Sitting here at the Medford, Oregon airport, 5:46 A.M. Leaving behind memories wrapped in soft cotton memories of a prematurely born little man, just in time. Utah Cohen Sewing. My second grandson. Four days. Many eyes watching. Many hands nurturing. Many hearts caring.
As a parent it humbles your steps when meeting yourself coming down the graveled road in the opposite direction. That was the sense of movement during the details of my four-day visit:
The delicate child Victoria cradled against her breast; the delicate child held against her mother’s breast so many years before.
The delicate child Rick cradled against his chest; the delicate child held against herfather’s chest so many years before.
The tiny hand wrapped around Victoria’s finger for assurance; the tiny hand wrapped around her mother’s finger for assurance so many years before.
The tiny hand wrapped around Rick’s finger for protection; the tiny hand wrapped around her father’s finger for protection so many years before.
Sitting here at 10:42 A.M. descending from over the Rocky Mountains into Denver, coming in for a landing on my way home. Remembering the details of my days at the foot of the mountain.
The Child’s meekness.
The Mother’s breast.
The Father’s hand.
God was in the details, so many years ago.
Just in time.
For emphasis –(b)
Note: Utah is still in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. When I left last night he was 5 pounds...and growing. He is getting stronger every day. He is getting more and more every day. Our family thanks you for being in the loving details.
I was in my early teens in Dallas (1960’s) the first time someone said, “Let’s Jew him down.” It stung…actually it pissed me off. After suppressing the instinctive urge to attack (it’s a Wild at Heart/Braveheart thing) I discussed it with my family and learned my first lesson that bigotry is not just a black-white thing. It was the way it was in the southwest in those racially charged times. I didn’t get it then; I never have. Those years up through to our current time have been a landmine-pocked landscape of change. The moments have been filled with the carnage of hateful debate, resistance to change, fear or anything different than “you” and a painstakingly slow evolution towards the idea of acceptance. So many moments that have catalyzed change…for good. So many sacrifices along the way. Better? Yes. Done? No.
The rest of the team had arrived from the U.S. We were now touring a few of the Berlin districts so that the visitors could discern the culture, ethos and evolving nature of Berlin for our business as mission project. A kaleidoscope of faces, fashions, art, cafes, businesses, art galleries and historical landmarks. Rich. Diverse. Youthful. Vibrant. Evolving.
And then we arrived at the last stop Mike had planned for the day; the Holocaust memorial. Completed in 2005, the structure presents itself to remember the murdered Jews, homosexuals and other unacceptable people groups. The area covers 205,301 sq. ft., forming a vast square-like structure. Comprised of a series of crisscrossed pathways amidst 2,711 vertical pieces of smooth concrete wall, at forst glance it might look like a dense panorama of rooftops with varied heights and angled tops.
“The architect left the definition of his artistic approach to the individual visitor. So, let’s split up and experience it that way, and we will meet up at that far right hand corner.” That was all Mike said.
I considered writing a description of the sensory encounter I felt in the handful of minutes that followed. The emotions are too overwhelming to capture here…and now. I offer you some of the images from my path so that you, too, might have a chance to walk with me, one Israelite who was “Jewed down” deep into this patch quilt of concrete past.
What did you feel? What did you see? What did hear? What will you remember?
Walking through life is the only way to travel…if you really want to see anything.
Mike and I were visiting neighborhoods to get the vibe for our possible project; a business as mission model; a familiar term for new indigenous-honoring ways to introduce the heart of the Bible through living, working and serving the communities in which people live. A softer way to say, “Well, I guess the colonization, proselytizing and Crusades methods of the past might not have been the most God-like approach.”
We were getting the distinctive feel of the culture embodied in the many “districts” of Berlin (100, specifically). Like:
No eye contact in most;
No color in the local’s clothing in most;
Lush green-ways and lakes in the west;
Sparse greenery in the east;
Architectural warmth, character and charm in the west;
Stark, cold and regimented architecture in the east;
Graffiti everywhere;
Clashes of old and new everywhere;
Suppressed images and monuments to the lingering aches of the past;
Expressed images and art to the effervescing promise of the future.
