Curmudgeon: An Unlikely Army Chaplain: September 2008

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Fan mail!!!!

It seems as though people are actually reading my blog!

Here's the latest comment I've received -- anonymously, of course -- which is so good, it begs to be shared with everyone:

From this latest comment on an opinion expressed by "CH anonymous" in response to one of my blog musings, I guess at least three oxen have been gored now, so if there are any military large-animal veterinarians out there -- with a specialty in bleeding beasts of burden -- it looks as though you've got your work cut out for you.

Please keep those cards and letters coming, folks!

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Fear of flying

So there I was, about to board one aircraft, while SFC McG would board a different one (going to the same place). That was a bit odd, given our experiences up to that point; we've pretty much been joined at the hip since arriving at Summer Camp almost 90 days ago.

Another odd aspect of this particular mission was that my boss boarded the same bird as I did, and his Chaplain Assistant was on the other, with SFC McG. Added to the strangeness was the fact that we didn't have to schlep ourselves over to the place from which we would normally begin our missions; that part was very nice, and convenient! The crew made sure we were buckled in, then slammed the door, and we took off.

On the first leg of the trip, my boss and I had the passenger compartment of the chopper all to ourselves. Unlike other vehicles SFC McG and I'd traveled in thus far, which show their age inside and out (like me) and seem a bit careworn on the inside (also like me), this one was completely squared-away, and even had headsets at each seat. My combat earplugs do what they're supposed to do, but certainly not as well as having those headsets on!

It seems as though the other two passengers who'd eventually board the chopper we were on were having dinner Elsewhere, so we flew there to await their advent.

We wound up waiting there about forty minutes. I was standing outside the aircraft on the tarmac right next to the bird as we waited.

It was another of those beastly hot late afternoons, and even though the sun was beginning to set, it was still almost 110 degrees Fahrenheit. I, of course, was in full battle-rattle (looking like a geriatric mutant Ninja turtle, as I've mentioned before), standing in the rotor wash of the chopper.

"Convection oven" doesn't even come close to describe the experience, what with the heat radiating off the tarmac, coupled with the heat from the engines whipped into a vortex by the blades whirling above.

I had a bit of a spiritual awakening while standing there, as it turned out, but that's a story for another time, perhaps.

When the others finally arrived, we snapped to attention and I scrambled up into my seat as the last one to board. I wound up sitting facing the rear of the aircraft, next to the door on my left, with my boss seated directly across from me.

The other two had more space between them. The crew again made sure I had buckled myself in, and we took off.

They did not close the door this time.

I was right next to it.

Now, I've got to let you know that when I was younger, I did not like flying at all. I wound up being a frequent flyer, but I was not a pacific passenger.

Every bump or lurch of the cabin immediately signaled impending doom.

I really, really, really did not like being on planes -- and especially the little rubber-band planes that my friend Brian B and I would wind up on as we went to out-of-the-way places to go SCUBA diving. Oy.

A thousand would not have been enough of them for him; one was too many for me.

Anyway, one of my friends who goes to AA and Al-Anon meetings pointed out to me a while ago that no matter how tightly I was gripping the arm rests, I was *not* helping the plane stay in the air. She then proceeded to point out that I could choose to surrender to the situation and relax, or not.

I could choose to have a good time, or not.

It was up to me, but whatever choice I made, I was still *not* helping the plane to stay aloft.

Wow. What a concept.

So, over the years since then, it's become much less of an issue for me to be on aircraft, and I've even used that analogy about gripping the arm rests with people who've come to speak with me about their own fears.

Ironically, the night before I wound up on the bird which was taking off with the passenger compartment door open -- and me next to it -- I'd mentioned the arm rests to CPT M who'd just celebrated two years of being clean and sober, with reference to a situation in his life he was experiencing powerlessness in.

I'd seen photos of helicopters flying with the compartment door open, and especially when I'd been crammed in with a full manifest of passengers and their accompanying ruck sacks, musical instruments, and even a dog (I kid you not), I've found myself wondering what it would be like to be winging our way westward while the doors were open, secretly both glad and annoyed they were not.

So there I was, the ground dropping away beneath me, when I realized I'd better hold on to my helmet (I had the headset on), or it'd become an unguided missile.

