“Just a memento, por favor.” Part 2: “One flew over the cuckoo’s nest; the one who landed was me.”

“Wow, what an amazing cathedral. Let’s go inside.”

We had just finished our interaction with the ironworkers, when we turned the corner and to our right was a marvelous cathedral…with two doors. It was apparent that the door to left was the entrance to the worship chapel. The door to the right was not as obvious, and the sign above the door was more than either of us could translate. Which one?

I pictured the door on the right possibly being the entrance to an adjoining convent or cloister area, which, if true, would likely have a side door into the main chapel. The contrarian side of me reigned, so I suggested we explore that entrance. Upon entering, my initial imagination was confirmed; the area to our left opened to a black-iron framed courtyard flooded with flowers, greenery and the melodies of a stone fountain. But before I could dwell on what I figured was, in fact, a convent or parish residences, Lynn called me over to her discovery on the wall of the far left side hallway. It was an exhibit of ten handcrafted clay sculptures, each representing one of the Ten Commandments. They were apparently historical relics encased in clear Lucite boxes mounted to the wall. As we “oohed and aahed and wowed” the entire length of the display, I remained faintly aware of the fountain’s sound and floral perfume that inundated the air around us.

After viewing all ten boxes, I turned around and walked over to the iron fence, ready to drink in the sensory delights of the courtyard.

When I scanned the area, I realized that what I thought to be a serene cloister…was in fact a courtyard lined along its far end with wheelchairs. And seated in the wheelchairs were men and women; languid, seemingly poured into their varied and awkward positions like the clay figures enclosed and unmoving in the display. Out of the left corner of my eyes I noticed someone walking in and out and around the columns. His frame appeared bent, like something shaped from strands of intertwined pipe cleaners. He was holding his right hand up close to his head and moving it side to side in a mindless waving gesture, his arm bent upwards in an L-shape. Our eyes met. I nodded and smiled, even though he was about 20 yards from where I was standing behind the fence and I wasn’t sure he could see my expression. And as if the glance telegraphed between us he started moving directly to the fence. The closer he came, the closer I understood the depth of the living painting I beheld. He was clearly what would be termed as mentally challenged. His face was frozen in a distorted grin, his tongue protruding out from between the bite of his mislaid teeth. His hands were gnarled and arthritic. His eyes were like those of what I imagine would look like if I stared into the eyes of an angel. Sparkling. Gleaming. Intoxicated, I fell into the spell of their iridescent acceptance.

Sound fled. Time surrendered. Meaning became simply two men separated by a black iron barricade; one kept out, one kept in. He extended his misshapen hand towards the opening in the fence. Without hesitation I reached forward and took his hand, cradling it gently between my hands. His skin… oh, the glory of his skin… soft and velvety like a newborn child’s face. I squeezed gently; our eyes lingered as the shadowed ink in our eyes mingled, acknowledging that we were the same. Broken, yearning and estranged from tenderness by the fences we erect between each other. But, not today. Not now. This was our time.

Our hands slipped apart and I turned slowly to leave, turning one last time to see my brother melting back into the acrylic and canvas. When I walked back into the sunlight I felt its warmth rise through me, a timid whisper: “Brian, this last moment is your memento to home with you to remember this place. And to remember that the ‘other door’ will take you into the truest places of worship; the sanctuary of my heart.”

We left Guatemala the next morning. I couldn’t stop picturing the black iron fence and wondering which one of us was kept in, and which one was kept out.

For emphasis – (b)

"Just a memento, por favor." Part 1 PRT (Parenthesis Reading Time) - 1:25

Do you collect and bring home shot glasses from different cities to where you have travelled? Shot glasses? Beer mugs? Ashtrays? Stuffed animals? Paintings? Sculptures?

Last day in Guatemala. All but four of the team of 27 went to climb the volcano. My friend Lynn and I decided we’d spend the day in Antigua; enjoying the remaining sights, sounds, side streets, architecture and maybe even find a few cool mementos to take home.

When I travel I prefer to avoid the tourist spots, choosing the local streets, hidden doorways and neighborhoods.

