the truth even if it simply isn't so.
Where does all of this come from? The word itself, epiphany, doesn't even sound like an English word. Well, in fact, it comes from the Greek epiphaneia which means "appearance, manifestation... 1: a feast on January 6 in commemoration of the coming of the Magi as the first manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or in the Eastern Church the baptism of Christ, 2: an appearance or manifestation, esp. of a divine being." (Webster's Dictionary)
Based on the dictionary definition of the word, our cultural translation of it into an ah-ha moment applicable to anything that surprisingly redefines an understanding of ourselves or others is quite a stretch. "Ah-ha" has considerably weakened the original definition and intent.
I have two new calendars in the house and they both tell me that January 6 is actually on a Sunday this year. Neither calendar tells me that it's Epiphany. In our worship service on Sunday we'll sing the traditional "We Three Kings" carol to recall the gifts of those ancient astrologers/Magi from the East ~ Arabia or Mesopotamia, or elsewhere ~ who were Gentiles, the first to honor and worship the Christ child. Hence, Christ's first appearance to the Gentiles. The gifts they brought were hardly appropriate for an infant/toddler. I don't imagine that Baby Jesus was too excited about gold intended for a king, frankincense intended for a priest, and especially myrrh which was an anointing oil used for burial.
Remember, those Magi didn't know their destination point or who they would meet at the end of their long journey. Their faith in the star led them to his place. The gifts they presented had been packed for a very long time by the time they arrived. Undoubtedly, Christ's appearance and manifestation to them was an overwhelming ah-ha moment of the holiest and highest order. They left the valuable gifts with his parents and returned home by another route, as told to do through a dream. They were changed. Their path was altered and their lives sent in a different direction after the epiphany of Christ to them.
Given the fact that many people don't attend church anymore, the few who do pass through such a door this Sunday will, once again, be given the opportunity to imagine, to dream, to believe, to experience the epiphany of Christ. And in that most sacred moment, may our misconceptions, false stories, untruths, and lies about who we are and what we have done fall to the ground as we, too, kneel with whatever gifts we have to bring Him.
But, I am sympathetic to his plight. Coming to terms with the truth of our ah-ha moments, with our personal and even community-wide epiphanies is a daunting task requiring a rare form of courage. Sometimes it just works better to walk away, like Tahoe from the table, only to return the next time to try again, to repeat our version of the truth even if it simply isn't so.
Where does all of this come from? The word itself, epiphany, doesn't even sound like an English word. Well, in fact, it comes from the Greek epiphaneia which means "appearance, manifestation... 1: a feast on January 6 in commemoration of the coming of the Magi as the first manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or in the Eastern Church the baptism of Christ, 2: an appearance or manifestation, esp. of a divine being." (Webster's Dictionary)
Based on the dictionary definition of the word, our cultural translation of it into an ah-ha moment applicable to anything that surprisingly redefines an understanding of ourselves or others is quite a stretch. "Ah-ha" has considerably weakened the original definition and intent.
I have two new calendars in the house and they both tell me that January 6 is actually on a Sunday this year. Neither calendar tells me that it's Epiphany. In our worship service on Sunday we'll sing the traditional "We Three Kings" carol to recall the gifts of those ancient astrologers/Magi from the East ~ Arabia or Mesopotamia, or elsewhere ~ who were Gentiles, the first to honor and worship the Christ child. Hence, Christ's first appearance to the Gentiles. The gifts they brought were hardly appropriate for an infant/toddler. I don't imagine that Baby Jesus was too excited about gold intended for a king, frankincense intended for a priest, and especially myrrh which was an anointing oil used for burial.
Remember, those Magi didn't know their destination point or who they would meet at the end of their long journey. Their faith in the star led them to his place. The gifts they presented had been packed for a very long time by the time they arrived. Undoubtedly, Christ's appearance and manifestation to them was an overwhelming ah-ha moment of the holiest and highest order. They left the valuable gifts with his parents and returned home by another route, as told to do through a dream. They were changed. Their path was altered and their lives sent in a different direction after the epiphany of Christ to them.
Given the fact that many people don't attend church anymore, the few who do pass through such a door this Sunday will, once again, be given the opportunity to imagine, to dream, to believe, to experience the epiphany of Christ. And in that most sacred moment, may our misconceptions, false stories, untruths, and lies about who we are and what we have done fall to the ground as we, too, kneel with whatever gifts we have to bring Him.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Father's Day
It's odd to think about Father's Day in January on the heels of New Year's, but the two holidays have been linked in my heart and mind for about three years now.