The phrase "dropping away beneath me" is quite literally true. Because of the curvature of the body of that aircraft, the seat I was in is situated such that even though we were flying level, I could look down and see the ground directly below.

Whew.

My first reaction was, of course, to see myself as Wiley E. Coyote blissfully unaware of the anvil about to drop. Given the configuration of the compartment, there was nothing to hold on to, other than the lap belts or shoulder harnesses holding me in.

I was immediately aware of God's cruel irony that I'd just the night before been mentioning to CPT M that no matter how tightly he was holding on to the "arm rests" in his situation, he was not helping his plane stay in the air.

I hate it when God shows off like that!

I remember thinking: "I hope these seat belts stay fastened." (I'd been on one chopper where one of the shoulder harness buckles would spontaneously pop out). "What am I doing here?" and "Why does this uniform have to make me look fat?"

I said the Serenity Prayer. I let go of holding on to the shoulder harness, and just held onto my water bottle and helmet. I really didn't want to be the occasion for renewed/enhanced hostilities because someone got hurt (or worse) because my Kevlar helmet or water bottle clunked them on their noggin.

Things were going well until the aircraft started to bank. On my side. I suspect it was probably only 15 degrees or so, but my broken brain immediately had us at a 90-degree angle. I was reminded of a poem by May Sarton which begins:

So there I was, hanging in space, feeling very fragile indeed, with only the seat belt and shoulder harnesses keeping me in my seat. What a rush!

I've heard a lot of alcoholics and Al-Anons over the years saying that fear and faith can't coexist, and maybe that's true for them, but it sure ain't true for me. Fear and faith have no problem at all having a grand old time together in me.

I've heard plenty of people saying, "If I'm afraid it means I just don't have enough faith." Pshaw. I'm here to tell you that I've got lots of faith (most of the time) and lots of fear (some of the time). However, my "fear quotient" has been diminishing of late, as I've let my Higher Power get bigger and bigger and bigger. (Thanks, Fr. Tom W!)

The bigger I let God get in my life, the less fear I'm distracted by.

The reason for that is because it's not faith and fear that don't play well together, it's that *love* and fear that can't coexist. In the Christian scriptures, in the First Letter of John it says "perfect love casts out fear." (1Jn 4:18) If I have a God who is perfect love, it's God who casts out fear.

So if I have a God who's big enough, I live with much less fear.

The poem by May Sarton is entitled, "Love." Here it is:

So there I was, suspended above the earth, watching the landscape directly below me with nothing holding me in that aircraft but the love of a very big God, made manifest in that moment as "personal protective equipment," having a great time, filled with gratitude and awe. Who knew?

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Friday, September 26, 2008

Dust

What with coming down with another upper respiratory crud this week (and spending a couple of days, semi-comatose, in bed) and just putting in 12-hour days at the office, it's been almost a week since I've posted anything. Mea maxima culpa.

We had another, short (!) dust storm this week -- amazing that something so small (the inimitable dust particle) can bring life as we know it to a screeching halt. That dust is so tiny, it gets into everything, despite one's best efforts. I'm reminded of the science-fiction stories in which a solid object gets transported through another solid object without compromising the integrity of either.

A former occupant of my CHU (Containerized Housing Unit -- the modified "dumpster" I'm living in) seems to have been a 'dust-o--phobe': there's 100-mph (duct) tape all over the place. It's around the one (tiny) window; it's on walls; it's on the floor; it's there, I suspect, to cover up small cracks in order to keep the dust out.

However, I noticed one day this week as I was doing pushups, that he or she either missed a spot on the floor, or this dump(ster) is settling, and new cracks are appearing, just since that person vacated these premises.

His or her perceived need for this remedy probably speaks to the level of craftsmanship involved in the construction of this place....

Not only is that duct tape *around* the (tiny) window, it's all over the glass, too. I've now come to believe that my predecessor may have been either a werewolf or a vampire, because of how much duct tape there is covering the glass. This place is like a tomb in the middle of the day.

Perhaps that's it! The former occupant(s) of this CHU was/were vampire(s) who didn't want the soil from their native land contaminated with the soil from this place! Hence all the duct tape everywhere!