We started out; as we walked along the first street I noticed an open door. Inside I saw an elderly man hammering the ruby-hot tip of an iron bar on an anvil. He looked up, I nodded, he smiled and then he gestured for us to come in. We entered into the front room of what was obviously an ornamental ironworks shop. The older man, another man of similar age and a younger man in his 30s were busy working. Robed in the mists of ebony sweat, they were immersed in the toils of art. As we looked around the room I noticed on the table to my left, in front of the man at the anvil, what appeared to be some black metal figures about 9 inches high. Looking closer I could discern that they were angels. The figure I was most drawn to was a king. Amazing etchings and multiple pieces scattered around the errant shapes on the table. With Lynn doing the translating (remember my former post and admitting my limited five or six Spanish phrases?), I asked about the kingly figure, and through the course of discussion asked if it might be for sale. He rested the iron piece and hammer on the anvil, smiled one of those tender Guatemalan smiles and informed us that the piece was, in fact, a part of nativity collection of nine pieces and that they were not for sale individually.

God Sighting Clue #1: A year ago, Lynn had decided to collect unusual nativity scenes from her travels. THE #1 mission for our day was for her to find a nativity scene that would remind her of this amazing week of service, loving on people from another culture (a new Samaria) and gulping huge morsels of this remarkable country. It was the first door; first stop.

In the continued dialogue he shared that they had been working on this group for six months and it was only for sale as the collection. Asking the price, we thought he said it would cost $4,000 quetzala ($491 U.S.).

“Cool. I think that is well worth it,” Lynn replied. Then she paused, frowned and continued. “Wait a minute…no, I think it is $40,000 quetzala ($4910 U.S.). Another pause. “Wow, no way.”

We told him we would not be able to buy it. He smiled again, then gave us a tour of the shop and the many other wonderful pieces they had completed; the most proud for them being a striking weathervane. We spent another 20 minutes enjoying the exchange and left. As we were walking away and commenting on what a marvelous discovery this was, Lynn stopped and turned to me with the following revelation:

God Sighting Clue #2: “It just hit me; do you realize that for that sum of money I could pay for an entire new house to be built for Oscar’s family (the child that Lynn is sponsoring through Compassion International www.compassion.com), with money to spare?” I replied, “Wow, what an insight. Makes me rethink how I think about the mementos we buy and bring home from trips to new places. Fact is that we put these things on the wall or shelf, and then when we die or run out of room they get put in a box, given away or put out at a garage sale. Thank you for this reminder.”

So what? What kind of mementos do you bring home with you from the places you visit? Where do you keep them? Do they remind you of a special moment from your travels? What’s in your collection right now?

We walked on….

More to follow

For emphasis - (b)

"Found in the lost translation." PRT (Parenthesis Reading Time): 1:54

“Como podriamos nosotros orar por usted y su familia?”

Just nine words. I struggled and stammered while delivering this question I had practiced for the end of my visit with Rudy, the boy who for the last two years I have sponsored through Compassion International, www.compassion.com. I was visiting his family’s home with some of my teammates in the small town of Patzicia, Guatemala as a part of the mission trip with a team of 27 people from my home of worship in Nashville; The Village Chapel, www.thevillagechapel.com. I had just visited the home of the other child I sponsor with my niece Olivia who lives in Connecticut; her name is Claudia.

“How may we pray for you and your family?” (Just nine words.)

Just nine words translated for me by our Guatemalan guide, Hugo. Nine words that I felt would be the appropriate way to end our 15-minute interaction focused on bringing gifts for Rudy and his family; an event including 15 people from Tennessee wearing the same blue themed t-shirts, meandering through the narrow streets like unruly children, peering over fences, leaning into alleyways, taking pictures of everything, and finally spilling into their meager space called “Mi casa.” It is part of the proven formula of this very successful child sponsorship organization, whose mission is to help eliminate the travesties of global poverty by providing financial support, education, heath care and expressions of love and hope through the local indigenous church. It’s a blueprint that sponsors over 1 million children in twenty-five countries.

We arrived two days before to visit the project. (Just nine words.)

