Abilene, Kansas and Snowfall

Before I became a father, I held no picture of what fatherhood might be.
No mental rehearsal, no childhood memories of cradling babies in a bustling family tree. I’d been a camp counselor and a swim instructor during those sunburned college summers—jobs where kids are delightful storms passing through—but I had never lived with a small child, never been someone’s anchor or shelter. Then my son was born, and I learned, very quickly, what I hadn’t even thought to imagine: a child is not simply something you take care of. A child rearranges your sense of self. He becomes a soft, wandering piece of your heart, moving through the world in a body far more vulnerable than your own. Suddenly you are exposed in ways you didn’t know the human chest could open. By 2012, he was three.
We lived in a modest Los Angeles duplex—a place that creaked in the right places and smelled faintly of eucalyptus from the trees leaning in over the fence. My wife (now ex) was pouring her energy into opening a Pilates studio in Beverly Hills. I was auditioning where I could, picking up day jobs to stitch together the weeks, while also fulfilling the duties of a stay-at-home Dad. Los Angeles has a way of making you feel both hopeful and slightly underwater—like a swimmer confident in his strokes but unsure where the shoreline is. The year before, in 2011, a regional theater audition in Memphis, Tennessee had carried me all the way to Abilene, Kansas, of all places, for a season of summer stock. Abilene, a place I didn’t know existed until I found myself stepping onto its flat, open land, had welcomed me with the kind of quiet sincerity small towns specialize in. At the Great Plains Theatre, housed in an old limestone church with stained-glass windows that caught the morning sun like liquid amber, I performed in Smoke on the Mountain. It was one of those rare sets of creative conditions that makes you think: Yes. I would come back here. I would do this again. And so when the theatre invited me the following winter to reprise the role in a sequel, Sanders Family Christmas, I said yes. It meant being away from home and family for Thanksgiving and the entire Christmas season. But actors learn early that opportunity often comes wearing inconvenient clothes. I convinced myself that this counted as “real work,” the kind my spouse had been urging me toward. So I packed my bag, kissed my son’s warm head, and let the prairie call me back. Abilene in December feels like a postcard someone forgot to write on—endless sky, breath-frosting cold. It’s known for a multitude of antique stores full of cast-iron toys and heirlooms from families who had stayed rooted to the plains across generations. I loved those stores. As a lifelong aviation buff, I gravitated to the little cast-iron airplanes—hard, weighty things shaped like the dreams of the 1940s. I bought five or six of them to hang from my son’s ceiling, imagining him drifting to sleep beneath a squadron of flight. Something for him to open on Christmas morning. Rehearsals blurred into performances, and the show felt like a warm quilt stitched from returning castmates, gospel harmonies, and an audience ready for Christmas cheer. Small-town December has its own gravity. You feel yourself pulled inward—toward lighted windows, familiar faces, shared songs. I let myself lean into it. We closed on December 23rd, a night when Abilene exhaled snow in slow, meditative spirals. Big, heavy flakes—the kind that fall with purpose. The cast party was at Ike’s, a local bar named for the town’s most famous son, Dwight D. Eisenhower. The music grew louder as the night deepened, and I found myself stepping outside to breathe in the cold, thinking ahead to my early-morning ride to the Kansas City airport. Doug, our stage manager, stood by the door, snow collecting on his coat shoulders like he’d been dusted with powdered sugar. We exchanged a warm “Merry Christmas,” the kind that feels like a benediction when spoken under falling snow. My phone buzzed. It was my wife: Call me when you get back to your room. I imagined the conversation: plans for my arrival the next day, last-minute Christmas logistics, my son running down the hallway into my arms. I walked through the quiet streets, the snow hushing even my thoughts, back to my small basement apartment—four walls that suddenly felt too thin to hold what was coming. When I called, her voice was steady. She told me that when I returned to Los Angeles the next day—Christmas Eve—she wanted me to move out. Not immediately, she said, but soon. She told me she’d been unhappy for years. That my time away had clarified things for her. The snow outside had softened the whole town into stillness. Her words erased the rest. I sat on the edge of that narrow bed in Abilene, the glow from the streetlamp leaking through the blinds, trying to make sense of something that refused to resolve itself. We had been together twelve years. Married for seven. And though we had been struggling, I had believed that distance would