I tried removing the duct tape from the glass of the window shortly after I arrived, but gave up almost immediately, figuring the interior dust storm unleashed by merely taking hold of one of the loose ends probably constituted a true biohazard, and so my desire for light was trumped by my desire to continue breathing.

I briefly considered trying to clean the filter of the air-conditioning unit in my hooch, but rapidly discarded that notion. Just changing the air flow rate dislodges hordes of vengeful dust midges all of which eagerly and insistently seek entrance into my bronchioles. In good Jesuit community fashion, "I think I'll just try it this way for a while" (which is, of course, the way it's always been...).

Once those dust demons are inside my hooch, they coalesce into dust behemoths under the bed. I must've gone through at least three Swiffer sweepers so far, I think. No, not just the throw-away cloths, the whole shebang!

Battling those dust Leviathans which spontaneously generate, in a matter of moments, especially during the dust storms, proves to be too much for the valiant, but alas! too-fragile Swiffers. Requiescant in pace.

The only good thing about all this dust, swirling in the air, clinging to pores, invading bronchus and bronchiole, covering everything in sight, with nothing immune to its advances, is that it reminds me of God's love for us poor schlubs. The Psalmist once sang, "Where can I run from your love?" (Ps. 139), and indeed, running in this environment just makes for more dust. Ironically, attempting to run from God's love does the same.

There's a line in one of the newer Eucharistic prayers in my tradition which says, "When we were lost, and could not find the way to you, you loved us more than ever." Same idea.

The big difference is that while the love of God can leave me breathless, as can all this dust, it's from awe and wonder and gratitude, and not because the dust Gorgons from under the bed are paralyzing my diaphragm.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Sunday, September 21, 2008

The week that was

SFC McG and I got outside the wire again this week by convoy. Because we were in a somewhat different type of vehicle this time, it was much easier to see outside as we were moving. The unit taking us with them on their mission even kindly provided seat cushions for the ride this time -- very much appreciated! The farther back in this vehicle, the bigger the bounce each time we encountered a bump.

Think of an amusement park ride without the amusement.

No puppy, either.

I can only fall asleep in a vehicle if I'm driving, so despite the fact that it was early and I was tired, the bumps and bouncing were not the reason I didn't snooze. It is amazing to me to see how other Soldiers can fall asleep in the most unlikely of places, at the drop of a hat. I am certainly not one of those people!

We passed by a lot of children while we were on the mission. Other than just a couple I was able to notice during our first convoy last week (vehicle with tiny windows, up high), I'd not seen any children here since arriving. Not a one of these youngsters was obese. If anything, many looked painfully thin.

Most waved and gestured imploringly to us as the convoy moved past them. I suspected they could not see us inside the vehicles, but I waved back to them anyway.

It was heartbreaking to see them, all of them in dusty clothes and many of them barefoot in the midst of the trash lining so many streets. One tended six sheep, each of which was larger than himself. One little girl, in profile, reminded me of my sister Ann forty-five years ago when she was five.

Inside the up-armored vehicle I seemed to be as far away from them as if I were back in the office or watching TV.

We arrived back 'home' fairly early, considering our other missions thus far. By evening of that day, we were in a dust storm that was so intense the visibility was only about 100 meters. We had a full moon that night, but it was completely obscured by the dust. Imagine San Francisco fog without the humidity, the chill, the hills, and the Bay -- or San Francisco, for that matter. Moving through the dust was like inhaling cactus.

I invite you to consider just what that "dust" consists of, especially given that we're in an area that's really, really hot much of the time (how do you spell "dessication"?) and not noted for fastidiousness (now think of a word that rhymes with 'dessication').... Add some strong winds, and voila! Inhale deeply.

I suspect my new round of upper respiratory crud (new this afternoon/evening) probably has something to do with all the wonderful stuff to which my respiratory mucosae were introduced this week. Sigh.

Then the dust settled (literally), and I seem to have annoyed some actual readers with a blog post this week, what with the 'comments umbrage meter' straining to contain itself without spontaneously combusting. My curmudgeonly heart swoons with delight -- someone's actually paying attention enough to have a reaction!

Hooray!

(It's not coincidental that this blog is named as it is, folks. Caveat lector.)

One final thing: Before I stopped drinking 29 years ago (if we'd had blogs then) I, too, would have left comments in high dudgeon -- anonymously.

