Happy New Year!

For those of us who come from the tradition of liturgical worship, Sunday 30NOV08 is the First Sunday of Advent, and therefore the first Sunday of the new liturgical year.

Happy New Year!

Advent always amuses me, since every year during Advent we wait for something that's already happened, at least seemingly. The four Sundays of Advent lead up to our commemoration of the birth of Jesus in a barn long ago (and for me this year, not so far away). And yet the season is not just about looking backwards in time to an event which has been noted now for a couple of millennia, but also an anticipation of the return of the Christ in glory at the end of time.

In my liturgical tradition, we recognize Jesus as Emmanuel -- Immanu El, the "with-us God" -- as described in the Gospel of Matthew. Christmas Eve we'll read from the text which names him thus, from the beginning of that Gospel (Mt. 1:23). At the end of that same Gospel Jesus says, "And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age." (Mt. 28:20).

With us. Always. None will be left behind, deserted by him.

So as we wait for Christ's return, it's important to remember that admonition at the end of the Gospel of Matthew: "And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age." Perhaps, rather than focusing just on the rather antiseptic and anemic images of Pattarino figurines in a Christmas creche, or on some off-in-the-future return of Christ in triumph, we might want to attempt to recognize how Christ is trying to be born anew in us and in and through those around us, since he is the "with-us God."

With us, right now.

No creche. No angels blowing trumpets at the end times. But right now.

For me, even right here in Iraq, of all places.

The Gospel reading today (Mk 13:33-37) sets the tone for our observance of Advent: Watch! Be alert! Don't be sleeping! The implication is: Jesus could show up at any time. Not just at the end of time, but right here, right now.

I wonder how many thousands upon thousands of times I've missed recognizing him because I was not watchful or alert or even open to discerning his presence in a given situation.

In Jesus we can have a "with-us God" who is revealed in the persons and situations which would otherwise seem impossibly antithetical to the presence of the Divine. Mother Teresa once said, in response to a question about why she would spend her life with destitute slum-dwellers -- many of whom weren't even Christians! -- replied: "The dying, the crippled, the mentally ill, the unwanted, the unloved -- they are Jesus in disguise. The poor people are God's greatest gift to me. I have an opportunity to be 24 hours a day with Jesus." (quoted in V. K. Supramanian, The Great Ones, p. 187)

She "got it" what this being Emmanuel thing meant about Jesus. She looked for him around her, and found him in the most unlikely persons in the most unlikely places.

I wonder how different the "War on Christmas" would seem if we didn't focus on who can or can't put up what decorations, or whether people *have* to say "Merry Christmas" or must avoid it altogether, but rather attempted to identify the Christ already in our midst -- cold, hungry, without documents, without work, in the cubicle next to us at work, in the pew in front of us at church, in the chow hall or latrine here in Iraq, on the TV, in the persons of our spouse or children, or alone in a darkened room trying to save money by keeping the lights off.

If Mother Teresa could see Jesus so clearly in the gutters of Calcutta, what's to prevent us, this Advent, from recognizing him as already come to us in the persons we encounter in our daily life?

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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APFT

The Army Physical Fitness Test supposedly is "designed to test the muscular strength / endurance and cardiovascular respiratory fitness of soldiers in the United States Army" by having us do as many push-ups as we can in 2 minutes, followed 10 minutes later by as manysit-ups as we can do in 2 minutes, followed ten minutes later by a 2-mile run, in as short a time as can be managed by the Soldier.

Except, of course, if one is a physical wreck (wretch?) like me, in which case one does a 2.5-mile walk in under 00:37:30 in place of the 2-mile run.

Each event is scored according to a scale which takes into account the Soldier's age and gender.

Male Soldiers who join at age 17 must complete 42 push-ups and 53 sit-ups within the allotted time, and finish the 2-mile run in 00:15:54 to pass the test. If they want to "max" it, they need 71 push-ups and 78 sit-ups, and 00:13:00 in the run to receive a "300". By the time they're 27, they're expected to complete 77 push-ups, 82 sit-ups, and the run in 00:13:18 to max out.

More than the maximum number of repetitions in the first two events, or a faster run time than the minimum can earn the Soldier more than 300 points, but only as long as the Soldier has maxed each of the three events. Otherwise, the extra repetitions or the faster time don't really "count."

As a person gets older than 31 years old, the standards are lowered. After age 52 (my age) they must figure they're reached the nadir, because the standards no longer change.

When I went to Chaplain Basic Training, as the oldest non-prior-service Soldier there, my classmates seized upon my advanced age and accused me of only having to do five push-ups and three sit-ups to pass. I actually did well enough on the APFT I took during Basic to have at least passed at the 17-21 age.

However, I wound up with a permanent no-run profile as a result of that test.... Sigh.

Because of the permanent no-run profile, no matter how many sit-ups I do, nor how many push-ups, nor how fast I get the 2.5-mile walk done, I can't ever score over 260 (out of 300) on the test; in fact, they don't really 'score' it at all. They just check to see whether I pass each event, and whether I meet the height-weight standards.

So I had an APFT today, here in Iraq. After doing 63 push-ups (the max for my age is 56; the minimum to pass is 28), I realized it didn't matter (I'd done 76 in two minutes last week), so I just stopped, with twenty seconds to go.

I know, I'm a quitter.

Saffar Arjmandi would have called me something else.

When it came to the sit-ups, I just did the minimum that a 17-year-old would need to pass -- 53. (For my age group, the max is 66, the minimum, 28.)

I'm not convinced that sit-ups really measure my fitness for combat, when you really get right down to it...

I had 00:37:30 to do the 2.5-mile walk, and completed it in 00:31:23. I'd sort of wanted to get it done in under 30 minutes, but seeing as I'd not been to the gym -- at all -- since I've been here (these 12-hour (or more!) days are real killers, if I want to write to my blog, etc.), I figure it wasn't too shabby a performance.

I did best the others who were doing the walk by more than 2 minutes, at least.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Mortaritaville

I was in a place recently that hadn't received any indirect fire in many, many months. While I was eating dinner, a round detonated perhaps 100 meters away, and another round landed somewhat closer, but it did not explode. Miraculously, no one was seriously injured.

It felt a bit odd to hit the floor, surrounded by a mass of other people, also on the floor, jostling to get their bodies under the tables and chairs. It does wonders for the digestion. Seriously.