The Compassion project site is a student center in the middle of the town where close to two hundred children are receiving support, spiritual nourishment and lots of love. The Village Chapel has “adopted” the project to help finance the building’s expansion and has encouraged the sponsorship of fifty-two children through individual families in Nashville. A different team had visited two years prior to help in the construction of an upper story addition for more classroom space. As the bus arrived, the street and stairway to the new addition was lined with a confetti of smiling faces, “Buenas tardes” melodies, glittering eyes and a carousel of festive-colored Guatemalan clothing. Hugs, music, prepared dinner and speeches welcomed us as if we were dignitaries. Two guides and two members of our team darted in and out helping to translate the exuberant words as they washed over us like candied raindrops.

My fatigue was ensnared in silk pockets of anticipation. (Just nine words.)

When we got to the hotel that evening (exhausted from the day of travel beginning at 3:00 A.M.; the wake-up time to arrive at the airport by 4:15 for our 6:00 departure), I lamented the fact that I had not taken the advice from our team leader, who months earlier had encouraged us to take some minimal classes so that we could more effectively communicate with our sponsored kids. I brushed off the suggestion. I just can’t understand why my eighth grade Spanish foray with Ms. Cass didn’t hold.

So, there I am at the very moment of meeting my children; the only prior communication coming through exchanged letters. And all I can muster up are some really baaaaaaad forms of “Hola” (Hello) – “Buenos dias” (Good morning) - “Come te llamas?” (What is your name?) – “Me llamo es Brian” (My name is Brian) – “Adios” (Goodbye) – “Bueno” (Good) – “Hasta manana” (See you tomorrow). Hardly the command of language one might demand for international exchanges. When I met Claudia first, and then Rudy, I searched desperately for a translator. I wanted so much to tell them how glad I was to meet them. I wanted so much to express what this time meant to me and how eager I was to meet their families. I wanted so much to convey what receiving their letters meant to me, and how I promised to be better about writing to them in the future. But, I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t let them know my heart. I couldn’t translate my feelings. I felt anxious, desperate, disconnected and frantic. I was lost.

And then something miraculous happened in my hopeless moments. (Just nine words.)

It happened during one of my erratic glances while scanning the room for some moment of linguistic salvation. My eyes met Rudy’s: I paused, lingered for a moment and then, captured, I poured myself into the sienna depths of his gaze. The dissonance of chaotic images, sounds and colors melted into a dense, serene cream. It was in that instant that our lives fused. Our inks mingled. And the narrative’s author smiled, divinely.

Our stories were discovered, found in the lost translation. (Just nine words.)

So, what? In the next chapter, I will share the ink of emotions that poured out from Rudy’s mother from the question comprised of just nine words. What I found this day in the glances from Rudy, the embraces from Claudia and the tears of hope from Esperanza have altered my future wanderings to undiscovered lands; uncharted expressions likely found in the lost translation of things much bigger than you and me. So grand, that they transcend mere languages. So boundless, that they cannot be placed on parchment. So simple, that they defy intelligence.

Without translation Rudy was able to picture my heart through the little picture stickers he placed all over my face.

Without translation Claudia was able to link together the sky of our lives with a single, braided cotton bracelet that she tied to my wrist.

Without translation, here’s what I learned from a nine-year-old boy and ten-year-old girl from Patzicia, Guatemala:

• If we lost our way, we might just find a better way;
• If we lost our need to use the perfect words to express our feelings, we might just find that our smallest expressions give perfectly treasured feelings;
• If wejust lost our desire to control our situation, we might just find that we could enjoy everything the next situation could manage.

We are nothing without the love reflected from others. (Just nine words.)

Twenty-seven brothers and sisters set out on a mission to Guatemala in hopes of finding new inspirations and relationships in the name of God. They lost themselves to the things they left behind and found things they struggle to put into words. They are living them out loud.

We all have the chance to leave behind our pre-conceived, scripted, memorized and rehearsed words of faith and life behind; the experience of expressing your life and love out loud can be found in sharing chalk drawings on concrete, playing catch or the simple gesture of a hug to say, “your life is important to me.”