But then *I* stopped drinking.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Salute Alley

When I was a child, my grandmother (Aunt Pat's mother) saw to it that her grandchildren had the opportunity to experience good literature, music, and art. (She gave me A Wrinkle in Time for Christmas one year; she always gave us Newberry- or Caldecott-award-winning books as presents.)

She listened to music of the great masters, and encouraged us to listen as well. She had a Steinway grand piano in the living room, and endured listening to us attempt to play, always with a smile -- at least for us.

I remember listening to recordings of Beethoven, Bach, Brahms, and Broadway. I was especially taken with the musicals of Rodgers and Hammerstein. Lately (that is, for the last almost six weeks now), I've been reminded again and again of this quote from the stage version of The King and I:

Anna speaks it in the middle of the song, Shall I Tell You What I Think of You? She'd love to have the gumption to tell it to the King directly, but at that point, still hadn't mustered it.

I've been reminded of those lyrics daily as I run the gauntlet here known as "Salute Alley."

To walk from where I work to the Dining Facility (DFAC) involves having to render salutes at least eleventy-seven times -- and that's just if the stars are in alignment on good days, and I miss the crowds. Let's just not even mention the bad days! Having to do this when it's 120 degrees Fahrenheit makes it an even more "special" experience.

I suppose I could be glad we at least don't have to grovel.... Nah.

I haven't bent my right elbow this much since I stopped drinking 29 years ago.

It's especially annoying to have SFC McG beside me snickering because he doesn't have to salute any of the Enlisted, while I have to salute every one of them, and almost all other Officers. Since we're dealing in 'echelons above reality' here, there are not very many Captains -- the only people to whom I'm not required either to initiate or return a salute. Thus, I have to salute everyone else. That means that I become a "bobble-arm" on my way to and from the DFAC and to and from my CHU (containerized housing unit -- you know, the modified dumpster I'm living in).

I suspect I'm developing "salute elbow." I'll probably need surgery before this deployment is over.

Pardon my naïveté, but I'd been led to believe that in a WAR ZONE the act of rendering a salute could be life-threatening, as it is a great way of showing the enemy whom to shoot.

Folks around here have not gotten that memo. At least not those in the Army.

(The Air Force, on the other hand, has a posted "no salute zone" around their dining facility. Though, now that I'm thinking about it, perhaps that has nothing to do with protecting personnel, but rather reflects a concern for their golf swing....)

The one redeeming quality to all this saluting is that it offers me the opportunity to greet everyone to whom I'm rendering the salute with, "God bless you, [Sir, Ma'am, Gentlemen, Sar'nt, etc.]" I figure I might as well make a prayer out of it, especially since the Apostle Paul admonishes his flock in Thessalonika to "pray without ceasing." (1 Thessalonians 5:17) Some people seem startled by it, some return the greeting, but most just keep walking.

It's late here now, and I'd salute you for having read this, but....

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

A multitude of thanks

Just a quick shout out to Operation MOM in California, and to Zion Lutheran Church and Shepherd of the Valley Lutheran Church in Washington for the spectacular boxes of goodies they've been sending to Soldiers care of my address. Soldiers have taken to stopping by the office to find out whether another shipment has arrived.

Your generosity does you proud. Many, many thanks for your thoughtfulness!

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Saturday, September 13, 2008

This and that update

My friend, the fabulous Fr. Tom W (sober since God was young, I think) from the People's Republic of Berkeley likes to talk about "ten true things." So, here are ten true things today, to the best of my knowledge:

Aunt Pat continues to hang in there after her ruptured cerebral aneurysm (Class V). She was able to say her name and the name of the hospital the day before yesterday. Please keep the good thoughts and prayers coming, if you would.

Mrs SFC McG had her surgery (what was expected to be 30 minutes, max, turned out to be over two hours), and is doing remarkably well. Please keep those prayers coming, too. Thanks!

Many folks sent cards and email notes to SFC McG on the occasion of his birthday last month, and Apryll N sent the most spectacular cookies imaginable. She even sent them in a great tin -- and it turns out SFC McG collects tins, so he was doubly delighted.

The wifi connection to the internet ($65/mo!) continues to be as slow as my old dial-up connection in the States, so that's why I've not been able to use Skype to call everyone from my hooch.

