The Snorer

There have been a number of rather significant changes around here of late, and not least among them has been the arrival of The Snorer.

He moved in last night (or rather, around 0300 this morning), to much fanfare -- or at least a *lot* of laughing and banging and music playing. This was not my idea of a good time, to be sure, but I restrained myself from 'introducing' myself to my new neighbors at that time.

I figured I might not make the best of first impressions.

Granted, we seem to be living in a world now wherein the excuse "Well, *they're* doing it!" seems to give license for all sorts of behavior hitherto regarded as, for lack of a better term, bad.

My friends who go to a lot of Al-Anon meetings have been trying to teach me that we don't have to accept unacceptable behavior. That seems like a pretty good notion. At least until it's time to put it into practice.

I'm afraid, though, that my idea of "not accepting unacceptable behavior" usually involves engaging in some unacceptable behavior on my part. I have a hunch that's not what they're talking about.

(For instance: I was once expecting an invitation to a wedding, and even went ahead and bought a plane ticket far enough in advance of it so that the ticket wasn't ghastly expensive. However, the invitation never came. Unacceptable behavior, in my book. So I just showed up, anyway. Univited. Wearing a cassock. And a big, black cape. I've been led to believe by my friends who go to Al-Anon that that might qualify as unacceptable behavior on my part....)

But I digress.

The Snorer, as it turns out, has a whopping case of sleep apnea, and snores at the threshold-of-pain decibel level, inches away from my head, right across the rather flimsy partition that divides my room from his and his roommate's in our shared CHU (Containerized Housing Unit = upscale dumpster). Because there's a wall between us (if by "wall" one means something resembling papier-mâché between ceiling and floor, but not as sturdy or as thick) it wouldn't appear as though we're essentially sleeping in the same bed, but the net effect is that we are. I don't know how his roommate can stand it.

Sigh.

The Snorer's snoring is not even rhythmic. Earplugs do not help. I can even hear him when I'm outside the CHU on my way to or from the latrine!

I feel as though I'm living in a cartoon, and that the wall will soon be undulating in concert with his arrhythmic snores. Or perhaps the wall will come tumbling down at any moment.

I was glad those guys stopped all the laughing and talking and video gaming, but when it was replaced by The Snore, it wasn't at all clear to me that the situation had gotten much better. I'd held off storming over there to demand that they quiet down, which they'd have probably done (and wound up doing, eventually, anyway). But I'm pretty sure The Snorer will not be able to change his nighttime nasalizations (how's that for a neologism?) on account of my umbrage and his septal deviation.

This should prove interesting over the months to come....

Blessings and peace to one and all on this Iraqi Election Day,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Saffar Arjmandi (1977 - 2006) -- part 01

This past Wednesday marked the third anniversary of the death of Army SGT Saffar Arjmandi, who was a very proud RANGER and a RAKKASAN. Much to the surprise of both of us, Saffar adopted me as his American dad, which made his illness and death all the more difficult for me. I've been aware of a lot of grief, still, this week.

Saffar and I met because he barged into my Biology Department office in Winter Semester 2000, unbidden, while his roommate and fellow Army ROTC Cadet (and my academic advisee) Mason was speaking with me. Moments after his entrance into my space he was calling me a "leftist hippie" in his thick Iranian accent (probably with good reason, given my long-ish hair at the time). Just to annoy him, I called him a "Godless Arab" -- precisely because I knew he was Iranian, and therefore Persian. They're *definitely* NOT Arabs!

Though he despised organized religion at the time (of any flavor), it was only the fact that I was a priest that kept him from beating the tar out of me, I'm convinced.

Not exactly an auspicious beginning, to be sure.

He was going "Green to Gold" in ROTC and wound up where I was teaching because "Uncle Pete," a RANGER Officer buddy of his from the RAKKASANS, was an alumnus of that ROTC program, and urged Saffar to apply. The other ROTC Cadets saw Saffar's RANGER tab and felt awe; I just felt intimidated by his large frame, larger intellect, and humongous ego.