make the heart remember. Instead, it had made hers decide. The night passed in fragments. A kind of feverish waking dream where every version of the future collapsed in on itself. At four a.m., I rolled my suitcase through the snow and climbed into the car of the theater’s accountant. He was my ride. He assumed I was hungover from the cast party. I let him believe that. Heartbreak is easier to misinterpret than explain. At the Kansas City airport, I sat on the carpeted floor and played “The Holly and the Ivy” on my mandolin, over and over, the notes falling like thin winter branches. I don’t remember boarding, don’t remember landing—just the blur of terminal lights and the low hum of engines drowning out thought. Los Angeles was warm when I arrived, too warm for Christmas. The kind of December heat that makes holiday lights look faintly embarrassed. My mother and brother were waiting—they had come for Christmas that year. Later I learned that my wife had told them about the impending split before she told me. At the time, I simply felt…disoriented. As if I were showing up late to a story everyone else had begun reading without me. I stepped into our living room. The Christmas tree glowed. Candles flickered in the draft from the old windows. The air smelled like pine and sugar. And I felt like an intruder in my own home. My son sat on my wife’s lap, hesitant. A month is an ocean to a three-year-old. His memory, at that age, was a short trail of breadcrumbs. I was a stranger again. I sat down on the shaggy rug in front of the tree, shoeless, unsure if I was meant to participate in the conversation or disappear into the wallpaper. Everyone chatted politely about everything except the thing that hung silently over all of us. And then it happened. My son slid down from her lap, padded across the rug, and climbed into me. Not onto my lap—into it. Into me. As if he had just remembered where home was. Silently he tucked himself against my chest with the full, unfiltered trust that only a child can give. His small arms curled in front of him, pressing into my ribs. His breath warmed my shirt. He molded himself into the shape of us—father and son, recognizing each other again. It was a moment so pure, so unadorned, that everything else—past, future, dread, heartbreak—fell away. For that brief, miraculous breath of time, the world narrowed to a single point of connection: You’re Dad. I remember now. Someone snapped a photo. It remains the truest record of my life. The years that followed were long, tangled, and full of painful paperwork. The divorce stretched on for years, the court proceedings heavy and bewildering. Her reasons for ending our relationship became more evident as it became clear that she’d rekindled a relationship out of state. Eventually, she was granted a move-away to Wisconsin, taking our son across state lines and out of my daily life. It felt archaic, senseless—like a verdict written in a language I couldn’t translate. But time, stubborn as prairie wind, wears down even the sharpest edges. And life, despite itself, moves forward. Now it’s late November, 2025. Thirteen years since that winter in Abilene. My son is sixteen—taller, funnier, wiser than I ever was at his age. In a few days he’ll fly to Seattle. We’ll get our Christmas tree in the mountains, see The Nutcracker, drink eggnog, and laugh with my partner and her mother. And yes—my current partner was also in the cast of Smoke on the Mountain and Sanders Family Christmas. Life has a way of looping back, offering second chances through familiar doorways. Whether we talk about it or not my son and I carry that moment from the rug in our bones. Even now, with all the miles between us, there’s a quiet understanding built from that single act of climbing into my arms. It is the place where the story did not break—it rooted. I’ve grown softer in the holidays again. I’ve forgiven her timing. I’ve stopped asking the snow to explain itself. This year I’ve already baked for friends, put up decorations early, worn my holiday sweater, and watched an old recording of A Christmas Carol that I performed years ago. I play carols on the piano each morning, letting the season seep into me like warm rum through oak. Because here’s what I’ve learned: The holidays can hurt. They can be misused. They can reopen old wounds with the gentleness of sandpaper. But they also hold space for small, holy things— things that steady us, things that warm the cold parts, things that glow even after the candles burn out. A child climbing into your lap. A partner humming in the kitchen. A friend handing you a mug of something warm. A quiet moment when the world, however briefly, feels survivable. I hope, wherever you are, that the season offers you one of those moments— something tender, unmistakably kind,
something that reminds you what love is capable of weathering
and what remains when the snow finally melts. Happy Thanksgiving.
And Merry Christmas

The Gospel of Linus: Happy Birthday to me

Before I say anything else—let me begin with Linus.