I finally took a look at my 'attachment orders' to this unit over here, and it appears as though I might be here a month longer than I'd been led to believe; the orders read "365 days BOG" which translates into English as "one full year 'boots on the ground'." That's at odds with what I'd been told about the deployment of reservists, but not a surprise, I guess!

The high here yesterday was only in the mid-100s. Woohoo!!!

Body armor is still heavy and cumbersome.

The Army has a new "combat shirt" that gets worn under body armor. It's very high-tech, and very expensive. It's cooler to wear under the body armor in all this heat than is the undershirt/blouse (uniform top) combination that we presently wear. The Army is finally issuing it to everyone -- except to SFC McG and myself. Seems we're not *really* enough part of this unit to be issued it, but we're too much part of this unit to get the folks from whence we came to issue it! Welcome to the Army, I guess! (Same thing appears to be true with the new body armor, but SFC McG is going to try to work his magic on these issues, so I'll keep you posted....)

When I'm wearing body armor, I look like a geriatric mutant Ninja turtle, I've been told.

SFC McG and I were outside the wire a couple of times recently, and I guess I've not done anything stupid thus far, because he hasn't had to hurt me (yet). He keeps mentioning the "yet." It's very disconcerting, actually. But I keep telling myself that he means well. Really. He does. He means well. No, really.

(I figure if I keep repeating it enough, it'll just become true. That seems to be the way politics is working these days!)

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Friday, September 12, 2008

Of tiny stuffed animals and the banning of books

My parents sent me a handful of tiny, colorful stuffed animals a couple of weeks ago. Earlier this week I received a couple dozen more of them. I think Mom and Dad must have snagged every one of them that Ikea had in stock. Thanks, Mom and Dad!

(I'd never considered before coming here that anyone would think of placing explosive devices in stuffed animals, but there you are. Who knew? These critters are too small for that, so they should be just fine.)

They are wonderful! The children over here should love them -- some of the Soldiers do, already. I even brought a tiny blue elephant with green ears, and a yellow lion with an orange mane and tail back to my CHU with me, because I can't help but laugh when I look at them.

Laughter is a priceless commodity in a war zone.

(Or do I like these things so much because I haven't grown up yet?)

The lion is just too funny for words, actually. At first I thought it was a dog with one of those cone things around its neck. It took a few moments to realize it was a lion. (OK, I'm a slow learner. There, I've said it.) In my defense, however, I showed it to SFC McG, who asked, "Why do you have a mouse with a neck cone on it?" In his defense, it looks much more like a mouse than a dog, and certainly more so than a lion!

The fact that it's a bit cattywampus, and that it's orange and yellow, reminded me of an incident from childhood involving another yellow and orange stuffed animal, and the fact that I loved to read books.

I'm told that the notion of banning books from public institutions is back in the news, and that reminds me of lists I've seen over the years of what some would prevent others from reading, if they could. A perennial 'favorite' seems to be A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle. It was published in 1962, and won the prestigious Newberry Award. I suspect I received my first copy of it when I was between the ages of eight and ten.

I'm sure those of you who know me will find this hard to believe, but I was a bit precocious as a youngster. I'd learned to read before kindergarten, and while in grade school was given special permission at the local public library to read books that twelfth graders would read.

I can already hear the whispers, with such unction: "To think he'd had *such* potential! Pity he's come to this."

Anyway, I loved A Wrinkle in Time from the first moment I picked it up. It's beautifully written. I has a great plot. It references science and music and art. It has misfits who were thrown together, seemingly by circumstance, who discover that the uniqueness which is the source of their shame and isolation enables them to make heroic sacrifices and accomplish marvels beyond imagination.

It was the first book I'd seen that had a quote at the beginning of each chapter. One was even in Greek, which I could not yet decipher. That annoyed and intrigued me. It probably had something to do with my desire to learn foreign languages, which perdures to this day.

Most of all, though, even at such a young age, I "got it" by the end of the story, that this is an allegory of redemption, of the triumph of an impossibly small and seemingly insignificant good over an overwhelming and apparently invincible evil.

Love.

Meg, the misfit science geek, unhappy her whole life because of "not fitting in," in her moment of truth, realizes the awesome and redemptive power of love. Her love. God's love.