Perhaps because there hasn't been any of this sort of activity at that place for so long, some people I spoke with afterward seemed pretty wigged out. They have since reported not sleeping well.

I, however, slept fine that night, there. I've slept fine since then, too. Having a really, really, really big Higher Power helps a lot in instances like this, I guess. I'm grateful for that.

I have noticed though, that since that experience, the first time I heard a thunderclap, I found myself wondering whether it was really thunder, or a mortar exploding.

I'd never, ever wondered that before.

It's one thing to recognize that people who know me might want to kill me. It's entirely another thing to acknowledge that people who *don't* know me are trying to kill me....

What's up with that?

Happy Thanksgiving.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Spiritual Exercises V

"A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

"Bah!" said Scrooge, "Humbug!"

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

"Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Scrooge's nephew. "You don't mean that, I am sure."

"I do," said Scrooge. "Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough."

"Come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough."

Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "Humbug." (Dickens, A Christmas Carol, pp. 4-5)

During the holidays, it's easy for me to become aware of how much I *don't* have, especially as stores get engorged with gift items that are all "must-haves". This time of the year I become more keenly aware of my vow of poverty than any other time.

The more I dwell on what I don't have -- either for myself, or to give away to others as gifts (gifts that would impress with their extravagance) -- the more stressed and inadequate and genuinely grumpy I feel. I can lose sight of all the blessings in my life, and either become afraid they'll be taken away, or feel upset that I don't have "more" or 'what others have'.

If you've not read A Christmas Carol in a long time, download a copy and read the description of Scrooge in the first chapter. Ebenezer Scrooge epitomizes how I can get to be feeling, if I'm not careful. "He carried his own low temperature always about with him..." One line in particular stands out for me: "Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it."

If A Christmas Carol is unknown to you, think Mr. Burns from The Simpsons, but without his generous nature, good humor, and gentle spirit.

So what's to be done when I'm getting more Scroogy than even I'm comfortable with?

I've been taught a simple spiritual exercise that can help: I practice being satisfied. I act as if it's OK to be where I am, as I am, right here, right now.

I make a conscious decision of the will to accept my situation, just as it is, as being sufficient for this present moment. I deliberately attempt to let go of expectations (my own and/or others') that things/I/situations ought to be different. I focus on gratitude, rather than on misanthropy.

It's tough -- especially for a curmudgeon -- and takes a lot of repetition, but it works.

Here's a vignette to illustrate my point.

A number of years ago I found myself in a new city and not particularly happy about the confluence of events that brought me there. So I started hanging out with people who were trying to live one day at a time, and develop and improve their conscious contact with a Power greater than themselves. On a wintry day a couple of months after I'd arrived, I was with a group of those folks as we listened to a man talk about how he had been complaining about his life to his AA sponsor.

The sponsor had told him to practice being satisfied.

That was a new concept for the man, but he decided to give it a try. Much to his surprise, it was working, and his life was improving. The guy spoke with authenticity and authority.

People in rooms like that tend to be able to spot someone who's not really telling the truth. That guy was telling the truth.

Weird thing was, the guy was homeless.

It was winter, in the midwest. There was snow and slush and cold. I felt grumpy for being there, and annoyed at having to scrape off the car before going on my merry way anywhere. I felt put-upon at having to trudge through snowbanks and navigate icy sidewalks on my way to and from work. (I didn't have to do that when living in California!)

I had, what many of those friends of mine would say are "country club problems."

That guy, on the other hand, was HOMELESS.

He felt serenity as he practiced being satisfied.

I, on the other hand, felt restless, irritable, and discontented.

He made a habit of listing ten things/people/events for which he was grateful several times a day. I was rehearsing how wronged I'd been by others, multiple times a day. He tried to go out of his way to do something nice, anonymously, for someone else at least once per day. I was waiting for "them" to apologize to me.

(Never happened, of course.)

His serenity was leading him to be able to take actions -- sober -- that he'd never been able to do before, and he had gotten a job which he'd thus far managed to keep for several months. He was beginning to pay off some of the huge debt he'd accumulated, and had a line on a place to live, if he could demonstrate his reliability and trustworthiness by keeping the job. He figured he could be off the streets in a week or two more at most.

I was in a rut that was keeping me bitter and resentful and endangering my sobriety.

He was loving life as a sober person. His life was very tough, but as he practiced being satisfied, his life was improving because his attitude kept improving.

I kept my focus on what I *didn't* have, how much *more* I *deserved*, how wronged I was, and how UNFAIR life was -- all the while having a job, having a place to live, having food on the table (and living in a place where I didn't have to cook it or do the dishes), having friends and family who loved me and supported me. I was not exactly loving life as a sober person.

But that guy at that meeting was!

I was speechless.

If it could work for him, perhaps it could work for me.

It did.

It's still working -- when I apply myself to engaging this spiritual exercise -- even over here in Iraq. Even when we get mortared, and things here get blown up.

Go figure.

If the holidays are proving to be a challenge for you, try this small spiritual exercise which has worked for me: Practice being satisfied.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Thankfulness

Most military personnel I've met who find out that I came into the Army with no prior service, practically in my dotage, ask me how this happened. I ask myself the same question, pretty much constantly.

I love the family and friends I am now so far away from. I love living in a place with a fairly temperate climate all year around. I love my job in the department where I received my doctorate. I love being close enough to the ocean to be able to go SCUBA diving if I can get the time away and a buddy to go with.

I love having the ability to jump on a plane, if need be, to link up with family and friends who are in the midst of some crisis or other. I love running around the country giving weekend retreats to people who are recovering from addictions of one sort or another, or recovering from the family consequences thereof.

I really love free-lancing doing priest-things on weekends and weekdays, in various parishes, all over the place.

Now I find myself far from home, and family, and friends. While the weather at this moment is quite nice, actually, this place could hardly be counted as having a temperate climate! There's nowhere around where I am to go SCUBA diving (at least recreationally).

When Mom had her back surgery, and Elaine had her cancer surgery, and Aunt Pat got so sick -- and then died -- there was no way to jump on a plane and just show up. I've not given a weekend retreat in a long time, because it wasn't fair to tell a group I'd do the retreat, only to have to cancel down the road because the Army had put me on temporary duty that weekend. (I've done a lot of temporary duty since getting commissioned.) I miss the folks at St. Thomas Aquinas (all three sites), St. Cyprian's, St. Bartholomew's, etc.