And then, there are the bricks. Mike had just brought us to an intersection not far from the Brandenburg Gate; an historical gateway, now home to the U.S. Embassy and pulsating with tourists, posh hotels and commerce. Four pieces of the Berlin Wall still remained, one of the scattered monuments to this dark period of (in)humanity.
The side on which we were standing was, at that time, the open space between the East and West walls, known as “The Dead Zone”; accurately named for the lives of all those who died trying to escape to freedom. Humbling.
Before moving on, Mike pointed to a set of brick pavers, two parallel rows, that seemed to meander haphazardly in each direction and out of sight. “This is all that remains of the wall, and it circles the entire city to mark its historical perimeter.” He paused, “The German people do not want to forget where or what it was, but want to lose the pain of its physical presence.” Sobering.
Reflecting on the moment while we crossed the street heading towards our car, Mike suddenly stopped me. “Before I forget, look down around your feet and tell me what you see.”
All I noticed was some errant scraps of paper and trash on the sidewalk. Noticing my puzzled expression, he continued, “Look closer and see if you notice anything out of place.” Even before he finished the sentence a metallic gleam caught the periphery of my vision. It was a set of 5 gold squares. Looking closer I noticed engravings with names and dates; “Those are names of the Jewish victims who died in camps or were killed on this site. You’ll now begin to notice them scattered throughout the city.”
Haunting.
We have built walls of hatred, ignorance, fear and tyranny throughout history. We tear them down. We build them. We tear them down….
**CORRECTION: Per my daughter, I humbly offer a point of clarification from Tuesday's entry: The name "Cohen" was actually suggested by Victoria, not Rick, and did not come from bible reading but her (from what I think I heard - covering my bases) noticing this name in some correspondence and thinking it would be a cool first name.**
"Now that you have made this name decision, I will share with you something about your dad and my family that you do not know, nor would or could have known. My dad's father's family name from Russia was originally Kaganovsky, which he shortened to Kagan before coming to America. When my grandfather arrived at Ellis Island in New York City he did not speak any English. He was having a difficult time pronouncing "Kagan," from which the agent heard and wrote down his last name as...Cohen. My father's (your grandfather) birth certificate reads "Morris Cohen." I stopped for a moment, paying attention to the tears welling up and beginning to spill from my eyes. "My father decided he wanted to honor his dad's name and changed his official name back to Murray Kagan. I never shared that with you before; I really never thought a thing about it. So without knowing anything about our history, by God's grace and love for this child and our collective families, you have named him after my dad. You have given my dad and me the greatest blessing I could have ever asked for. And by the way, today (September 12) is my father's birthday."
The tears rained across the window of our hearts; it's still pouring.
So what? I do not consider it my business to knowwhat and how you think about the whole God thing. Believer, follower, seeker, lost, found, atheist, agnostic, cynic, Jew, name-that-denomination, sect, cult or culture; it matters not to me. But here's what I do care about (what matters to me) and what I have come to know and offer as a gift for you to consider:
I have spent most of my life selling one or another thing, agenda or product;
I have spent most of my life believing that I can do more to make things better for...you name it;
I have squandered all the greatest treasures I've had in my life, in pursuit of having the good life;
Through being a wanderer, seeking life as a man of faith through a Judeo-Christian perspective, I believe I am called to live through the God of all people;
There is NO WAY IN HELL (get over it) I would have not taken the opportunity to try and insert or seed the "M" or "Cohen" hint either when my mother asked and/or when Victoria shared with me the two name contenders;
I happened to give it (control, agenda, judgment) away, so that I could give it (life, heart, honor) a way to happen;
His first name is first name is Utah: named for a man Rick deeply loved and misses;
His middle name is Cohen: named for a man Victoria loved and misses.
Chance? Coincidence? Do the math. Consider the probabilities. Believe what you choose. As for me, I choose believing.
NOTE: If you choose to read any of my posts, THIS is the one to read.