Love.

That book gave me hope.

Years later, whenever I've picked it up to read it again, it still does that.

And to think that some would choose to prevent others from reading it! I've since realized that the reason almost certainly has to do with the fact that three of the characters are identified as "witches": "Mrs. Who," Mrs. Whatsit," and "Mrs. Which." (Get it? "Which"? Witch?)

For the incurious, for those who don't read, for those who eschew "book larnin," I guess there's no distinction between imagination and necromancy. Someone probably heard (because they'd not *read*) that there were witches in this book, and immediately jumped to the conclusion that the book is satanic in nature. Sheesh.

Anyone with a brain -- I mean, for crying out loud, *I* was eight or nine or ten years old, and even *I* "got it" -- who's actually *read* this book, would realize that those "witches" were emissaries of the God worshiped by Christians.

Sheesh.

It's pretty explicit, actually, for those who have even two brain cells to rub together. And yet, it's consistently self-identified "Christians" who want to ban others from reading this wonderful story. Give me a break.

Imagination.

Necromancy.

There *is* a distinction, people! Oy.

Anyway, back to yellow and orange stuffed animals and being a precocious and voracious reader.

When I was a child I had a favorite stuffed animal, a dog named Morgan. (I have no idea how it got named Morgan.) I also had a soft, plush, plump, bright yellow duck with orange wings. Well, with one large orange wing, and with one tiny, almost vestigial orange wing.

It was probably large enough to hide a small IED (improvised explosive device) in.

I don't remember the duck's name

I do, however, distinctly remember reading "Life" and "Look" magazines when I was young (not many of you can remember them, but that's because they're long gone now), and one day after reading a story in one or the other of them, I took my yellow plush duck -- one big orange wing, one almost non-existent orange wing -- to my mother and, very proudly (I'm told), held it out to her, saying, "Look, Mom. I have a thalidomide duck!"

I think she was pregnant with my younger brother at the time.

She started to cry.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Thursday, September 11, 2008

The Puppy

I have a great boss here, who's doing his best to overcome the fact that I was sent here to be an office pogue. In addition to having been able to get outside the wire via air assets, I've now been able to visit four small outposts in one day, via ground transport -- convoy. They're located in the heart of neighborhoods, and are composed of US and Iraqi personnel. These joint operations don't have space for air assets to land, so the only way to get there is overland.

The morning we went out to visit them we were fetched by that Battalion's Chaplain and Sergeant Major. (As an aside, I never knew until I joined the Army that the word "Sergeant" is actually a one-syllable word.) When we got to the Start Point, and moved from the non-tactical vehicle to the tactical ones, that's when I noticed that Sar'nt Major has a puppy, Scout.

She's really cute: almost all black, with three white paws and a white-tipped tail. She's so small she can't get into or out of the tactical vehicles by herself. The contrast between these large men, made even larger by our bulky body armor, and this tiny puppy, became even more apparent -- and heartening -- as one of the Soldiers caught her in his arms as she eagerly jumped up so he could help her into the vehicle.

This was my first time on the road, and my first time in one of those vehicles (so much for "we train as we fight," I guess). One of the first things I noticed about the vehicle I was riding in was that both the other Chaplain and the Dismount who were in the back with me had two rather large foam pads secured together by 100 mph tape (mere mortals would call it, "duct tape") to sit on. I did not. After we got moving, it was clear why they did.

Ouch.

Because of the configuration of that vehicle, I could not see very much of what we passed by. There were date palms (did you know this was one of the largest date-producing areas of the world at one time?), and signs in Arabic on buildings, trash on the roofs of many structures, pock marks (I'm presuming from weapons fire) in some walls, and what looked to be homes abandoned after the collapse of roof or walls.

Much to my surprise, as we traversed the day's route, I felt totally at ease. I'd never have thought that possible, that's for sure!

It's amazing what can happen when one's Higher Power is very, very, very big -- after all, what or whom is there to fear, ultimately? At the end of the eighth chapter of the Letter to the Romans, Paul writes: "...there is nothing in all the created world that can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus." I suspect if more Christians truly believed that, this world would be a very different -- and much better -- place.