All of this 'missment' is not a surprise. I knew what I was signing up for when all this began three summers ago.

Whenever I find myself marveling at being in Iraq, wearing body armor, going outside the wire, and asking myself, "Self. How did this happen?", I always focus on my gratitude to the women and men in my life who are veterans or still serving in the military.

I think of my Dad, who was branched Field Artillery after he completed ROTC in the 50s. When I was commissioned, he pinned the only Captain bars he could find from his time in the service on the lapel of my BDUs, which I wore specifically so we'd get by with just one, rather than a pair. The BDUs are no longer authorized for wear, but I have saved that set because my Dad's rank is still on the lapel.

I think of my cousins George, Cathy, and Mike, who represent the Army, Navy, and Air Force (not a real service), respectively. [Before you give me all sorts of grief, just know that I'm constantly giving Mike a hard time about that, as he gives me a hard time for joining an outfit which guarantees that I'll NOT be sleeping in a bed with clean sheets, more often than not.]

They all served during the Vietnam conflict, and have amazing stories to tell. I know I can never live up to George's multiple Bronze Stars with "V" devices and his Silver Star; I hope I don't get to join him in the Military Order of the Purple Heart! Mike has become one of my greatest supporters -- and challengers -- and his experience, strength, and hope have seen me through a lot.

I think of my Dad's neighbors Joe and Andy, who served during World War II. Joe was a Captain in the Army, and he gave me his Captain bars for my dress uniform. What an incredible gift! Andy and his wife take really good care of my parents, who definitely need looking after!

I think of Ken and Paul who were Cadets back in the 80s when I was teaching in the midwest. They went on to serve with distinction into the 90s. Ken's struggles in the face of the constant pain he suffers from now, as a result of his military service, fill me with fear and awe.

I think of the Cadets of the All For One Battalion, and the grief they gave me for being a "leftist hippie" (which was, of course, true). I think of Saffar, RANGER and RAKKASAN, who adopted me as his "Dad" -- with so much reason not to have done so. He had the highest tolerance for pain of any human being I've ever met, and doing his funeral was almost as tough as doing my brother's a couple years earlier.

I think of Jason and Jonathan and Mason and Kael and Justin and Matthew and Brian and Lindsey and so many others who have served so well, at and such a great cost.

I think especially of Sam, Jason, Dan, and Patrick, whose love and support have come to mean so much. Words do not adequately convey the debt of gratitude I owe them. Carlos has become like family to me.

I think of 1SG B, who served here in Iraq in both Desert Shield / Desert Storm and in OIF. "Top" has become one of my closest friends and continues to square me away, even from far away. I think of Top from HHD in my first Battalion in the Guard, and all of my friends from that unit whom I miss so much.

I think of LTC K, LTC F, and LTC C who mentored me with such care, even though I didn't come close to being under their command. The first LTC C took me in under her wing even before I was in uniform.

I think of LTC W whose powers of persuasion and example, coupled with those of MAJ S, served to woo me into the Guard and keep me there when the going got tough.

I think of SFC McG, who's away on a mission without me, but who's in very good hands in so many ways.

I think of SPC C and SGT M at their outpost, and of CPT M, Roy E, SPC T, and SSG L who are trying to stay sober over here, and of all the Soldiers, Sailors, Marines, Coast Guardsmen, Airmen, DoD Civilians, and contractors I've met since putting on this uniform, and I am filled with gratitude that in some small way (smaller than I'd like, that's for sure), I might be able to be of service to them.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Thanksgiving week

It's almost Thanksgiving, and I'm far from home and those I love. I have a lot for which to be grateful, none the less.

Here's part of an email I received from a Soldier who's been posted to a small Joint Security Station (living with the Iraqi security forces). I've only been able to get there twice in the almost four months I've been here Down Range. It provides insight into hardships our young Soldiers have to endure, even when the 'kinetic fight' (as they're saying these days in Army parlance) has subsided considerably.

It has helped focus my own reflections about Thanksgiving Day:

Being deployed is funny because it gives us so much time to think. While my friends at home are busy with kids, work, going out at night, traveling on weekends, etc; we are here stuck in a tower or a truck staring at an empty street. All we can do to stay awake is daydream and talk about what we daydreamed about. Because of this we live in a world half-fantasy and half reality.

This is a big part of what makes it hard to communicate with the outside world – we either flood someone with the products of our daydreams or simply clam up because we don't know what to tell them about a reality we don't particularly want them to experience (I'm a rare soul in that I came here not only looking to learn about this war but also to express that reality to the world; yet, I fall into the same trap simply because it seems like there's no way most people will know enough to understand.)

On top of that, I haven't learned all that much from this deployment as of right now, but that always changes looking back.). It's not that we're experiencing extreme danger or seeing horrific things on a daily basis: we're not. Mostly we're socially bored to a degree that's simply inexpressible. Nobody who lives inside the wire or back home can even imagine how it feels to pull guard for eight hours a day with another guy who ran out of things to talk about three months ago.

Which brings up something interesting: at this point we barely even talk to one another. Even Jake and I have only a few words to spare. We've talked about everything, made life changing decisions and taken strange and random choices as to what to do with our free time, but now we're done. It's not that we're ceasing to exist or becoming less human, but a group of people so isolated learns that talking doesn't solve many problems. As a matter of fact, it seems to me that it exacerbates many of them. If I talk about how angry I am, I get angrier; my gunner gets angry with me for being angry; my NCOs hear it and they get angry (which is their job, I guess). See where I'm going?

Another reason we don't talk too much to outsiders is that, for us, being what we are is almost like being part of the world's largest-yet-still-exclusive-fraternity. Many of us long ago ceased to be proud of what we do every day or even look at the day we swore in with disgust because we've been stop-lossed, aren't doing what we expected to be doing, or just didn't read the fine print. Those of us who feel this way see the fortitude that we felt when we chose to sign and waive as muleheadedness now, but we really don't want to bring anybody down and keep the gripes inside the brotherhood.

Repression is often the best option – no matter what pop-psychology has to say.

Despite all those things, there are times when we get in the mood to talk, and then we talk probably too much. I've always been a talker once I got comfortable with someone (and I've always been comfortable typing to anyone), but since I joined the Army I've noted that I will suddenly write, type, call everyone I know all at once. Which is sort of what this email is about.

All of that just to say, "hi, I love you guys and will be home soon."

Seriously. We're almost done. That gives us all something to talk about.