There he stands on a stage that’s falling apart. Snoopy’s dancing, the lights are wrong, the Christmas play is unraveling, and yet he steps forward—small, calm, blanket in hand—and says the words that redeem the chaos: “Lights, please.”

It’s one of the great theatrical moments in American animation: a child asking for light, stepping into it, and telling the truth.

That’s the energy I’m trying to channel these days. Not the cool detachment of Charlie Brown’s despair, not Lucy’s control, but the openhearted steadiness of Linus. His tenderness. His insistence on sincerity when everything around him is absurd.

So—lights, please.

Happy birthday to me.

I write this because I’ve been living this family story in semi-public view, and it feels right to bring it into the light. To tell the truth plainly. Writing in this space keeps me accountable—to myself, to those who read, and to the person I hope to be: honorable, kind, trustworthy, transparent. Tender, even. I know I’ll fall short, but I’ve come to believe that it’s the effort—the practice of trying—that matters most. Perhaps, in the end, nothing matters at all. But I keep sharing because it steadies me, like speaking aloud in the dark just to hear one’s own voice come back.

If you’re new to this patch of internet, you might want to read back; this is the middle of a sentence.

For those who know the earlier chapters: my birthday was last week, November 1st. Several years ago—on that very day—my brother, Jaxon Ravens, chose my birthday as the stage for his cruelty. That morning, while I was answering kind messages from friends, his first venomous email arrived. Then another. Then another.

He accused me of theft, deceit, obstruction—the same tired lies about the photographs my father left in his will, images I’d been entrusted to safeguard. The timing wasn’t accidental. It was a terror tactic, engineered to inflict maximum harm: a strike of fear and shame on the day I was supposed to feel seen.

Hitchcock might have called those photographs a MacGuffin—the meaningless object everyone chases so the real story can unfold elsewhere. For Jaxon, they were that and more: the key to his private mythology, where control masquerades as justice. But a chase requires two runners, and I refused to run. So he hurled his words like stones instead, hoping to draw blood from distance.

When he failed, he widened the attack—sending versions of those same emails to my friends, a theater of humiliation with no audience but himself. It was transparent bullying, and even then, I tried to remain steady. Calm. Boundaried. Transparent.

That same year, my mother likely sent her usual birthday card, accompanied by the traditional check matching my age—a small ritual of affection she’s maintained for decades. The following year, the check disappeared. A minor detail, perhaps, but I recognized it instantly: a quiet rebuke disguised as omission. The card itself was wrapped in that familiar duality—sweet sentiment laced with accusation. Happy Birthday, she wrote, I think of you often, followed by a lament about my supposed “hostility.”

I laughed—sardonically, because what else can you do when cruelty arrives dressed as kindness? I tucked the card into a drawer with the rest of the relics: artifacts too toxic to touch yet too revealing to throw away.

Between that birthday and this one, I tried again to repair what was broken. I reached out to both of them—my mother and my brother—with what I can only describe as Linus-level sincerity. Remember his monologue in It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown?

“Each year, the Great Pumpkin rises out of the pumpkin patch that he thinks is the most sincere. He’s gotta pick this one. He’s got to. I don’t see how a pumpkin patch can be more sincere than this one.”

That was me. My pumpkin patch was nothing but sincerity.

You can read that attempt in my earlier post, “What It Looks Like When a Mother Disowns Her Son.”

My brother’s reply: silence.
My mother’s: “The bridges have been burned.”

That message arrived just weeks before this birthday.

And yet, despite the ashes she invoked, a new card appeared in my mailbox last week.

I held it, feeling the weight of its irony. I knew I wouldn’t open it—not out of fear, but self-protection. I’ve learned that calm has a cost, and sometimes the price is silence. So I sent the card back, unopened, wrapped in the following letter:

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Dear Mom,

 Thank you for the birthday card. I’m returning it unopened, though I want to acknowledge the gesture and the care it may have been meant to carry. I’d like to believe it was sent in kindness, and I’ll hold that possibility with gratitude.

