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March 28, 2007

While I was at home in South Africa last month I sat in my late dad's studio and sketched in my journal. While flipping though the pages I found an entry I had written months before about my dad:

I miss my dad today.

He was a wonderful artist. He was always inspired by a beautiful spring day like today.

Today he would have been busily painting the new green leaves against the azure sky.

Today he would have smiled at his work, leaned back, taken a sip of lemon tea and called me over.

“We should have a show together?” he’d say, putting his arm around my waist. “Now wouldn’t that be great? A father and son exhibition.”

I think he said that every time he completed a painting.

I was young and way too interested in chasing girls to get enough material together for a show.

My dad gave away every painting he did, so HE never had enough material for a show.

My father reached many of his dreams, except for his biggest. To show his work. He was a great artist. Way better than I will ever be. But Jac Romain was exceptionally humble. And never wanted people to think he was bragging or blowing his own horn, so he never felt comfortable asking a gallery to host an exhibition of his art.

My dad died way too young. After some months my mother asked me to clean out his studio because she couldn’t face doing it herself. During my search I found a number of drawings my dad had not yet painted.

I took them back to America with me.

Some time later while cleaning out my own studio, I came across my dad’s unfinished paintings. Without hesitation, I pulled out my watercolors and turned his pencil drawings into paintings. I signed them Jac and Trevor Romain. It was a wonderful way to be with my dad, even though he was gone.

Six months later I had a show at a gallery in Austin and I included my own paintings, some of my dad’s completed paintings and the pieces we did together. Finally, we both had our first exhibition…together. I called the show ‘Yours, Mine and Ours’.

I am so glad I was able to make my dad’s dream come true. Doing it really filled my soul with warmth and my heart with pride.

I miss my dad today.

Posted by trevor at 07:25 AM | Comments (1)

March 25, 2007

During my trip to the Congo a few weeks ago I was privileged to visit the Don Boscoe orphanage in Goma, a city that has been ravaged by war and almost destroyed by the nearby volcano. There were over fifteen hundred kids at the orphanage. The town is one of the poorest places I have ever laid eyes on. It was absolutely desolate, yet from the dust and volcanic ash grows an abundance of warmth and hospitality. I will never forget those children. They were so affectionate and loving.

I spent the day at the center working with various groups of kids. We discussed art, we discussed peace and we discussed dreams. Even though the future seems bleak for these children it was amazing to see the sparkles of hope dancing in their eyes.

During the afternoon a young boy who was no more than five years old tugged at my arm. I looked down to see a pair of big brown eyes looking up at me.

The interpreter said the boy wanted to ask me a question.

I kneeled down and looked into his beautiful eyes. Although they were bright and hopeful, I could tell that they had been washed time and time again with countless tears.

I put my arm around the child and pulled him closer. He touched my face with his hand.

“Mister, can you help me find my mother?” he said.

My heart froze because the interpreter, a teacher who worked at the orphanage, told me that both of the boy’s parents had passed away. (The little chap had latched on to me that morning and held onto my hand for most of the day.)

He asked again. “Can you help me find my mother?”

I looked at the boy and my heart broke. I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean, how does one answer a question like that?

I looked into my soul for an answer. And suddenly the words were there.

“Where do you think your mommy is?” I asked

“Oh, she’s in heaven,” he said quite comfortably.

“I’ll tell you what.” I said. “When I say my prayers tonight, I will ask God to pass on a message to your mommy. I’ll ask Him to please tell her that you send your love and that you miss her. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, perfectly satisfied with my answer. "Thank you."

Then he skipped off to play soccer with a group of little boys who were kicking a ball around nearby.

Posted by trevor at 09:32 PM | Comments (0)

March 22, 2007

I made a call a few months back that stunned me. I phoned the mother of a child who passed away from cancer a number of years ago. I wanted to speak to her about including a story about her son Sean in a book I am writing. The book is about the inspiration and motivation I received from terminally ill children during my time as a Doctor of Mischief.

I was rather nervous about the call. I didn’t want to upset Sean’s mother by bringing up the death of her son. I believe there is nothing worse than losing a child and I didn’t want to add to her grief, even though he died six years ago.

Saying goodbye to Sean was especially difficult for me because he reminded me of my nephew Rhett. The last time I saw Sean was at a Candlelighters Childhood Cancer Foundation family meeting. Sean’s mother told us the doctors said for her to call hospice because there was nothing more they could do for Sean. He already had two bone marrow transplants and his body could not take any more chemotherapy. They gave him six months to live.

Sean’s family decided to move out of town to live with Sean’s grandparents for support during the last weeks of his life.

It was really tough saying goodbye to Sean that night because I knew I probably wouldn’t see him again. I cried all the way home in my car. I remember “The Long And Winding Road” by the Beatles was playing on my car radio.

That was almost six years ago.

I located Sean’s mother’s telephone number on the internet and I finally plucked up enough courage to call her.

“Trevor, oh my God. How are you?” she said, warmly.

“I’m fine,” I replied. “More importantly how are you?”

“I have been meaning to call you…”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I understand...”

“Actually. I need to speak to you.”

"You do?” I replied.

“Yeah. Sean’s doing a project on South Africa and he wanted to ask you some questions...”

“Sean?”

“Yeah, it one of those geography assignments.”

Silence.

“Trevor?”

“Yeah, hello. Sorry, it’s my cell phone,” I said, making an excuse for my inability to process what she was telling me.

“I love the book you and Nancy did for kids with cancer.” She said.

“Chemo, Craziness and Comfort?” I said.

“Yeah. You guys did a great job.”

“How is Sean? I asked.

“Aw, he’s wonderful. What a great kid. He’s our little miracle boy. Did you know they gave him only live six months to live?”

“He proved them wrong huh.” I chuckled.

“Yeah. He never gave up. Not for a second.”

Everything is okay in the end. And if it's not okay, then it's not the end

Posted by trevor at 09:51 PM | Comments (0)

March 20, 2007

Posted by trevor at 10:18 AM | Comments (0)

March 19, 2007

A Prayer For The Hurting Children

I have just returned from my trip to The Congo and Burundi with the United Nation’s Children and Armed Conflict mission.

I will be writing extensively about the trip and my other trip two months ago where I visited the “Angels In The Dust” at an orphanage in the Magaliesburg in South Africa.

I can honestly say that these trips have been the most powerful experiences I have ever had in my life.

A moment I’ll never forget in the DRC was when a sad little boy (at an orphanage of over 1500 children in the desolate city of Goma) reached out and touched my face with both hands, looked into my eyes and (through the interpreter) asked if I could please help him find his mommy. I just hugged him for all he was worth because I was told by one of the NGO workers that both of his parents have passed away.

Tonight, as I lie in my comfortable bed, in my air-conditioned home, with a full stomach and a cup of soothing tea, I pray with all my heart for the hurting children, for the beautiful, forgotten "angels in the dust".

Posted by trevor at 07:08 AM | Comments (0)