Peace, Hope, Love,

SPC C

During this week when the United States observes Thanksgiving Day, everyone's attention seems to be focused upon how much the various 'bailouts' of corporate executives will cost everyone -- except the people who've aided and abetted this travesty to occur in the first place.

I would submit to you, Gentle Readers, that a much more appropriate focus of our attention might be on SPC C, the author of the note quoted above, and the countless others like him who have REALLY paid in ways that are more significant and more costly than mere dollars. What has all of this Down Range cost *them*?

How different might this Thanksgiving Day be this year, if we all shifted our focus a bit? I, for one, feel honored to know SPC C and countless others like him whom I've met just in the short time I've been in the Army.

I am grateful beyond words that in the midst of rigors beyond my imagining, these Soldiers choose honor over dishonor, the hard right rather than the easy wrong, integrity over compromise, and retain their humanity when others work hard to take it away.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Factoids

Here are some fun facts to know and tell -- completely useless information (which is the kind I love best):

Since 07SEP08, when I finally figured out how to track such things, there have been 674 unique visitors to this site. Those 674 unique visitors have come from twenty-one countries: United States, Iraq, Ecuador, United Kingdom, Canada, U.S. Virgin Islands, South Korea, Hungary, Australia, Spain, Sweden, India, Ivory Coast, Vietnam, Argentina, Ireland, Germany, Taiwan, Puerto Rico, South Africa, and Kuwait. They have logged 5,456 pageviews during 3,623 visits, for an average of 47.67 visits per day. Visitors, on average, read 1.51 pages per visit, and have spent an average of 01:32 minutes at this site when they get here. Readers have translated the contents into Spanish, French, Hungarian, Mandarin, British English, and Korean.

Clearly there are way too many people -- the world over -- who have too much time on their hands....

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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the little men

About a month ago I wrote of a Soldier I've gotten to know here Down Range (he lives at a place I can only get to once a month, if we're lucky), SPC C. He's an amazing young man with a wisdom beyond his years. I've told him that if I could grow up to be half the Soldier he is, I'd be doing pretty well.

Though I don't get to see him very often, we correspond via email quite regularly. He's recently sent me a poem he wrote (after I cajoled him into doing so). I wish he'd write more, and more often! SPC C has given me permission to share his poem with you, Gentle Readers.

the little men

You think, sometimes that you can deal with this.
Sometimes it almost makes sense, the rules, the tongue lashings,
the little men.

Those days when I think about it, how angry I get,
How cold my heart is, how much I need to
break
and
hurt and
Kill and
KILL
the little men.

Maybe we're all like that. Maybe we hide behind our
Trucks, our
guns, our
armor,
our deadly skill;
but we're all just
the little men.

But it's hard to be one of
the little men
when you know better, when you see better, when you can reach further,
when you shoot straighter and feel better,
and moreso:

when you think about
the little men
Hiding in crowds,
Strapping bombs to retarded kids,
Throwing grenades from floorboard-less cars
because the windows are visible,
and everyone hates them.

All rights reserved. 2008

(Should you wish to reproduce this poem, I ask that you contact me first, so I can put you in touch with SPC C and you can give proper credit to the author.)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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20

Today is the 20th sober birthday of my friend and SCUBA partner, Brian B.

Happy Birthday, Buddy!

Brian died -- sober for 13.5 years -- six and a half years ago now, but as a direct result of his drinking and using. The Hepatitis B which had gone dormant after infecting him just before he got clean and sober woke up all of a sudden in 2002 and killed him in a matter of about eight weeks.

Friends who go to AA meetings have told me that many groups have the custom of commemorating milestones of recovery by giving out 'chips' on the occasion of a person's sober birthday. During the first year of sobriety they're usually plastic (24 hours, 30 days, 60 days, 90 days, 6 months, 9 months), and thereafter they're metal coins marking each sober year.

After Brian's death, I found a box in his house which contained all the chips he'd gotten in AA and NA. Unlike me (a packrat), he never saved *anything*, so he clearly treasured those chips.

This is the first year since his death that I've not gone to his grave to leave him one for his latest birthday.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Holiday survival tips

Since what I posted the day before yesterday about the holidays ["Holiday 'wars'"] will certainly incite, irk, inflame, and otherwise irritate many, I figured I'd try posting something today of a less confrontational nature.

Many people find November and December to be particularly difficult months.

I experience the short days and long nights, coupled often with cold weather and urban snow (you know, snow that gets immediately sooty and slushy and decidedly unattractive within moments of falling), to be the occasion for 'seasonal affective disorder' (SAD), myself. That probably complicates the situation for a lot of us in the Northern Hemisphere concerning holiday time.

Irrespective of our geospatial location, however, the Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year time frame presents challenges to serenity for most and sobriety for some.

Much of this is due, I suspect, to the hype that attaches to those observances. What works for me, to counter the hype, is to be fed spiritually.

A few suggestions, then, for spiritually navigating our way through the coming days:

1.) Expectations are premeditated resentments. Friends who go to Al-Anon meetings have been trying for years now to impress upon me how important it is for me to be aware of what expectations -- especially hidden ones! -- I'm harboring concerning an upcoming event or situation. This is especially true of the holidays or big family celebrations. For example, I always counsel soon-to-be-married couples that low expectations of family and friends pay huge dividends in return: If I'm expecting absolute perfection from manifestly imperfect human beings, I'm setting myself up for certain disappointment. If, on the other hand, I inure myself against almost-certain 'disaster' -- Uncle Ethbert having too much to drink, again, and doing a swan dive into the wedding cake -- then I can be relieved and consider it a wedding gift when Uncle Ethbert only collapses the huppa AFTER the vows have been pronounced, leaving the cake unscathed. [Names have been changed to protect the innocent.] I'm fed spiritually by taking stock of my expectations, hidden or otherwise.

2.) What other people think of me is none of MY business. If I'm concerned that my guests will think less of me because there might be streaks on the windows at the peak of the cathedral ceiling in the room where I'm having Christmas dinner, there's something wrong. If I'm afraid that they might think *my* Christmas tree isn't as big as theirs, or that I'm serving the wrong drinks, or that my outfit isn't 'designer' enough, there's reason to suspect I have no clue what Christmas is about in the first place. Let's get one thing straight from the get-go here: Jesus was born in a barn. There were farm animals there. It smelled like there were farm animals there. Do you actually think Jesus cares about the stuff that we can get ourselves upset over? I'm fed spiritually when I get free from the tyranny of what others might be thinking.

