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:
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
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.
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