I thank God for not knowing the words’ translation. Just nine words. Inserted for emphasis.

(b)

PS -- my one story about the experiences with Rudy and Claudia are special and unique to me...and it is but one of 26 others that have happened here each day with this amazing team of men and women from the Village Chapel; my fellow sojourners. Each child has a different story than mine...and each one is filled with the ink of wanting simply to be seen, known and loved. I encourage you to read the many other stories these people will share about what they left behind and what they took home with them from a little town in Patzcia, Guatemala. When I ask you (I implore you) to consider how much richer your life can be (for so very little) and how you, too, can mean the world to one child (and his family) for generations to come: www.compassion.com .

Cain and Abel. Esaw and Jacob. Moses and Rameses. Richard the Lionheart and King John. Duane and Greg (Allman). The Marios. Alan and Brian. All brothers. But actually, this story starts with Father's Day.

I had a subtle “aha moment” recently while in Nashville. Valerie, my former wife, asked me if I was going to be in town over the weekend and if I could spend some time with her, my son and his family (and my 3 year-old grandson Kinley, aka Captain BubbleKiller). I mentioned I would be in Dallas for business and to spend time with my mom and brother. Her monotone response revealed a tone of disappointment.

“Why, what’s going on?” I asked.

“Well, it is Father’s Day, and we thought it might be good to have dinner to celebrate you.”

Whoa! Yikes! Oops! Senior moment! Brain fart! (*Note - if my ripe language offends you, please note: The English word fart is one of the oldest words in the English vocabulary. Just sayin.) The truth is that it never crossed my mind, even for a moment, that I hold the title of “father,” let alone that anyone would want to celebrate me for this distinction. The question as to “why” I don’t “get it” disarmed me for a good part of the day. We did arrange a “not the real day but close enough” Father’s Day dinner at Applebee’s (one of few that offer Weight Watchers “points” designation to menu items: the WW Clanners know how big this is). It was great fun, especially when Kinley and I pretended to take a nap after a full day together: kids art museum, lunch, the movie, Up! (a must-see flick) and Grand Dude enjoying his 6-point WW dinner.

I felt honored, loved… and this leads me to what I am even more passionate about from this year’s Dad’s day; The Power of Brother’s Days. I am NOT suggesting yet another opportunity for commercial exploitation; and stuff added to our epidemic affliction from Stuff Obesity Syndrome (SOS). I am taking this day to (also) celebrate the magic of brother-to-brother. My brother Alan was 62 on June 22. I am 58. Since I was a kid he has always been my hero: All-State high school basketball player, record-holding high school basketball point scorer (I was at that game that he scored 43 points), “Most Likely to Succeed” Senior, international model, friend to the rich & famous (Grace Slick, Egon Von Furstenberg and others), successful clothier, successful real estate designer & developer and (this makes me crazy) that guy that can wear ANYTHING and always look mah-vel-ous! I have spent many of those years trying to grow through my admiration and to process some “real time” realities; that I was Alan’s “fat little brother Brian, you know the sweaty guy in the marching band who uses a safety pin to hold his pants together,” or responding to the reaction from people when they learned who I was and would say, “Wow, you’re Alan Kagan’s brother? You don’t look anything like him” and others. He was everything I thought I wanted to be.

The unanticipated joy that this story holds, is that over the last three years we are interacting (for the first time in our lives) in ways that have given me a new understanding of what brother and friend and hero truly mean. Life’s trajectories had sent us on divergent paths, with the periodic holidays and family visits being the only times for story updates. Our pages finally merged one year after my separation from Valerie, when he came to spend a weekend with me in Nashville; our first one-on-one time ever. Suffice it say that I was excited, nervous and challenged - the result of the many things we didn’t know about each other and the things we might have thought we knew about each other.

So what? When you stop trying so hard to spread your wings, you often find that the breeze you’ve been fighting lifts and carries you to places unimagined.

The outcome? Our time together opened a bridge between two distant shores, spanned by a structure built from trust, admiration, honesty and agape. I chose agape due to its broad meaning: The love of God; the love of God for humankind; love feast; brotherly lo

Agape, not just love.