3.) What other people think/say/do is about THEM, not about ME. I do not have to let my self-worth and raison d'être hang in the balance of other people's actions and attitudes. Other people have the right to be wrong, after all. If I throw a party and they choose not to come, that's on them, not on me. It's about them and their choices, not about me and mine. (I'd like to *think* that it is: After all, while I may not *be* much, I *am* all I ever think about!) I say again: other people have the right to be wrong. If they're not going to show up for what I'm doing, perhaps I need to consider doing something else, inviting others, or getting myself invited somewhere else. Life is about healthy compromise, and about being fed. So I need to do the best I can to arrange to make the best of whatever situation I find myself in. I'm fed spiritually when I let go of the need to psychoanalyze the motivations and actions of others, and concentrate on identifying what I need to be doing for myself, in order to benefit from whatever's going on around me.

4.) If I can't be with those I love most, I need to try to be of service to others. If I'm far away (through time or geospatial distance or because of separation/death) from those I love, it's important for me to grieve in a healthy way. One such manner is to get off my duff and go try to be of service to others: go to a soup kitchen, or to a retirement home, or to a cancer ward. Ask a local parish if there's someone who wants to go to services but has no way to get there, so you can give the person a ride. Go to a VA hospital and look in on some wounded warriors who have been there for many, many years, forgotten by others. Get out and get busy. If getting out is not an option, then use the phone or the internet or simple pen and paper, and make contact with others that way. Call the Chaplain at a local VA hospital and ask for first names of patients you can write to, and then send those letters to the Chaplain (so that HIPAA regulations won't be violated). Be creative! I'm fed spiritually by the act of being of service to others, so what better time of the year to do service than Thanksgiving or Christmas or New Year's Day?

5.) Spend some time in meditation/contemplation/prayer. When all else fails, follow directions, right? Precisely because the holiday season carries with it so many expectations, and so much hype, and so much conspicuous consumerism, do yourself the favor of trying to improve your conscious contact with a Power greater than yourself. I choose to call that Power "God" -- but whatever floats your boat! If I'm in touch with something beyond the here-and-now, if I'm making the effort to unite myself with all that is best and most life-giving, if I'm engaging in 'spiritual exercises' [see earlier blog posts of mine, for example] to remind myself that I'm not -- ultimately -- alone, even and especially if I'm feeling lonely in the moment, I'll feel more hopeful than if I don't. ("Help me." "Thank you.") At least that's been my experience thus far! This is, of course, an obvious way of being spiritually fed, but one that is all too often overlooked, I'm afraid.

6.) If all else fails, remember that each day is just another day. Thanksgiving is a Thursday in November -- for folks who call the U.S. their native land. (Canada has an entirely different Thanksgiving Day; this year it was 13OCT08.) Thanksgiving is the day after a Wednesday and the day before a Friday. If I've gotten through Thursday this past week (I have), then there's a reasonably good chance I can get through the next Thursday and the one after that and the one after that. Most of the people who have ever lived did not ever celebrate Christmas. It's another day, and this year, another Thursday. I've not been having any particular problem with Thursdays this year (although of late, it's been difficult or impossible to use the telephone here Down Range on Thursdays), so it's reasonable to assume I'll be able to get through that Thursday as well. Living a day at a time, as my friends who go to AA and Al-Anon meetings keep telling me, feeds my spirit in a profound way, since only in the present moment do I have any hope whatsoever of having conscious contact with a power greater than myself.

7.) Finally, don't psyche yourself out! Whatever I feed, grows. If I'm feeding fear and resentment and shame and regret and confusion and sadness, they'll just keep growing. One only need look around us in these last years to see this affecting whole societies, and not just individuals. If I keep telling myself, "I won't be able to get through the holidays," or, "It's going to be really, really, really tough this year," or, "If he/she doesn't call/write/show up, it will ruin my day/week/month/year/life," all that bad stuff will just continue to grow and fester and get bigger and more overwhelming, and I'll see that prophecy fulfilled. On the other hand, if I tell myself, "I have a God big enough to handle this situation," or, "I've been blessed beyond measure for so long, that even the present sorrow/separation/situation cannot erase that fact," or "I made it through yesterday and the day before, so I'm sure to be able to get through today, and probably even tomorrow as well," *that* stuff will grow and blossom and comfort and console. Whatever I feed, grows. If I'm feeding myself spiritually on what's good and right and true and holy and loving and grateful, *that* is what will enable me to handle whatever life brings my way, even during the holidays.

On that day it shall be said to Jerusalem:
Do not fear, O Zion;
do not let your hands grow weak.
The LORD, your God, is in your midst,
a warrior who gives victory;
he will rejoice over you with gladness,
he will renew you in his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing
as on a day of festival.
(Zephaniah 3:16-18; New Revised Standard Version)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Fifteen-month deployments

Many of the Soldiers I interact with have been deployed before. For a significant number of them, (like SFC McG, for example) this is their third deployment to Iraq. For some, it's their fourth deployment. I'm not able to count the number of Soldiers who've told me that they've spent three -- or more! -- of the past five years away from their families.

Most of the people I come in contact with where I work have been here almost a year now. They aren't scheduled to return home until next year sometime. This means that they'll have spent TWO holiday seasons in a row away from their home and hearth.

It would seem to me that, in an asymmetric war (as they're calling this; in other words, a war without "front lines" and clearly-identified enemies wearing easily-distinguishable uniforms) such as this, fifteen months probably seems much more than just 25% longer than a year.

I hope psychiatrists and psychologists and sociologists are collecting data concerning fifteen-month deployments, because it seems pretty clear to me that whoever came up with that idea had never been deployed for fifteen months in a counterinsurgency....

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Holiday 'wars'

It's amazing how much hype there is about the holidays.

I'm already getting inundated with forwarded emails about how horrible "The War on Christmas" is.

Sheesh.

I'm in Iraq, folks. I've got friends who are in Afghanistan. And these chickenhawk cretins on the TV have the temerity to talk about a "war" on Christmas???

Give me a break.

Perhaps if the people who are so concerned about *saying* "Merry Christmas" actually LIVED ACCORDING TO THE PRINCIPLES ESPOUSED BY JESUS -- you know: feeding the hungry, taking care of widows and orphans, clothing the naked, working for peace and justice, speaking the truth, healing the sick, visiting prisoners, forgiving those who trespassed against them, loving their enemies, praying for those who persecuted them -- and used their 'bully pulpits' to encourage others to do so, I'd be more concerned about all this.