The congregations for the Masses were very small, as I'd expected. Their gratitude for being able to receive Sacraments seemed boundless. I felt very humbled and grateful. The living conditions at those places are much more Spartan than what I experience "at home" here Down Range. But I heard no grumbling about that at all.

Some of these guys are on their third combat deployment in five years.

They have spent more time away from their wives and young children than with them.

Meanwhile, most of the rest of America is at the mall.

Or watching American Idol.

Or sitting at their computers in their mother's basement, cheering able-bodied-yet-civilian Sean Hannity on the TV, and ranting online about how unpatriotic *others* are because they don't "support the troops."

Two of those outposts had dogs of their own. One of those other dogs is much older and larger than Scout, but was clearly intimidated by her. (I wonder if he knew that she belongs to the Sar'nt Major?) Everywhere we went, Scout was eager to be petted by any Soldier she encountered, and it seemed as though she was "making the rounds" as much as Sar'nt Major was.

Any on whom she imposed herself -- even, or perhaps especially, the men returning from a patrol -- clearly very dirty, tired, glad to shed the body armor -- would immediately smile as her tail would shake her whole body with its enthusiastic wagging. Grimy faces brightened at her approach, even before the wet kisses.

She got so excited at one point, she had a rather imposing 'accident,' which occasioned a lot of laughter. (I think SGM had a PFC clean it up....)

After our last stop, as we were mounting up to return, Scout was in the vehicle I was riding in. Without hesitation, she hopped up into the empty seat beside me, and proceeded to stretch out, and then curl up as if for a nap. It turned out, though, that she was actually eying the Dismount, biding her time. As soon as he got up to do something in preparation for our departure, she sprang up and hopped into his seat with the cushion on it.

Smart doggie.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

29

It's hard for me to believe that as of 10SEP08, I'll have 10593 days in a row being sober. That's just over 1513 weeks, or 348.29 months. Twenty-nine years. Wow.

But who's counting?

Many thanks to all those who have been with me as we "trudge the road of Happy Destiny." This could not have happened on my own.

What a miracle of God's grace, one day at a time! Hooray for the Higher Power!!

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Monday, September 08, 2008

Mrs SFC McG

Those of you who have been reading my blog know that I have been blessed beyond measure with having SFC McG as my Chaplain Assistant.

A Chaplain Assistant (MOS 56M; that is, in English: "Military Occupational Specialty, 56 Mike") is essentially a Chaplain's bodyguard when we're deployed in a war zone such as this. His job is to 'pack heat' for the two of us, since I'm a noncombatant and carry no weapons (other than my sharp tongue, I've been told).

To that end, he's armed and dangerous, and a very good shot. I have every confidence in him.

(You should know, however, that if/when we're "outside the wire," he's told me he'll shoot ME if I even attempt to do anything stupid (or even, brave, presumably). "I've been here twice already and brought my Chaplain home safely both times, so DON'T MAKE ME HURT YOU.")

Anyway, his lovely wife, Mrs SFC McG, is undergoing surgery on Tuesday, so please remember her and her medical team -- and SFC McG -- in your thoughts and prayers, if you'd be so kind. From what I can tell, their being separated at a time like this is yet one more sacrifice piled on top of so many other sacrifices on both their parts.

This is, after all, SFC McG's third deployment to Iraq....

I'd very much appreciate your spiritual assistance in this matter.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Saturday, September 06, 2008

Nocturne

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Friday, September 05, 2008

Like sands through the hourglass....

On the 30th anniversary of my becoming a Jesuit a couple of days ago, I found myself saying Mass for a handful of people in the building where my office is located. As I was looking out at the uniforms -- and ranks -- all but one of the military personnel present outranked me by at least several pay grades. Years ago, I'd probably have found that to be intimidating.

However, these days, in a situation like that, I figure it's not unlike how my friends who go to AA meetings describe the egalitarianism of recovery: the highest rank one achieves in AA is "sober." At Mass, the highest rank is "forgiven/redeemed/loved."

To that end, irrespective of a person's rank or station, when I give out Holy Communion, I ask for the person's first name -- figuring God has called each of us by name -- and address the person by his or her first name as each receives the Sacrament. I place the host in the person's hand, keeping my hand on top of the host, and look him or her in the eye as I say, "[first name], the Body of Christ." I believe that the intimacy of the moment and the relationship demands it.

