I rarely mention my brother. Save for the remark about his farts in the previous entry. That, however, refers to years past. Years when we spent so much time together that I knew what his farts smelled like. It refers to the years we spent making up dramas to Carmen's music in which Darin played the devil and I played God. Years when we were rivals. When I babysat him and he ignored my decrees (and many years before that when I trained him to say "Yes, Master" to everything I said). Perfect years when he was a baby and Jes and I made him laugh by singing and dancing. It isn't like that anymore. I rarely mention him to friends. I sometime even use the past tense when I talk about him.
It's hard to explain something you don't understand. So I won't explain, I'll simply describe.
My Dad and brother became Orthodox Christians several years ago. This was quite a departure from the non-denominational environment in which we were raised. My brother spent a couple of summers at a monastery in New York during high school, and when he graduated, he moved there. That was five years ago. He did not come to my wedding. He has short amounts of time he can spend on the phone or during visits. He has stepped out of our lives except for our brief visits that are like tiny one-way mirrors. We see his life when we squint and make a strong effort; he never sees ours.
He plans to become a Monk. Right now he's what
we call an MIT (monk in training) and what
he and his brotherhood calls a Novice.
He spends his days building the campus of the monastery, he wakes up and prays from midnight to three am, he rarely showers, he does not look in a mirror, he is learning Greek. He wants to know God better and fulfill his call in life (this, at least, sounds familiar).
Wednesday my sister, Jessica, and I took Haven to meet Uncle Darin for the first time. Women have to wear long skirts, long sleeves and head coverings when they visit. We were stubborn about this for the first couple of years, but have since conceded. So, I pulled the car to the side of the road before we turned into the monastery. After I nursed Haven and changed his diaper, Jes and I shimmied into our outfits reminiscent only of mission trips to Mexico. (Even though we felt very covered, Darin got talked to about Jes's neck line and she had to wear a giant button down shirt on loan from a monk. Serious.)
Here is a picture of us taking a walk - you can see my mission-trip outfit. Darin told me to make sure nobody saw that slit in my skirt. Scandalous!
Every time we've visited in the past, we've asked Darin if we could take his picture. This time, I was adamant in my mind. I was getting a picture of Haven with his uncle if I had to take in on the sly with my camera phone. Before I resorted to such a carnal sin at a monastery, I said, "Who do I have to talk to to take your picture, Darin?" By some miracle, this time he got permission to have his picture taken.
So ... we took the opportunity. I set my camera on auto and had it take multiple shots at a time. I have about 50 pictures from our photo shoot. Dave looked through them quickly and felt like he was there; it was like a cartoon book.
Darin laughed and talked about his life and held Haven. He was our brother, as he always is, but
we could not take him with us. He talked about the sincerity he feels about life as a Monk. He said he is not making the decision blindly. He said he is happy.
I miss my brother all the time. Aside from the importance of knowing Jesus, my parents instilled in a deep value for family. Our family had some rough patches and sticking together was often what Jes, Rebecca, Darin and I did best. His stepping out of our lives is more bitter than sweet. I respect him, I love him and I'm proud of him. But most days, more than anything, I miss him.
s was Haven's first experience with the ocean. He loved it...
s was Haven's first experience with the ocean. He loved it...