There’s an irony in writing a letter to explain why I’m returning one, and I recognize that. But this feels like the most honest way to speak right now. My intention isn’t to turn away—it’s to preserve the possibility of a different kind of exchange when the time comes.

The truth is, I’m cautious. In the past, cards or notes have carried words that, even if well-intentioned, left me feeling unseen or misrepresented—especially when my boundaries or quiet distance were described as hostility. I’m not willing to risk that again. I’m working hard to maintain the steadiness and calm that have become essential to my well-being, and I’m learning that peace requires clear banks, the way a river requires its shape.

 I’m also aware that silence can wound as deeply as speech. In the face of my brother’s abject cruelty—the messages, the public disparagement—your abstention on this subject has felt, at times, like an echo of that silence. I don’t say this to condemn, only to name what has been painful and real.

In my earlier message, I asked for something simple: a genuine conversation, shared space, both of us present with humility and care. That invitation still stands. What I can no longer do is participate in one-way communication that leaves no room for listening or repair.

 Returning this card is just a way of honoring those boundaries. My life is good now—filled with meaningful work, kind people, and the small daily joys of watching my son grow into himself. I want to keep building from that ground of honesty and quiet gratitude.

So I’ll send the card back with respect, trusting that the gesture can rest between us as enough for now. If the day comes when we can meet face-to-face and speak openly, I’ll be ready to listen. Until then, I’m choosing calm waters.

With sincerity and care,

Ben

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It was the gentlest truth I could offer: that love without respect is noise, and silence, though painful, can sometimes protect what’s sacred. I ended the letter with a wish for stillness—for both of us. When I mailed it, I felt peace. Not triumph, not righteousness—just quiet certainty that I had acted in alignment with myself.

This year’s birthday was simple and good. I spent the day running errands with my partner, both of us laughing at nothing, reveling in the ordinariness of our togetherness. We had barbecue for dinner, cocktails at home, and watched a favorite movie. Nothing dramatic—just the soft contentment of a life built on peace.

As for the year ahead—I can’t predict its shape. But I know I have no interest in living by fear or piety or guilt. Those are currencies of a past I’ve already spent. What I want now is light.

Which brings me back to Linus.

I don’t celebrate a particularly Christ-centered Christmas, but I love its rituals—the music, the glow, the small warmth of shared anticipation. And I love A Charlie Brown Christmas. Linus steps into the chaos, asks for light, and quotes Luke 2—not as a sermon, but as a song of clarity:

“Fear not,” he says, dropping his blanket, “for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy.”

Faith replacing fear.

That small act has always undone me. A child drops the one thing that comforts him and finds steadiness in the truth he speaks aloud. It’s everything I’ve been trying to practice—releasing the blanket, standing in the light, refusing the noise of intimidation, and trusting that sincerity is its own form of grace.

So here’s to another year of trying to be a little more like Linus.
To speak plainly.
To lead with sincerity.
To step into the light when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Bridges may be burned, but the path ahead still glows.
Here’s to calm waters, open hands, and hearts turned toward the light.
To revelation in simplicity.
To light breaking into darkness.
To peace and goodwill—within, between, and beyond.

Lights, please.

The Smoke Beneath the Floorboards

 

He was taller than most men of his time — six feet or near to it — I imagine him with a soldier’s posture, long arms, and a beard that shadowed his face like the bristles of a worn brush.
Dark hair, his eyes described by one witness as “fierce yet melancholy.”
Years of war had likely carved lines along his cheeks and left his hands calloused, stained with the residue of smoke and saltpeter.
This was Guy Fawkes — a man who had spent a decade fighting for Spain against Protestant England, only to return home carrying a conviction sharper than any sword: the kind of faith that leads people to do rash things.

