ADaffodilforBrian StevenJKollmansberger ToBrotherBrent “The Lord bless you and keep you; The Lord make His face shine upon you, And be gracious to you; The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, And give you peace.” Numbers 6:24-26 2 A Daffodil for Brian Third Edition Copyright © 2003-2004 Steven J Kollmansberger Front cover design by Kate Beck Published by Lulu.com This text may be duplicated in part or in whole under the following conditions: 1) Text may not be duplicated for profit. 2) This page must remain intact and accompany all presentations of partial or whole text. Permission from the author, if granted, may nullify these requirements. 3 Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. W illiam Butler Yeats, “The Stolen Child” Fear no more the lightning flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finish’d joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. W illiam Shakespeare, “Cymbeline”, Act IV, scene ii 4 Foreword This book is a work of fiction, meaning the names, places and situations have been invented. However, the themes which drive the narrative are not at all fiction. I have been asked if Brian, the main protagonist, is an image of myself. Yes, he is. But so is every character in the book. Each of them represents a voice which has, at some time or another, spoken in the seat of my mind. I am not a Christian, nor a believer in a personal God, but the Judeo-Christian mythology is sufficiently compelling that I have used it for much of the spiritual basis of this book. Therefore, the metaphysical statements in this book should not be construed as a statement of belief or faith on my part. Brother Brent once said that people who have a difficult relationship with their earthly father often have trouble relating to God as Father. I have always found this an interesting premise, and one of this book’s strong themes is a study on just that. On my wall above my altar is an image of Kanzeon, the Bodhisattva of Compassion. Among all the various images in Buddhism, why her? I have often wondered if it is just that: her gender. She appears in male forms as well, but those never interest me as much. Why not? Unlike the protagonist, I have an 5 excellent relationship with my father. Even so, is it still possible that the very concept of Father could make me uncomfortable? This book is a study, yes, but may it not be an academic study. May it not be dry, may it not be cold. May it be real, may it be raw, may it be the cry of my own heart. Our Father... I would like to thank my parents, who inspired me to write a novel. I would like to thank Brother Brent, who seeded in my mind most if not all of the great themes in this novel. I am also thankful for his excellent editorial review. I would like to thank my master artist Kate Beck for creating the cover. And, of course, thanks to all the readers without whom there would be no point to writing this novel. 6 ~I~ Qonely Jxile 7 Chapter1 Light streams in from the stained glass, forming images of color depicting a moment in time. The pew is wooden, without any padding. It hurts to sit on for a long time, and this service seems to be going on forever. The pastor gives her sermon, energetic and normally gripping, up front, but I’m not really paying attention. The stained glass windows are much more fascinating. I like to think of what the scenes would have really been like— there’s Jesus with the disciples, another shows Jesus on the cross. “And now, as our savior Christ has taught us, we are bold to say,” the pastor announces from the front. This is the worst part. “Our Father, who art in heaven...” the entire congregation reads the prayer out loud. They all sound as bored as I am. But I’m still stuck at the beginning... “Our Father”... “Father”... “Father”... I can’t hold back the tears sometimes, but at least no one notices. Nobody knew; nobody expected him to leave that day. “Just going to the store,” he said, “Be back in a few!” He was always so cheerful, so happy. After a while, when he didn’t come back, Mom got worried. He had taken the only car, so she called a friend. 8 Together, they went to the store, and they searched the routes he might have taken. She got home late, and exhausted. I was scared. “Where’s Daddy?” I asked. I was only seven at the time. “I don’t know, sweetie,” she said. She tried to sound comforting, but she was scared too. I could hear it. She called the police, but didn’t talk for long. She didn’t sleep at all that night. She sat by the door, waiting for him to come home. But he never did. He never came home. The next week was a confused jumble. Mom found out that he had closed their bank account, taking all their money in cash. Nobody ever found him. He just disappeared that day. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he lives down the street. I don’t know. “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” the congregation reads. I loved my daddy. He never hurt me or yelled at me. And then one day he was gone, and he took everything with him. How can I trust you, daddy? That’s why I hate this prayer. We come here every week, and calling out to “Our Father”, but does he ever answer? Does he ever come home? Never. Sometimes I would sneak out of bed at night, after Mom went to sleep. I would stand on the front porch, in the cold. So very, very cold. I remember looking into the darkness. I wanted my daddy back. I would do 9 anything to have my daddy back. But my daddy never came back. The prayer over, people start to go forward for communion. There are tears on my face, I realize. I quickly wipe them away as the usher arrives at my row, and I join the line headed to the front of the church. Soon I find myself kneeling at the rail. The pastor, we call her Reverend Lisa, is coming down the line slowly. She’s got the business-style short, cropped and straight haircut. If I didn’t know better, I’d think maybe she was a lawyer and not a pastor. Even so, I think I’ll go talk to her after the service. Her words are often the balm to my wounds which otherwise cannot be healed. Reverend Lisa gives me the wafer and the bitter wine, but I’m not focused on it. I can’t get the images of my father out of my head. We had good times together. Everything seemed so right. I’m back at the pew before I even realize it—my feet seem to do what they know without my intervention. Shortly after the service is over, Reverend Lisa and her assistants walk down the aisle as the recessional is sung. I don’t sing along. Soon the church vacates. Small groups of two or three, sometimes four, people stay to chat. Always the same people. Always the same groups. My girlfriend, Sandy, is supposed to pick me up today as usual. She’s often 10 late, though, so I figure I’ll have time to talk to Reverend Lisa. A quick scan of the parking lot confirms that Sandy is nowhere around. I should give her a call and let her know that I’ll be talking to Reverend Lisa for a bit. Fortunately, I have my cell phone with me. I call the apartment, and after a few rings, she picks up. “Yeah, hello,” she pants out, as if out of breath. “Uh, it’s me, Brian,” Did she just run a marathon or something? “Yeah? Oh, yeah! I’ll be right there!” “No no, I’m going to chat with Reverend Lisa for a bit, I’ll call you when I’m done, OK?” “Uh, yeah...” I hear someone else there, in the background. But who would be there on a Sunday morning? “Yeah, uh, how long do you think you’ll be?” “Uh, twenty minutes? Were you planning to go somewhere?” “No, not at all. Take your time,” she seems pretty happy with that last statement. “Call when you’re done. Bye now.” Click. “Call Ended” my phone informs me. I hold the phone in my hand for a moment. Something seemed very wrong about that call. Whatever. I 11 pocket the phone and head for Reverend Lisa’s office. “Have a seat, Brian. It’s always good to see your face,” Reverend Lisa greets me warmly. “Thanks,” I say. “How are you doing?” she asks. She really cares too, not like some pastors I’ve known. “OK, I suppose...” What can I say? That I miss my father? That my girlfriend is acting strange? Reverend Lisa waits for me to continue. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel right. I feel like everything’s wrong.” “How so?” “Like my girlfriend.