There’s more supernatural meaning to the birth of my new grandson, Utah Cohen Sewing, than simply the fact that his birthday is 09/09/09. When Victoria and Rick informed me that they were pregnant I knew something was going to be different. Judge for yourself as I offer the last chapter of this story (for now):
·Victoria had told me a few years ago that she and Rick would never have children (over-population, parentless kids abound, the world chaos and she has never been good with needles or pain (in my mind I said “Whoa, experience has taught me never say never; God is a practical joker);
·Less than a month earlier Rick’s grandfather, the most influential man in his life, died suddenly in a car accident where they lived in Utah – he died before Rick could share this glorious news;
·My mother “gently” (early guilt positioning) reminded/encouraged me about Jewish tradition for honoring the dead by naming the newborn with the first letter of the deceased’s name, in this case “M” for honoring my Dad, Murray Kagan, who died five years ago (he adored Victoria and she, him). I “gently” reminded/encouraged my mom that I would share this with Victoria and as always, would leave her decision to her and Rick;
·Victoria and Rick were clear with everyone about the whole name thing: “We are not going to give him a name until after he is born and we have a chance to meet him and get to know him.” Totally contrarian to what most people wanted to hear, and personally I thought it made perfect sense. I never asked once in the whole pregnancy;
·When I recently visited Rick and Victoria in Ashland, Oregon (www.binparenthesis.com September 10 post) she updated me on the name status: “Rick and I have narrowed it down to two names: 1) Utah (for Rick’s grandfather) and 2) Cohen (for our love of God and the bible, and the meaning of the Cohen name associated with the Israelites who were the high priests of the Old Testament.” I paused, then replied, “Those are cool names.” I left it at that;
·Saturday night, September 12, I spoke with Victoria who had come home from the hospital. It was one of those life marker conversations you never forget: a father/daughter moment with Victoria sharing the moments and feelings and pain and joy from the birthing – all the while I was remembering the same moments when she came into the world twenty-eight years earlier. It was like meeting yourself coming the other way down the path.
·At the end of our sharing the experience of his birth, Victoria interjected the following: “Oh, by the way, we gave him his name.” “Really? What is it?” A couple of beats later she replied, “Utah Cohen Sewing.” A wave of chills broke across the shoreline of my body, then I questioned, “Is that the final name. Like, it’s really ‘it’?” “Yes, we actually filled out the papers and filed for the birth certificate.”
I was a "24/7 on-call make believer" when my kids were…kids.
On my recent visit to Ashland, Oregon to visit Victoria and Rick (to experience my precious girl being with child), we had our ritual Dad + Victoria day. The gem for the day was to see the current Harry Potter movie (I think we have seen all of them together…or close). She had waited for me, but admittedly I cheated and saw it when it came out. As justice, though, I slept through a good part of it (its and AARP thing), so it was really like seeing it fresh. We spent the first part of the day meandering through the Ashland bookstore, favorite specialty shops, looking for a rocking/glider chair (cool, if there exists one), eating lunch and ending up at the local theater.
The movie was awesome and yes, I made it through without even a yawn. We were on our way home in the car, a moment of golden silence, when it hit me like sudden storm that appears without warning: this was the last time we would go to a movie together like we had so many times through the years; the closing of one chapter and beginning a glorious new one. And I spilled over. The tears came and came, intensifying with each memory flickering across the white screen of my soul like so many movie trailers. Victoria looked over and asked, “Dad, are you OK? Do you need me to pull over?" By this time the tears were accompanied by gasps for breath, but I was able to get out, “No…I’m…fine. It’s all good…really.” Each time I began to get it under control, another image surfaced and the surge returned. Finally, I shared my revelation, completing it with, “This is just life’s story turning pages. Not bad, just different…and precious.” We cried together. Hugged. Laughed. And melted back into the golden silence.
