 | |
   | |
December 19, 2004.
"Mеrry Chrіstmаs, Daddy"
by Bаυеr Wеstеrеn
Christmas. On the one hand, I love it. The joy that flows through the cold, crisp air is enough to warm even the surliest of hearts. On the other hand, there is what some would call "proper celebration" of the holiday. Remembering to "love thy neighbor" even if loving him goes against every value you have set within yourself. "Give of oneself in charity." But what if, again, you don't believe that you should help the local drug-addict on the street who, through every fault of his own, lost his job, his home, and was abandoned by his family? Should you forgo all of this and say, "Well, everyone goes through rough patches, and we should be willing to hate the sin, but love the sinner." How does this help him? And what about the "commercialization" of the holiday? Should we believe that we should feel guilty about the joyful exuberance of wealth we have created for ourselves? Is it wrong to want to celebrate our good fortune, the fortune that we create of ourselves, for ourselves, and not feel like we have to dwell only on other people's lack? Does "goodwill towards men" mean only for faults and failures? Or does it mean more than that. Shouldn't a celebration be based on something worth celebrating?
It was these things that I was thinking about when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and was greeted with quite a nice surprise. Before me stood a quite beautiful woman. Dressed heavily against the mid-morning chill, hands thrust into deep pockets of her long coat. Blonde hair cascaded from underneath her wool cap and fell softly down her shoulders. Her blue eyes pierced the cold air between us and seemed to warm me from the inside out. I stood there, mesmerized for several moments, unable (and just as much, unwilling) to tear myself away from those eyes. How could so much be contained in someone's eyes? The brilliance of color, the intelligence, the confidence, the innate knowledge that she was a beauty to behold. And, yet there was something else in this woman's eyes. Something that touched me, in a deeper place than I even knew existed. Only one other woman in the world had affected me with just her eyes, like this. And I had married her.
|
|
|
|
|
With my wife, it had been her compassion. Along with everything else that I saw in her eyes, her caring for others was what drew me to her. And it had never seemed forced. No one had ever told her that she had to care for others so deeply. She just did. It was what she believed in. She could have just as easily cared only for herself, been proud and confident that she was the greatest that she could be, and I would have been drawn to that. I guess it was really her authenticity. She wasn't fake. She didn't feel the need to conform to someone else's ideals. She had her own values and everything she did reflected those values. Strangely, the one thing that was drawing me to the woman at my front door at this moment was desire. A desire to be an authentic person. A sadness was there that told me she realized she was not who she wanted to be. She realized that something was missing within her. She seemed to be looking for help.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Westeren, but I felt the need to come and see you," she said quietly.
"No, don't apologize, I'm always glad to welcome visitors, especially ones as beautiful as you," I replied with a warm smile. I wasn't sure if it was the cold, but her cheeks seemed to grow a little more red at this. She smiled softly and stepped inside. "So, what brings you to my humble abode?"
"Well, I guess I can start with an introduction. My name is McKenzie. McKenzie Morris. I believe you know my father." Indeed, McKenzie's father and I had become rather good friends. Ever since he visited me himself, and after much discussion on beautiful women and their many virtues, Pastor Morris didn't go a week without stopping by. In all that time, really only six months or so, Patrick had never mentioned a daughter. I didn't have time to wonder why, because McKenzie continued.
"I can tell that my father never mentioned me before," she said, obviously reading my thoughts through my face.
"You don't miss much, do you McKenzie," I said a little embarrassed by my transparency.
|
|
|
|
|
"Unfortunately, no, I don't," she replied. I must have looked as confused as I felt, because she gave a slight grin. "You see, I've always been pretty attuned to other peoples thoughts about me. I could usually tell when someone was being kind to me out of pure kindness, or when they were hiding their true intentions and emotions from me. It caused my father and I to grow apart. Being a pastor's daughter and being blessed, or cursed, with certain "physical attributes" does not make for an easy life." Of course, I had noticed right away what she was talking about. Other than her gorgeous eyes and incredible blond hair, McKenzie was indeed "blessed" with an amazing body. Not wanting to embarrass her, I did not let my eyes wander too long away from her face.
"Do you really consider it a curse?" I asked.
"Well, after growing up from a girl to a woman, and becoming as attractive as I am, and I hope you don't think of me as conceited for saying so, (I didn't) my father began to treat me differently. I never felt like I flaunted my body around the house, but every so often, he'd walk into my room when I was changing. He would look at me for a few seconds, but then quickly apologize and leave the room. After I came out of my room, he would barely look at me. It was like he was ashamed of me. I later found out that it wasn't me that he was ashamed of, but himself. He sat me down one day and told me that the reason he was acting different around me was that he was embarrassed and ashamed for wanting to admire me. He said that I was very beautiful, but that it was wrong of him to want to look at me. He said that he was brought up believing that admiring a beautiful woman meant that you were attracted to them sexually. So, whenever he saw a beautiful woman he immediately thought that it was bad to look at them. And, being his daughter, I'm sure you can understand how much more uncomfortable that made him.