Instead, from their privileged places on the TV, how often have the talking heads for whom this "War on Christmas" is such a crisis espoused the message of Jesus, and encouraged their adoring fans to live according to those values???

As it is, being over here in Iraq in the midst of a war that soooooo many Americans support -- AS LONG AS THEY DON'T HAVE TO FIGHT IT -- and about which so many (O'Reilly, Malkin, Hewitt, Goldberg, Coulter, Limbaugh, Donahue -- just to name a few) have impugned the patriotism, courage, sincerity, or faith of those (like me!) whose opinions about this differ from theirs, I believe there are many more important matters to be concerned with than *saying* "Merry Christmas" or not.

(By the same token, concerning this war that they were so gung-ho for, when did any of them EVER have the contact information for military recruiters scrolling along the bottom of their TV screens while they were labeling those who protested the war as terrorists and/or traitors?)

The last sentence from the first chapter of the Letter of James in the Christian Scriptures reads: "Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world." (James 1:27; New Revised Standard Version)

Did you catch the part about caring "for orphans and widows in their distress"?

When have ANY of those people -- who are so concerned about this "War on Christmas" -- ever had a TV show dedicated to improving the lot of orphans and widows? How about starting with the orphans and widows of my sisters and brothers in uniform who have died during the Global War on Terrorism?

My buddies on another post here in Iraq just got shelled recently. My former Battalion Commander, who's now in Afghanistan, gets mortared and shot at regularly. Closer to (your) home: More children in the United States went to bed hungry in the last year than ever before.

Joblessness is at an all-time high. Ordinary citizens are losing their homes while Wall Street and industry fat-cats are given 'corporate welfare' -- and keeping the gazillion-dollar bonuses they've earned during all the time they've been running their corporations into the ground (people seem to be impressed that *some* of them won't get to keep *this year's* bonus -- wow).

We have a couple of *real* wars going on, but those TV blowhards won't lift a finger to fight either of them, nor even actively recruit others to do so in their stead. Rather, they want to distract a gullible public from the horrors of these wars they've been cheerleading, in the hopes no one will call them to account. So they've come up with "The War on Christmas."

The same people who are again bringing us "The War on Christmas" also opposed increasing benefits for war veterans (must be that we're "phony soldiers," eh?), and fully funding clinics to treat those who suffer from Combat Stress.

They seem to be perfectly fine with having some military families living at close to (or below!) the poverty level, but wouldn't dream of pushing for an accounting of all the BILLIONS of dollars that have disappeared here Down Range. They could care less that so many homes are in foreclosure, as long as they and industry moguls don't have their taxes increased.

Their passionate and duplicitous "support" for these wars certainly does not extend to paying for them, after all!

"War on Christmas," indeed.

Besides, where in the Scriptures is there anything about saying "Merry Christmas," anyway?

Blessings and peace -- and happy holidays -- to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Heavenly bodies

On Saturday evening, 01NOV08, as I walked out of the building where I work (hurrying on my way to dinner), I saw the crescent moon, orange slightly above the horizon. A lone palm tree was silhouetted just beneath it, to the right. The sky was uncharacteristically clear (for Down Range, since I've been here, anyway), and above the moon, off to the left, were Venus and then Jupiter.

Those three heavenly bodies formed a straight line, angled at about maybe 60 degrees to the earth's surface. (I could be completely wrong about the angle; I didn't have a protractor with me. My bad.) It stopped me in my tracks.

It had been a long day, I was hungry, and I was very aware of being far from home.

As I pondered the night sky, I had no trouble imagining how the ancients would have viewed those orbs, suspended above, to be divine.

It was breathtaking, actually.

The urgency to get to dinner abated. Gratitude suffused my spirit. I hummed a melody I've been working on, as I sauntered on my way.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Grief

"Grief is not a mental illness. It just feels like one." Blanche M, Texas

Two Sundays ago was the fourth anniversary of my younger brother's death. He actually died on Election Day, 2004, so that week this year was a double whammy.

Sunday 02NOV08 was also All Souls Day, when in my tradition we remember 'the faithful departed', and I was reminded of SGT Saffar Arjmandi, an ROTC Cadet who was going "Green-to-Gold" at the university where I was teaching at the beginning of this millennium. He was a RANGER and a RAKKASAN, and I had been saying Mass for a number of RAKKASANs who were RANGERs. They were getting ready to redeploy (return home to the States), so friends I'd made since coming Down Range were leaving.

Aunt Pat died on Wednesday of that week, and her funeral was the following Monday, her birthday. I was, of course, unable to visit her while she was sick, and I was over here during her funeral.

Two days after Aunt Pat's death I found out about the particularly brutal murder of seven-month-old Ryan, and had the privilege of spending time with his father, Chris.

Elaine W, who's been sober since God was young, has found out that the surgeon did not remove all of her breast cancer, despite the radical nature of the surgery performed. She needs radiation therapy now. I'm Down Range, and haven't mastered the art of bilocation yet. During and after her surgery earlier this year, I visited her in the hospital or the surgery rehab center almost every day for more than a month.

My friend Dorothea, who's living with post-polio syndrome complicated with cancer complicated with a multiply-fractured leg from a fall a couple of months ago has experienced a dramatic loss of energy and muscular control, and has been confined to bed for some time now. There's no way for me to swoop in and say and do outrageous things to get her to laugh.

Lately SFC McG is off on a mission without me, so he's not around. We'd pretty much been joined at the hip since his arrival at Summer Camp - South four months ago, so I am very aware of his absence.

It's been a rough few weeks.

Each new grief brings up every old grief.

Grief is often misunderstood, and for that reason, feared.

People, in my experience, tend to believe that grief has, or at least ought to have, a time limit. There also seems to be an expectation that only certain griefs are 'worthy'.

My friend Blanche was right: Grief feels like a mental illness.

People fear it, I suppose, because in the midst of separation from the one who was loved and lost, grief isolates us from the ones who are still with us. Because so many people seem not to understand it, they judge their own and others' grief harshly. We in the melting pot that is the United States seem to be schooled to avoid it, deny it, or at the very least, NEVER let someone else know that it's happening.