I remember a past moment when Victoria and I went to a movie in Nashville. She was around twelve years old. We had gotten out of the car, and like so many times before when walking I reached over and placed my arm gently on her shoulder. She immediately stopped, removed my arm and anxiously commented, “Dad, please don’t touch me in public. Someone might see us.” Not cool. She’s a big girl now. Peer pressure. Dads are dorks. I felt like the incredible shrinking man, but I accommodated her request.
Little girls grow up from make believe and become young women, wives and mothers. Dads grow up from make believe and become dorks, friends, back to Dads and then become Grand Dudes (if we’re lucky). And then, hopefully, one day the make believe begins again. Different.
I believe that all the moments that we are given in this life can make believing magical, precious and treasured. You, too, can play make believe. You, too, can make what you believe, real.
_____________________
09/09/09...he was born two months early...he was born 4 lbs. and 17 inches...he was born with no name...he was born from, with and for love.
I am SO OVER the emphasis Americans seem to place on making EVERY *&%^$!## ISSUE a platform for political divisiveness and hysteria. I purposely stay out of political and religious arguments because there is never a winner: everyone is wrong and everyone is right (check your history books and ask yourself “who was right?”). But I’ve had my (over)fill, fueled and ignited by the recent hoo-ha from people of the conservative persuasion who are ranting about President Obama’s planned address to the nation’s schoolchildren; the first day of school in many places. Oh my God, he might plant militant, heathen, subversive, revolt-triggering and poisonous lies like: Stay in school. Education will open all kinds of doors to a life of opportunity. Learning ignites your God-given potential. You can be a part of good change in the world through learning, sharing and contributing to your community. Quick, get out the Uzis, bazookas and grenades – the salvation of our country teeters in the balance.
Hold that thought for a moment please.
A prevalent comment I heard quoted on National Public Radio this morning by many parents, politicians and other pundits, was: “Politics is not something that should be allowed in our schools. We have to protect our kids from the politically biased and harmful content from this current administration.”
Really? GIVE ME A BREAK. What about some current politically inspired concepts like:
Busing and segregation
Prayer in classrooms
Pledge of allegiance
Teacher racial discrimination
Censorship of literature and the arts
Elimination of the arts from schools
Invasion of privacy
Oh yes, there is also this thing called the PTA and Student Government
Hold that thought for a moment please.
I don’t know, maybe I’m crazy, but I think our forefathers had something (good) in mind when crafting the trajectory of America. How about throwaway lines like:
Land of the Free and home of the brave
Freedom of speech
Freedom of expression
Separation of Church and State (one of my favs)
Oh yeah, let’s not forget the small print of Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness
Don’t get me wrong; I celebrate our right as U.S. citizens to express our opinions. But, just imagine what might happen if (instead of being a Democrat or Republican…on the far left, center, or far right…black, white or other hue…spending valuable time, energy and resources proliferating content for CNN, The Evening News, Fox News, Rush Limbaugh and activist web sites) we focused our energies on such lower priority items, like:
Salaries commensurate with the sacrifices and commitment from quality teachers
Encouraging dialogue and interaction on community and social justice issues
Encouraging and supporting all the arts; not just athletics
Educating young minds that celebrating diversity can eliminate divisiveness
Fostering the idea that education is a destroyer of ignorance about hate, fear and hopelessness.
Home is a schoolroom. Culture is a schoolroom. America is a schoolroom. Life is a schoolroom. If we try to protect our children fromeverything in life that might poison and hurt them, we will also effectively protect them from everything in life that can stretch, motivate and illuminate their paths for generations to come. Maybe, if we learned to openly listen, think, discuss and decide while engaging the issues – we might just be “smarter” in choosing the paths to take that can change the world, for good.
HI WAY DRIVERS WANTED: Today's and tomorrow's high impact solutions will be driven by High Impact leaders. They understand the power of story and intelligent thought architecture.
Drive on.
Sitting here at the Medford, Oregon airport, 5:46 A.M. Leaving behind memories wrapped in soft cotton memories of a prematurely born little man, just in time. Utah Cohen Sewing. My second grandson. Four days. Many eyes watching. Many hands nurturing. Many hearts caring. 
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