Story Frame 47 – Coffee & Confession

on Capitol Hill

Today, at confession, I was asked by the priest what I had given up for Lent. I told him that this Lent I was asked by God to give up so much that I was barely making it through. When the priest asked me to be specific, I responded: “I was forced to give up seeing Kristin Fellows once a week.”

Shocked that God could ask so much of one man, the priest said, “Go my son, your faith in God has already saved you. And all your sins are forgiven.”

I left the confessional knowing that my sacrifice could serve as an example to others of the strength to overcome the most exacting challenges in life. Amen”

[email from Segundo, Spring 2002]

Over the years, I have faithfully kept nearly every letter I’ve ever received, along with too many photographs and copies of emails. I cling to things that were likely meant to exist or be enjoyed for only a short period of time. My rationale has always been that as the youngest, I’m the family archivist. And also, like my father, the one inclined to storytelling.

I know I’ve kept too much. It’s too much mental and emotional weight. Not only that – from the perspective of someone who has recently paid to ship half a container of household and personal treasures across the Atlantic – it’s also tangible, physical bulk. This was my fifth time moving from one side of that ocean to the other; the first four times took place before I was eighteen. So, you’d think I’d have learned by now.

Pulling together the stories for this book has given me the opportunity to go through my archives and make some choices, a process that makes me feel like a little kid with a flashlight wandering through the dark recesses of a huge library alone at night.

In the process, a lot has been tossed and each time I put some of this ephemera in the trash or recycling, I can feel myself getting happier. But in these piled up boxes, binders and folders, there are also some keepers, waiting like buried treasure to be re-discovered and appreciated all over again.

Segundo’s messages are part of that treasure, especially this funny one about not having conversations over coffee with me being considered a Lenten sacrifice. And anything that makes me smile, I keep.

Once again, had it not been for a film project, I would not have met Segundo, who turned out not to be a leprechaun after all. He just wasn’t very tall. But I liked the descriptor because I feel my work can always use a little magical realism and this one had fired my imagination.

The reality turned out to be almost more intriguing. Born into an Italian immigrant family in New York City, Segundo – the second born – grew up with his heart set on entering a cloistered order of monks.

Partway through the process, however, Segundo had an epiphany. He decided he could be more helpful to people representing their welfare against corporate interests. He left the cloistered order, got a law degree instead and became a skilled government relations professional with a broad knowledge of federal legislative strategy.

His transformation from monk to the madness of Capitol Hill story is unique and it makes him very special. Who else has a personal storyline like that?!

At the suggestion of our mutual contact, we met for coffee at what was then the new Starbucks on Capitol Hill. It was Segundo’s suggestion. He liked it because it had a room upstairs, filled with writers and slow coffee drinkers, where we could talk quietly for an hour or two, bothered by no one.

Segundo loved the content in the Bill Moyers’ Trading Democracy documentary and soon after I shared it with him, set to work getting the word out about it to as many legislative aides as he could.

But he loved our talk as well, as did I.

We decided to meet once a week in the upstairs recesses of Starbucks. Our conversations were deep and soul-filling, covering a wide range of topics. Gradually the barriers came down and we confided all manner of things to one another – from laugh-out-loud funny first dates to matters of faith and world affairs.

The truth is that I find our talks nourishing, he once wrote me, for your goodness, your insightful mind, your generous spirit, your loving heart. I left the monastery over … the lack of that soul connection one can experience with another. I have gained more from you in the short time I’ve known you … I cherish this; its value is beyond words … This is why friendship, I mean true friendship, feels liberating to the soul.

Now you see why I have hung onto Segundo’s emails for more than two decades. Whenever I ever need a light at the end of the tunnel or just a few words of encouragement, I re-read them.

Of course, there were times we couldn’t see one another.

This week turned out not to be good for getting together. But I sure would like to think that next week, I would get a chance to hear your thoughts on life, love, death, and the changing of the seasons. You have a truly impressive mind. It is a joy to listen to you, and it is good to know that a professional, such as yourself, is so spiritually insightful as well … I think of you, wonder how you are in mind and spirit, and whether my withdrawal symptoms from our Friday talks can be alleviated by a much-needed and long-desired Kristin fix.

The conversations with Segundo offered me a lifeline during some tough times. Nobody had ever spoken to me like this in my life. Even though he was no longer a monk, he became a sort of father confessor to me, giving me perspective on issues when I felt I needed spiritual guidance. Like a stranger in a foreign land who clings to someone able to speak their native language, I clung to the emotional lift our meetings and written exchanges gave me.

Eventually, I told Segundo about the IRS agent who’d appeared on my doorstep and the stress it had caused me – not expecting him to be able to do anything about it, but just to get it off my chest. He listened thoughtfully before replying. And then, he offered me another lifeline.

“I have a friend,” he said, looking at me kindly. He then took out a small piece of paper and wrote down a name and phone number on it. It was a lawyer friend of his in New York City with a lot of experience working with the IRS, having once worked there herself.

I looked at the note in dismay.

“But I can’t afford a lawyer,” I said, sadly.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “She’s a close friend of mine. She will understand and I know she will want to help a special friend of mine, whether or not you can pay her.”

I put the note in my pocket, and we went back to discussing religion and politics and world issues.

It would take another three years, but Segundo was right – it did happen, just as he’d promised. And the woman he introduced me to would soon become another lifeline for me.

Perhaps he was part leprechaun after all.

[The photo above is not Segundo or me, of course, but a photograph I took of a random couple in a coffee shop on the Oregon Coast back in 2014. I like how intently the man appears to be listening to the blonde woman, which reminds me of the way Segundo once listened to me. I also love the double vision, with the face of the man appearing again in the laptop screen.]

Kristin Fellows is a published writer, world traveler, and a well-seasoned documentary film consultant. When not writing, Kristin can often be found listening to someone’s story or behind the lens of one of her cameras.

More about Kristin @ kristinfellowswriter.com