I would kid him about "making Victory Parkway safe for Democracy" after seeing the ROTC Cadets training across the street from the Jesuit Community where I was living. He would respond by calling me by rather rude, disparaging, anatomical, and unprintable names. His syntax was idiosyncratic, which made the epithets all the more amusing.

Despite all that, he kept appearing in my office, just to give me a hard time, which I returned in kind. "Fatha. You a [insert one or more epithet(s)]." After September 2001, I began responding by calling him an "Arab terrorist." He'd scowl and mutter, but eventually began referring to himself by that designation when leaving rude phone messages on my work, home, and cell phones.

I'd show up at lunch or dinner in the Cafeteria when the Cadets were there, and eat with them. The "All For One" Battalion was aptly named: get to know one Cadet, and you got to know them all, it seemed. I got to know Mason, and then Saffar, and then Sam and Dan and Katie and Jason and Matthew and Lindsey and Patrick and Jason and Cale and Aaron and Jonathan and, well, hordes of them, actually.

I got the feeling that the older Cadets kept me around, mascot-like. I suspect they knew I felt intimidated by them, which they enjoyed immensely....

When Saffar got to school, he found even the Seniors to be in awe of his RANGER tab, which led him to believe he could get away with just about anything. Fortunately for everyone concerned, MSG Kimbrough was able to knock him down a few pegs to make him see that he really needed to "lead the way" for the other Cadets, who held him in such high esteem.

The biggest change in his behavior happened after he met Kristen, however. Up til then, he was less than virtuous in one particular aspect of his life. But immediately upon meeting Kristen the first time, Saffar left behind his former ways completely and irrevocably. I'd never seen such a huge, lasting, and dramatic transformation. I would not have thought it possible, to be quite honest.

I hadn't realized until much later that Saffar and Kristen met on 10 September 2001. Saffar at one point told me that he awoke to a wholly different world on 11 September 2001, but not for the reason the rest of us did: He knew that Kristen was "the one" for him, and that there could and would be no other.

He was true to his word, and true to her to the end.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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A day in the life....

My sleep cycle remains completely unpredicatable. This has been happening more and more as I've aged.

Like a fine whine.

I mean, "wine."

After almost eight hours of sleep the night before, I was feeling marginally OK the other day. I got through my day on post just fine, doing paperwork, chatting up Soldiers, going to lunch and dinner with friends: the usual. I looked forward to another good night's sleep as the day was winding down.

Then I got a phone call from someone who wondered whether I might be able to pray with him later that evening.

Remembering the previous night's eight hours of sleep led me to agree to celebrate Mass for that Soldier, even knowing that he usually shows up about an hour or more later than we schedule. We agreed to meet at 2130, and true to form we started about 2230. By the time we chatted about what was going on in his life, Down Range and back home, Mass finished up about 2345.

I love saying Mass, and get quite energized when I do so. (That's probably a good reason NOT to begin Mass when it's already close to midnight, I guess, but....)

Much to my chagrin, I was wide awake until 0215. Moreover, I found myself wide awake again at 0445. Sigh.

I turned on the computer, and discovered a couple of Soldier friends of mine were online, so I wound up chatting with each for a while. One, SPC C (of whom I've written before), is getting ready to return home fairly soon, and the other SSG M, recently went through a very difficult breakup in his relationship while he was home on leave.

Amazing how useful the principles of Al-Anon, which my friends who go to a lot of those meetings keep trying to teach me, prove to be when I'm in conversation with people who are experiencing lots of powerlessnesses in their lives. If I can remember to breathe, and to be gentle with myself, I'm often much better able to handle whatever is going on.

For example:

Recently I was talking with a Soldier who was pretty frustrated with his wife back home, because she was worried about finances, constantly. "Why can't she just 'get it' that I have always provided her and the children with everything they need, and that I will continue to do so, no matter what?" he fumed.

I replied, "Perhaps she's reacting less to the finances than to a deeper need. Sure, you're providing for them *financially*, but what if they *need* you to be around? You're giving them everything they need -- except your presence in their day-to-day lives. I remember you telling me that you'd missed four of your five-year-old son's birthdays now."