My phone rang as we stepped off the ferry in San Francisco that beautiful June day in 2010. I love The City and we were on a trip from Utah to see friends, and as it turned out, family. I'm so sure I didn't sound like myself as I answered his number and I bet he'd say the same now, too. It was another phone call in our dance of getting to know one another. Each call was a little more familiar, but there were always more questions, too. When I got off the phone I told Rod, "OK, we're on - Sunday at noon at a restaurant in Santa Rosa." The next few days filled with our favorite places and people until we came upon the moment of leaving Evie and Dave's house for the rendezvous in Santa Rosa. My dear friend, Evie, said to call her when we got to Mendocino because she just had to know if it was him or not.
The short drive north on Highway 101 seemed quite long that Sunday, but soon enough we were in the parking lot as I looked for the very farthest parking space. My gut told me that a nice long walk to and from the restaurant would be in order. Obviously, my gut and my soul had consulted each other, because as we drove past the restaurant we both said at the same time, "Is that him? Do you think it's him?" I parked and as we made our initial strides towards the sidewalk, he came towards us. My stomach dropped a full flight of stairs and I felt queasy as my eyes sent the data to my brain. My heart and my mind knew in that instance that the tall man walking towards me, whom I'd never met, had my Dad's walk. He walked just like my Dad, who died in 2001. Dad's steps were halted by his failed heart and mine were tested in that parking lot by my own heart trying to open wide enough for the man walking towards me, with Dad's frame and gait.
The lunch we shared was tense with sneak peaks at the other person's eyes, hands, hair, shoulders, etc. It was tense with questions and broken with some laughter. I took a long walk to the car to get the camera and to the restroom so Rod would have a good longtime with him to come to his own conclusion. I knew, though. Having never had the experience of looking at myself in someone else's eyes or seeing my Dad's knuckles on another man's hands or watching another person walk just like him, I still knew. As soon as we got back into our car I asked Rod, "Well?" "It's him alright. It's him."
I met my older brother, Michael, on Father's Day, in 2010.
Moving ahead to just a few days after New Year's January, 2011, I came home for lunch to find a big envelope sticking out of the mailbox. I was expecting it as Michael called to say he'd mailed it. Inside were documents he'd worked three years to extract from the State of California adoption archives. (His aging mother didn't tell him until he was 56 that the father he'd grown up with wasn't his biological father.) There was one paper in particular that all along I'd said I really needed to see and there it was. And there was Dad's signature, too. My hand hit the dining room table as I let out a loud, "No!" in protest over the aged print in my hands. He did it. My Dad gave up his parental rights to Michael in a Los Angeles court room in January, 1955. He conceded them to his ex-wife and her new husband. After two and a half years of dutifully paying child support he let go of Michael.
He never saw Michael again. I do believe he thought about him all the time. How could he not? The story in our little family of four about my Dad's first marriage and "the child" was never true, never honest. The questions I have about the lifelong denial of Michael's existence are beyond number and for another day.
Last June, in 2012, we met Michael a second time for lunch at another restaurant off of Highway 101. I brought him two gifts for his 60th birthday and they were the first birthday gifts I'd ever given him. One was the handmade wooden level our Dad used all of his life and the other was a framed picture I took of Dad in his vineyard in 1994. Michael never got to see Dad use the level or work in the vineyard. But, Michael does get to see him every time he looks in the mirror, looks at his own hands, or catches the reflection of his stride.
There's no telling what I'd give for a family Christmas photo in the 1960's or 70's with my two brothers, Mark and Michael. But, someone else's heart far more important and powerful than that of a child's made that decision and it never came to be.
I do hope for a photo of the three of us now. Albeit not so young and trim as we once all were, but still family. And perhaps, Sarah, will join us. She's my niece I never knew I had until Michael found me and as a twist of fate would have it, she's my Dad's only grandchild. The child he left is the only one who carried on his DNA. She's a lovely young lady. As it should be, because in the end my Dad, our Dad, was always a gentleman. Perhaps the choice he made in 1955 is what ex-husbands did back then. Perhaps he thought it was no different than his own father sending him to an orphanage because he didn't know what to do with a little boy after his wife took off. Perhaps he always thought there'd be time to find Michael and make amends. Perhaps he thought he could explain all of this to Mark and I some day.