This is especially true over here Down Range. "Suck it up and drive on" is the watchword. Mission first, after all -- and for good reason! But grief 'unobserved' accumulates, and we can lose the ability to accomplish even the simple mission of interacting in healthy ways with those around us. Case in point: Deployment Stress Syndrome.

Fortunately, I've hung out with people who go to AA and Al-Anon and NA and other 12-Step Recovery program meetings for so long, they've taught me that grief is all about powerlessness.

12-Step programs give people the tools to deal with powerlessness so that we needn't add more unmanageability into situations that already have more than enough, thank you very much. My friends who go to meetings have taught me that if I can name the powerlessness -- grief -- for what it is, I can use the eleven other steps of their program to move through the grief in a healthy and holy way.

Interestingly, denying grief, eschewing it, pretending it's not there, or otherwise refusing to experience it is decidedly unscriptural (for those for whom that's important)! Here are just two small, but significant, f'rinstances:

I'm reminded of Handel's "Messiah" and its treatment of a passage from the Hebrew and Aramaic Scriptures:

He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.
(Isaiah 53:3-5; King James Version)

In the Christian Scriptures, Jesus weeps at the tomb of his friend Lazarus.

When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, "Where have you laid him?" They said to him, "Lord, come and see." Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, "See how he loved him!"
(John 11:33-36; New Revised Standard Version)

Our tears are holy, and I believe we're in really good company when we allow ourselves to have courage enough to face just how awful the situation really is. If Jesus wept at the tomb of his buddy Lazarus, what better company could there be?

More on this at a later date....

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Zion Lutheran Church

I cannot express my gratitude adequately enough to all who have been sending letters and boxes my way while I've been Down Range.

A special thanks, though, must go to Zion Lutheran Church (you know where you are!) for the astounding number of boxes they've sent to Soldiers, care of my address. In case the Soldiers haven't been returning the self-addressed postcards you folks include within each box (presumably), please let me tell you that Soldiers where I work have taken to popping their heads into my office to ask whether I've gotten another shipment in.

It's rather amusing, really. They don't want to appear greedy, so they often find some other pretext for stopping by. Then, after some pleasantry or other, they'll just let slip, "Say, Sir, do you have anything for me today?"

At times I've felt like they were asking me for illegal drugs or something.

The looks on their faces when they're leaving with one of ZLC's boxes -- triumph, anticipation, gratitude, relief -- are priceless.

Many thanks to all, but today especially to the parishioners of Zion Lutheran Church!

(By the way, Down Range has cooled off sufficiently that Mama and Papa B from California managed to send me a huge box of M&Ms successfully.... Hint. Hint. Hint. Dark chocolate M&Ms with or without peanuts are especially appreciated. Hint. Hint. Hint.)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Rain

After being here Down Range for about 100 days, I finally got rained on a while ago. The rain came down like the 'gully-washers' I experienced 40 years ago when I was in Galveston, TX for the summer of 1968 visiting my aunt and uncle. I was instantly soaked, which actually felt pretty good.

For a while.

You see, I was on my way back from lunch to the office, and had about a 400-meter walk in the driving rain before I reached my destination. (Those of you who are still annoyed at my post "Salute Alley" will know what I'm talking about. [grin])

I had no rain gear with me.

Once I got inside, the interior temperature was set on "Kelvinator" and the fan in the room seemed to be oscillating faster than normal. One thing about the fire-retardant uniforms they issued us during Summer Camp is that they hold in the heat when it's hot out, and they don't dry very fast or well when in a cool environment out of the sun.

I pretty much froze until I was able to get 'home' to my CHU -- at 2300 hours.

That night all the lights along the walkway from where I work to the DFAC weren't working. They haven't worked since.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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A prayer

Dear God,

Hello again. It's I, Lord. Thanks for being there when I need You -- at least, eventually. Today's pretty tough, and one of Your children is having a really tough time and could use some help. Please show up.

His name is Chris and I met him today just after he found out his seven-month old baby died a short time ago. It appears as though his wife's 'boyfriend' bashed the baby's head in. Chris is flying back to the States tonight, I hope, and I'm asking that You send a spirit of fortitude and consolation, as much as that's possible, to him.

It tore at my gut to hear him, on the phone with family members back home, and barely able to breathe, mention that Ryan had gone out trick-or-treating as a banana.

When Chris pulled the dog-eared photo of Ryan, his only child, out of his wallet, I found myself barely able to breathe.

Such a beautiful little boy!! How could anyone hurt -- murder -- someone so tiny and vulnerable, with such gorgeous eyes?

When Chris accidentally dropped the photo and I picked it up, I felt dazed.

What could be said when I heard him telling his sister that his son had died in the hospital, "... and I was not there with him, to hold him"?

Chris is convinced you're punishing him, Lord, given this and the fact that his Dad died in February. He's also convinced that he's done something -- though it's not clear what -- to deserve punishment.

Heal that part of him, please. Send someone into his path back home who will help him, not to make sense of this, because there is no sense in it, but rather to move through it with as much grace as possible.

Please, please, please prevent him from having to hear some well-meaning but misguided person(s) tell him, "Everything happens for a reason."

Or, "God must love you a lot by sending so many trials into your life."

Or, "Nothing, absolutely nothing in God's world happens by mistake."

Sheesh.

What loving parent tortures a child to prove how much the child is loved?

What a stupid notion.

If 'everything happens for a reason' and 'nothing happens by mistake', that would mean that You intended this horror, that You planned it, that You made it happen. That's not the action of a loving parent, nor of a loving God; that is the action of a child abuser, of a monster.

*Please* spare Chris that nonsense.

Send him shoulders to cry on, arms to embrace him, eyes to shed tears with, legs to carry him, feet to journey with him, and broken hearts to be mended with his. I have seen You do this before.

A few of those for me and the rest of us would be appreciated as well.

Amen.

Aunt Pat

Aunt Pat died Wednesday morning (East Coast time) about 8:30. May she rest in peace.

Funeral arrangements are pending.

Thank you all for your support over the past couple of months.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Machen Kleider Leute?

As part of trying to help out with the Catholic ministry where I'm living, I'm in the process of joining a men's group that has lots of history and idiosyncratic garb for use at big occasions. (Lest this be seen as some sort of "slam," let it be remembered that I'm a Catholic priest, and as such, have plenty of idiosyncratic garb on two continents now!)