And so he crouched in the chamber under Parliament, lantern flickering in the wet air, beside thirty-six barrels of gunpowder stacked like the vertebrae of an idea too heavy to stand upright.
Above him, London moved unknowing — merchants haggling, priests sermonizing, the river sliding past like a patient witness. Could it have ever been more silent than the moment before?
It was November 1605, and one man believed he might change the course of a kingdom with one spark.

A Spark in the Cellar

It doesn’t look like it was Fawkes’ idea- he was just the engineer. The match. The blueprint belonged to Robert Catesby — a Catholic bruised by years of fines and suspicion.
He and his circle had prayed and plotted in equal measure, men who saw themselves not as villains but as exiles in their own country. They called their plan deliverance.
The state called it treason.

They rented a cellar beneath the House of Lords and filled it with barrels until the air itself felt combustible.
Fawkes was chosen to guard the charge because he alone had the patience for it — and perhaps because he’d already made peace with death.
But empires, even decaying ones, are built on paranoia.
An unsigned letter reached Lord Monteagle warning him to stay away from Parliament “for they shall receive a terrible blow this Parliament, and yet they shall not see who hurts them.”
By dawn, the guards had found the barrels, the fuses, and the tall man with the quiet eyes who did not flinch when they seized him.

He gave his name as John Johnson.
He was interrogated, tortured, broken, and eventually confessed.
The others fled north and were cornered at Holbeche House, dying under musket fire.
By January, their heads hung on spikes above London Bridge — real old-school London stuff — a grim necklace of loyalty restored.

Yet history never quite ends with the executioner’s knot. It lingers — like smoke rising through rafters, impossible to scrub from the stone.

Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason, and plot...

We remember, though rarely what for.

Faith, Fear, and the Machinery of Power

I don’t think the Gunpowder Plot was madness — I think more likely, it was exhaustion.
It was the desperation of men whose prayers had been outlawed, whose children were forbidden baptism in their own faith, whose homes were searched for hidden altars.
When the government makes worship itself a crime, rebellion becomes a kind of prayer.

And yet — what does it mean to ignite a righteous cause with the tools of destruction?
There’s a lesson there, one that stretches from Stuart England to the present:
when a system walls off justice, people will always look for a tunnel.

The monarchy survived, as monarchies do, by rewriting the story.
Fawkes became an evil spirit invoked to frighten children, his name synonymous with treachery.
The ensuing annual bonfire was not a warning to tyrants but a comfort to them — the burning of rebellion made ritual, safe, and state-approved.

Centuries later, we’re still told to celebrate stability over dissent.
Our own governments do it differently — not with gallows, but with algorithms and debt.
They burn us slower.

Echoes in the Present

Today, we live under a subtler architecture of control — one that replaces religion with market faith.
Instead of criminalizing worship, it criminalizes poverty.
Instead of barring communion, it prices it.
The ruling class no longer crowns itself with gold, but with profit margins and campaign donors.

And still, the cellar fills:
with medical bills stacked like gunpowder,
with housing costs and student loans,
with the smoldering frustration of people told to be patient while wealth consolidates above their heads.

The danger now isn’t that someone will light the fuse — it’s that too many have forgotten it’s there.
It may be that democratic socialism, at its heart, is an attempt to reroute that energy — to replace the explosion with construction, to build the just society before desperation builds the fire.
It says: don’t blow it up. Open it up.

The Human Remainder

On January 31, 1606, they marched Guy Fawkes to the scaffold.
The story says he climbed halfway, then leapt — snapping his neck rather than give the crowd the spectacle of his dismemberment.
It was a small, defiant mercy — the last act of a man who refused to let power choreograph his death.

Four hundred years later, his face has become a mask — the stylized grin of protestors, hackers, marchers.
Sometimes cheapened, sometimes profound.
Every generation remakes him, because every generation rediscovers what it means to live under a government deaf to its own citizens.

When I hear the rhyme now, I don’t think of Parliament or the crown.
I think of a man with blackened hands, staring into the dark, believing that one spark might make the world listen.
And I think of how some still chant his name, half in jest, half in longing — as if deep down, they’re all still waiting for someone to bring a little light to the cellar.

Remember, remember — not the explosion that never came, but the reasons someone wanted to light the fuse at all.