Humankind, not just a religious belief.

Love Feast, not just love offerings.

Brotherly, and definitely Other-ly.

My brother is not a father; he’d be any child’s guiding light.

My brother is not a father; I’d put him up against many claiming the title.

My brother is not a father; he won’t get a Father’s Day card, dinner or present.

My brother is not a father; he gets the unconditional love of The Father’s day, every day.

Happy Father’s day, Happy Birthday and Happy Brother’s Day… every day.

For dinner, we’re going to split a hero.

For emphasis – (b)ro

PS. Alan and I shared another journey with our friends in Prague last week. Magic.

"It's a bit lush-scious: but who am I to say?" PRT (Parenthesis Reading Time) - 1:16

If you have had the opportunity to experience any of the innumerable churches in Europe, there is no way to deny the force of their countenance. Standing outside or inside, mere language falls short. Just for conversation let’s try: Majestic. Grand. Opulent. Magnificent. Humbling. Inconceivable. Mind blowing. Awe-inspiring. Splendid. Beyond belief. Lush.

But who am I to say?

We had just visited the shrine of Loreta, with its grand Catholic Church of the Nativity, in one of Prague’s districts. It is located just up the street (literally) from Prazsky hrad (the Prague Castle). Prazsky hrad, a colossal presence, sits unchallenged, impenetrable and is one of Europe’s largest castle/cathedral complexes. Within its walls stands the massive, Gothic edifice of St. Vitus Cathedral. The Loreta’s church, in comparison is a miniature; and just as opulent. It was following these visits that a conversation ignited amongst the members of our group. Some profiles are warranted:

• Friend Lynn: she’s a recent Christ follower who has grown up through exposure to Presbyterian, Episcopal, Anglican and Unitarian thinking;
• Friend Jorge: he’s a Colombian raised in the Catholic church… then leaving the Catholic church… and is now back in the Catholic church (with a few questions and doubts about its policies and some concerns about the Pope’s ability to be relevant in addressing the issues facing all the world’s cultures;
• Brother Alan (not a Trappist monk): he was raised as a conservative Jew… becoming an Agnostic…trying on some Atheism… and is now back to “I don’t get the whole ‘God in a box’ institutional concept and have some real issues with the politically inspired, power motivated and hypocritical things I see”;
• Me, Me: I am the Messy Messianic, aka an ordinary wandering guy, trying to live a godly life within the context of Judeo-Christian teachings (yes, it’s a mouthful; my current attempt to humbly divest myself from the restraints of categorization).

We bantered and volleyed for our points of view:

“It’s a perversion of power, greed and ego. Imagine what we could do if the Catholic Church took just 10% of their wealth and built solutions to AIDS or poverty or literacy or education instead of building museum-palaces.”

"The church was originally built as the focal community gathering place for support, protection, commerce and the like. It was the established environment, the centrum that enabled societal growth.”

“Sure seems more like an art museum and concert hall for classical music than a place where you might find an experience of real faith with God and to be in community with others.

”I really don’t think this is what the Rabbi Jesus and his disciples had in mind.”

Each different. Each correct. Each incorrect.

But who am I to say?

So what? We can argue endlessly about all that is wrong with the church (as many do)...and every religious belief for that matter (as many do). Just choose your flavor of bias; there are hundreds from which to choose.

While we’re at it, let’s make sure to add our other palaces of worship:

• the sacred temples of Wall Street, by the River of Hudson;
• the oasis vacation tents in the Palm of Springs, and in many Communities of the Gated;
• the adorned chariots of the Benzites and Beemeranians;
• the robes of Prada, the draping of Hermes and the sandals of Gucci.

Inspiration and art are blessings; gifts from God.

Places of worship - small and grand, humble and majestic, plain and opulent – are blessings; gifts from God.

Plush silks, rich leathers and tattered rags are blessings; gifts from God.

To locate places of art-full worship on your travels don’t look to find them in the tour pamphlets and map grids, Grey Line bus tours or listening to audio walking guides. They are right here. There. Now. Before. After.

Forever yours.

(b)