It turns out that SFC McG and I will be a 'continuity piece' in the Chaplaincy program here Down Range as large units exchange authority at some point. To that end, I stepped up to the plate when asked to help out with this organization.

There aren't too many rules, as such, but there are by-laws. (How's that for splitting hairs?) I noticed the other night that one of them addresses the issue of what ought to be worn by members of this group when going to church for services.

To paraphrase: 'Get dressed up, because it's not reverent not to.' This is probably a corollary of the adage, 'Clothes make the man,' or, Kleider machen Leute.

I must admit that I find this outlook a bit shallow at best.

In contemplating this, I was reminded me of one of my trips outside the wire:

A while ago now, while it was still beastly hot every day here Down Range, SFC McG and I went by convoy to an outpost that doesn't often get visits from a priest. It took about forty-five minutes to get there, over roads that are generally really safe these days.

It was another ghastly hot day, with poor visibility due to the high-intensity dust-storm we were having. The convoy was uneventful, which is the best kind, I'll tell you.

When we got to the outpost, the Soldiers had been given the day off from their normal routines. We saw groups of them playing soccer and volleyball in the heat and dust (there was not a blade of grass to be seen anywhere in the vicinity -- certainly not on the soccer field).

Needless to say, there was a lot more dust in the air than had already been the case!

Surrounded by high concrete walls which are topped with concertina wire, and with practically no vegetation in evidence, the place felt like what I'd imagine a maximum-security prison yard might be like.

The Soldiers there have nowhere else to go for recreation; they don't get much respite time away from there, either. Sanitation there was much more primitive than what we have here at "The Ritz" where I live, and that was disturbingly evident.

I heard no one complain.

The First Sergeant (known as "Top" in Army parlance) apologized that there might not be many Soldiers for Mass, as they'd not been expecting us, and today was their first "free day" in quite a while. He had very sad eyes and looked much older than his age.

(Fifteen-month deployments clearly seem to have been thought up by people who'd never been on one!)

Top showed Sar'nt McG and me to the room where we could set up for Mass, and then went off to try to round up Soldiers who might be interested in praying with us. As he was leaving, he again apologized and told us not to be surprised if he wasn't able to get anyone to come.

Indeed as Mass started, we had just two 'third-country nationals' (from Pakistan) in attendance, and this was after having delayed the start of the service for about ten minutes.

However, a short time after we began, about a half-dozen Soldiers showed up, just in from whatever games they had been playing. They were wearing Army physical fitness uniforms -- shorts and T-shirts. A couple were panting from whatever exertions they'd just been engaged in.

All were really quite dirty -- even muddy -- from the day's recreations. They had clearly dropped whatever they'd been doing (perhaps to the chagrin of their buddies?) to come to Mass.

It was awesome.

Afterwards, one of the men (a senior NCO) tried to apologize for how he looked and smelled. He knew there was no time to go clean up before coming to Mass, and didn't want to risk being able to participate at all by trying to.

It had been more than a month since Mass had been an option, and none of them wanted to miss it. Each begged me to come back the next week, if at all possible.

(SFC McG and I haven't been back since then, at that was almost a month ago now....)

I felt humbled to be in the same room with those men, and gratified to be of service to them. I really encountered God's presence through them.

But I remember thinking just after they'd left to rejoin their buddies, that well-meaning worshippers of a variety of denominations would have been shocked, annoyed, hurt, scandalized, outraged, and/or embarrassed if those guys had shown up to pray with them on any given Sunday (or Saturday or Friday), as disheveled and unkempt as they were.

Kleider machen Leute flashed through my mind at the time, and I laughed to myself about how shallow an attitude that really is.

These men literally dropped what they were doing for fun -- what they love doing, and get so little chance to do in the middle of this war -- and came to pray and worship, to be reconciled and to be fed. I was blessed by their presence, their devotion, and their faith. Truth be told, *I* felt out-of-place and inadequate in their company.

The notion that somehow God is so small or so insecure that how I dress when attempting to commune with the divine would offend God's fashion sense baffles me. The last time I read Matthew 11:28, the text (at least in the Catholic bible I use) says, "Come to me all you who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

It doesn't add, "just make sure you're dressed stylishly and smell nice before showing up."

Maybe being an alcoholic who's sober today through God's grace has something to do with it. My sober friends who go to meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous tell me there aren't many drunks who show up to their first AA meeting looking and smelling and sounding their best.

Yet they're welcomed into the group with open arms and told, "Keep coming back. Let us love you 'til you can love yourself."

If they do keep coming back, and don't drink between meetings, they wind up looking and smelling and sounding their best at meetings as they, themselves, welcome others who don't....

One of my favorite hymns, "I heard the voice of Jesus say," begins with a riff on that Scripture text I quoted:

I heard the voice of Jesus say,
"Come unto Me and rest;
Lay down, thou weary one,
lay down thy head upon My breast."

I came to Jesus as I was,
weary and worn and sad;
I found in Him a resting place,
and He has made me glad.

Those Soldiers showed up, just as they were: weary, worn, and sad. They found in Him a resting place. He has made them glad.

I'd much rather spend time in the company of those guys, as gritty and human and real as they were, than in the company of a stadium full of folks whose main interest at church is who's wearing the most impressive and expensive outfits and driving the most lavish and impractical vehicles.

Evidently contrary to popular imagination -- and I hate to break it to you -- God does not have a "Was the Best-Dressed" category in heaven.

I was filled with gratitude at being able to get to meet those Soldiers, and have been frustrated at not being able to get back to them thus far.

God was really "showing off" that day out at that outpost, as my friend Sam (a hopeless alcoholic who on 27OCT08 celebrated 30 months of being clean and sober -- must be those AA meetings he goes to, I guess) likes to say.

Machen Kleider Leute? Niemals!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

p.s. A Soldier from that outpost was killed in action not too long after SFC McG and I visited there. Down Range is still a dangerous place.

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Aunt Pat's illness

After making a spectacular recovery from the ruptured cerebral aneurysm, my Aunt Pat developed a large hematoma in her skull yesterday.

This was subsequent to falling and hitting her head after having been left alone in her room while she was sitting in her chair at the nursing care facility she'd been moved to.

That was the third time she'd fell since being transferred there.

Her sisters were working tirelessly to get her moved to Albany to the motherhouse of their Order, but the move did not occur soon enough, it seems.

Her medical team has now placed her under hospice care. Please pray for her and the members of her religious community. Many thanks, as ever.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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