I will always be grateful, though, for having met my older brother on Father's Day. Perhaps Dad brought us together after all.
My phone rang as we stepped off the ferry in San Francisco that beautiful June day in 2010. I love The City and we were on a trip from Utah to see friends, and as it turned out, family. I'm so sure I didn't sound like myself as I answered his number and I bet he'd say the same now, too. It was another phone call in our dance of getting to know one another. Each call was a little more familiar, but there were always more questions, too. When I got off the phone I told Rod, "OK, we're on - Sunday at noon at a restaurant in Santa Rosa." The next few days filled with our favorite places and people until we came upon the moment of leaving Evie and Dave's house for the rendezvous in Santa Rosa. My dear friend, Evie, said to call her when we got to Mendocino because she just had to know if it was him or not.
The short drive north on Highway 101 seemed quite long that Sunday, but soon enough we were in the parking lot as I looked for the very farthest parking space. My gut told me that a nice long walk to and from the restaurant would be in order. Obviously, my gut and my soul had consulted each other, because as we drove past the restaurant we both said at the same time, "Is that him? Do you think it's him?" I parked and as we made our initial strides towards the sidewalk, he came towards us. My stomach dropped a full flight of stairs and I felt queasy as my eyes sent the data to my brain. My heart and my mind knew in that instance that the tall man walking towards me, whom I'd never met, had my Dad's walk. He walked just like my Dad, who died in 2001. Dad's steps were halted by his failed heart and mine were tested in that parking lot by my own heart trying to open wide enough for the man walking towards me, with Dad's frame and gait.
The lunch we shared was tense with sneak peaks at the other person's eyes, hands, hair, shoulders, etc. It was tense with questions and broken with some laughter. I took a long walk to the car to get the camera and to the restroom so Rod would have a good longtime with him to come to his own conclusion. I knew, though. Having never had the experience of looking at myself in someone else's eyes or seeing my Dad's knuckles on another man's hands or watching another person walk just like him, I still knew. As soon as we got back into our car I asked Rod, "Well?" "It's him alright. It's him."
I met my older brother, Michael, on Father's Day, in 2010.
Moving ahead to just a few days after New Year's January, 2011, I came home for lunch to find a big envelope sticking out of the mailbox. I was expecting it as Michael called to say he'd mailed it. Inside were documents he'd worked three years to extract from the State of California adoption archives. (His aging mother didn't tell him until he was 56 that the father he'd grown up with wasn't his biological father.) There was one paper in particular that all along I'd said I really needed to see and there it was. And there was Dad's signature, too. My hand hit the dining room table as I let out a loud, "No!" in protest over the aged print in my hands. He did it. My Dad gave up his parental rights to Michael in a Los Angeles court room in January, 1955. He conceded them to his ex-wife and her new husband. After two and a half years of dutifully paying child support he let go of Michael.
He never saw Michael again. I do believe he thought about him all the time. How could he not? The story in our little family of four about my Dad's first marriage and "the child" was never true, never honest. The questions I have about the lifelong denial of Michael's existence are beyond number and for another day.
Last June, in 2012, we met Michael a second time for lunch at another restaurant off of Highway 101. I brought him two gifts for his 60th birthday and they were the first birthday gifts I'd ever given him. One was the handmade wooden level our Dad used all of his life and the other was a framed picture I took of Dad in his vineyard in 1994. Michael never got to see Dad use the level or work in the vineyard. But, Michael does get to see him every time he looks in the mirror, looks at his own hands, or catches the reflection of his stride.
There's no telling what I'd give for a family Christmas photo in the 1960's or 70's with my two brothers, Mark and Michael. But, someone else's heart far more important and powerful than that of a child's made that decision and it never came to be.
I do hope for a photo of the three of us now. Albeit not so young and trim as we once all were, but still family. And perhaps, Sarah, will join us. She's my niece I never knew I had until Michael found me and as a twist of fate would have it, she's my Dad's only grandchild. The child he left is the only one who carried on his DNA. She's a lovely young lady. As it should be, because in the end my Dad, our Dad, was always a gentleman. Perhaps the choice he made in 1955 is what ex-husbands did back then. Perhaps he thought it was no different than his own father sending him to an orphanage because he didn't know what to do with a little boy after his wife took off. Perhaps he always thought there'd be time to find Michael and make amends. Perhaps he thought he could explain all of this to Mark and I some day.
I will always be grateful, though, for having met my older brother on Father's Day. Perhaps Dad brought us together after all.
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