(As an aside, I remember being present at a liturgy one day a few years ago in which the priest appeared to be distributing the Sacrament as if he were dealer in Vegas -- he'd actually take a number of hosts in his hand, fan them out as if they were cards, and move along the communion rail (folks in that place are back to kneeling for communion), almost tossing the hosts into the communicants' mouths with a wrist action reminiscent of upping the ante with a poker chip.

In addition to the normal act of faith associated with receiving communion that day, I had to make an act of faith that that priest believed there was something intimately sacred going on at the time....)

So this past Wednesday I had a strong sense of how odd it is that I'd be saying Mass for a bunch of military muckety-mucks on my 30th anniversary of becoming a Jesuit. Thirty years ago, as I entered the Jesuit Novitiate, there was no way I could ever have imagined that in the year 2008 I would be wearing the uniform of the United States Army, saying Mass in a foreign country -- in the middle of a war zone -- addressing the Grand Poobahs by their first names.

I joined the Jesuits in order to become the person I believe God wants me to be. Over the years I've realized that the only way for me to hang onto what graces I've been blessed with is to give freely from all that I've been given.

Service makes that a reality.

The spirituality of St. Ignatius Loyola certainly encourages that, and much to my delight, my friends who go to AA and Al-Anon meetings tell me that being of service is how they stay alive, one day at a time. It seems to work on so many levels.

Since getting sober I've discovered that there are lots of ways to be of service to others.

These days, I'm attempting to be of service to women and men who have placed themselves in harm's way, because there are so few others who can or will do so. Who knew 30 years ago that this desire would bring me, in my dotage, to the cradle of civilization at a time when so much incivility reigns?

Yet in the midst of war's mayhem and fear, I've found cause for hope, and have seen how my experience can benefit others. My friends who go to AA meetings tell me that's one of their "Promises" coming true in my life. Hooray for the Higher Power

God has a very weird sense of humor, indeed, and for the last 30 years of that, I am speechless with gratitude.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

30

For reasons quite unclear to me, I'm often very aware of the passage of time, particularly as it's marked by anniversaries. Perhaps this has something to do with having been raised in a religious tradition in which almost every day "belongs" to someone who's dead.

It gets confusing, of course, with someone like St. Christopher -- remember him? When I was young, it seemed as though everyone I knew had a St. Chris medal in the car.

Chris was traditionally the patron of safe travel.

Back when I was about 13 years old, his feast was removed from the Roman calendar of saints, presumably because it was decided that there just wasn't enough known about the historicity of the guy (maybe the notion that he was a dog-headed cannibal by some reckonings might have had something to do with that) to encourage such an official commemoration.

This action on the part of Rome caused a lot of confusion and hurt feelings, and that's just talking about poor St. Christopher's response....

(Technically speaking, for all others who still feel annoyed by that turn of events, Chris is still listed in the Roman Martyrology for 25 July and venerated publicly by the Orthodox on 09 May.)

I've actually thought for a long time now that St. Martin of Tours should apply for the job of "patron of safe travel" -- or at least of "patron of travel agents." (Tours. Get it?)

Marty's actually venerated as the patron saint of Soldiers, so I suppose he might be too busy for some other responsibilities, and given my station in life these days, that's probably a good thing.

But I digress. Fr. Tom W accuses me of being easily distracted by sparkly things. I guess maybe he's on to something.

In any event, as I was writing before I so rudely interrupted myself, I'm very aware of the passage of time, marked by various anniversaries. Mike, Dorothea's husband (see an earlier blog post about Dorothea), had his birthday on 26AUG08. My friend CPT M just had his two-year sober birthday on 27AUG08, which was also the 28-month anniversary of my friend Sam getting sober. My friend Greg celebrated his natal birthday that same day. Michael K died on 29AUG97, and my friend Steve C got sober on 01SEP04.

My sister Ann celebrates her 50th birthday this coming Sunday, so be sure to give her a shout out about that!

I even know how many days it's been since my SCUBA buddy Brian died (2345 -- nice number, eh?).

All of this is to say that 03SEP08 marks 30 years since I joined the Society of Jesus.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Curmudgeon: An Unlikely Army Chaplain