"At the time, I didn't understand his reasoning. In a way I still don't. But, what I really thought was, 'Daddy doesn't love me, I make Daddy uncomfortable, it's all my fault for making Daddy feel this way'. I let those destructive thoughts eat at me for weeks. Finally, after about two months of my father seemingly trying to avoid me, I decided that I needed to take drastic steps to fix the problem. I was seventeen at the time, and decided to move out of the house. My father was disappointed, I think he blamed himself entirely, but didn't stop me from leaving. That hurt me more than him ignoring me. It was as if he was admitting that I was the problem, that I needed to leave him so that he wouldn't be tortured by my curse anymore. I left without ever telling him how much I felt he had hurt me. I put on a brave face. I don't think we even discussed the reason for me leaving. It was just the way things were.
|
|
|
|
|
"We would speak on the phone at first pretty regularly. I told him that I was now working, and that I was happy. He told me that he was happy for me. I don't think either of us really believed what we were saying. But we couldn't admit what we were really thinking and feeling. Over time, our talks became more distant. Finally, neither of us picked up the phone. I hadn't talked with my father in over five years. Then, one day, he sent me a letter. He told me that he had met you, and that you helped him to see that it isn't bad to admire a beautiful woman. He said that he missed me and he wanted to apologize for the way he acted around me. He wanted to meet me in person. So, last week, I met him downtown for lunch. I don't want to get into every detail, but let's just say that by the end, we were both crying. It felt good. I noticed that he was really looking at me. At first, he hesitated to look at me for too long. But after a while, he was openly admiring me. And, what finally broke me down was when he said four simple words: 'You really are beautiful,'."
McKenzie was crying again. I handed her a box of tissues and waited until she spoke.
"I'm sorry, I've been rattling on for so long and now I'm sitting here on your couch, crying like a little baby. You must think I've gone wacky." She sniffed into the tissue clutched in her hand.
"I wasn't thinking anything of the sort. I think that you are finally freeing yourself from the cage you created all those years ago with your father. And, I think your father is doing the same thing. He's told me a lot about his guilty feelings wanting to admire beautiful women, but I must say, he never mentioned how close to home those feelings came. So, did your father ask you to come and see me or was this something you decided on your own?"
"Well, he did want me to meet you, but he doesn't know that I'm here right now. You see, I was wondering, well, I'd like to do something for my father to show him that I forgive him. I want to give him a gift that says we're okay now. And, well, you're a photographer, right?"
"I dabble a little bit," I said, wondering where this was going.
"Well, I was wondering if maybe you could take some pictures of me. For my father. I think I'm beginning to understand how much of a change he has made and I want him to know that I think it's okay if he wants to see me as a beautiful woman. More than okay, really. Do you think that's weird?" McKenzie wasn't looking at me. I think she was in shock that she had actually asked me to take pictures of her for her father.
"No, McKenzie, I don't think that is weird. I think it would be a wonderful gift. I bet your father would be surprised by it, but I think he would understand the meaning behind your gift. Did you have any particular ideas in mind?"
|
|
|
|
|
We discussed what McKenzie wanted the pictures to look like, and set up a time for the photo shoot. We had decided that next Saturday afternoon we would take the photos. I spent the morning setting up the camera, lighting and the background. Finally, McKenzie arrived. She was obviously a little anxious. I told her not to be too nervous, that Tracy, my wife would be in the room with us for added "moral support", and that this was her photo shoot. Whatever she was not comfortable with, wouldn't happen. And of course, she had final say in which photos went into the album. We took several shots of her full clothed, and, slowly she began to get more comfortable. Eventually, we took several full nude shots. These last shots were among the best. Not because of her nudity, but because of her spirit. She held her head up high, with her shoulders back. She stretched her arms to the sky in triumph. She was beautiful, and she knew it. She finally, truly believed it. And she reveled in her beauty. My wife later said that she was nearly overwhelmed by how powerful McKenzie's freedom was. It was truly inspiring.
After the shoot, McKenzie was beaming. She said that she had never felt this happy. And, after looking at the printed photos, she agreed that her father would be amazed. He would be shocked. And, most of all, he would be proud. Finally, it was Christmas day. McKenzie took the photo album in her hand and passed it to her father. And with one little phrase, she said more than she could have said in a lifetime:
"Mеrry Chrіstmаs, Daddy."
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No characters are meant to portray anyone living, or dead (except for myself) Any questions, comments, or suggestions on this story, or any other of my writings found on the Body in Mind website, are greatly accepted and appreciated.
Feedback to Bаυеr Wеstеren
© 2004 by Body in Mind