He looked stunned. His face, which had seemed righteously indignant as he had been complaining, suddenly appeared crestfallen.

"Wow. I never thought of it that way," he whispered.

"I thought not," I replied. "Now that you have some insight into what might be behind her reaction to the situation, why not come up with some creative way to let her know how much you love and miss her?"

He seemed even more discouraged, and scowled. "How am I going to do that, when she is so upset about money all the time? When I sent her flowers from over here, thinking she'd like them, she was angry they'd cost over $100."

"Well, that's where it's important to be as creative as possible," I countered. "What about calling up a friend of hers, having her get a nice box of chocolates to bring to your wife from you, and having the friend take your wife out to a movie or something? Won't cost much -- you can PayPal the friend the money -- and should indicate that you put some measure of thought and effort into the operation. Win, win, in my book."

He brightened immediately. "She really loves See's Chocolates," he said. His brow furrowed as he continued, "Now, what's the name of her friend? I can't believe my brain is so muddled... Oh yeah!" He took out his notebook, and began to write furiously.

He looked up and said, somewhat sheepishly, "So much for spontaneity, but if I don't write this down, I'll forget all this completely. Thanks, Father."

"You're welcome, my son."

(He outranks me by several pay grades, so I just love saying that.)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Election -- addendum

Here's a comment I just received on my post entitled "Election." It's so important, I just have to publish it up front, in case people don't read comments left by others:

Anonymous said...
Wow. Way to kiss the new President's butt there. Hey, if you can't get on board the mission - why are you in the military? How can you support the soldiers if you don't believe in their work? And what about those unborn babies that Obama is directly contributed to their demise. Great catholic ministry there father...doctor...more pompous holier than others Tim.

(Don't even get me going about the cowardice involved in leaving inflammatory, negative comments *anonymously*.)

In my post, "Election," I observed that we in the States are able to endure a change in Administration without violence, and that we can vote without fearing for our lives. I, for one, am very grateful for that reality, and opined that we are blessed as a nation to have that experience. I then pointed out that in the upcoming election over here, the potential for violence is very great, and that many of my friends could wind up being targets of that violence, and asked my readers to please pray for everyone concerned.

The person leaving the comment above -- anonymously, of course -- seems somehow to have read into my request for prayers for the safety of my buddies in uniform that I don't support the military. I'm afraid I'm not seeing the connection.

I've been under the impression that -- as a Chaplain -- praying for my comrades might *possibly* be a way that I can support them and their mission, and that asking others to pray with me for them might even be better. Anonymous Commenter Person: How am I not believing in my Soldiers' work if I'm concerned after their safety, and asking others for spiritual assistance? How am I "not on board the mission"?

Where was there any partisan inference, one way or another, in what I wrote?? Did we not just have a contentious election, and did we not do so without violence? How is that a partisan slam for or against ANYONE? How am I in any way "kiss[ing] the new President's butt"?

I voted in this past November's election, and was very grateful to be able to do so from far away, in a war zone (and for once, didn't have to put extra postage on the envelope!). Did you even vote, Anonymous Commenter Person?

What a blessing that we can engage in amazingly bitter political rhetoric, then cast secret ballots in safety, and then get on with our lives! (Well, at least some of us can, I guess!)

Unlike much of what I've written in my blog, there was actually no snark whatsoever in that particular post, precisely because the lives of people I care about are on the line in a more focused way than usual over these next couple of days.

And, in case you haven't noticed it, Anonymous Commenter Person, there *are* people over here who "are extremely unhappy we're even here," as I wrote. That is a statement of fact, not some sort of partisan comment.

The place where I live took three more rockets while I was on leave. And there were injuries. Again.

How many cities in the US suffered rocket attacks on account of the election we had in November?

I'm gladly putting myself in harm's way being over here, pushing to go outside the wire whenever I can, to support the troops in the best way I can. I am a non-combatant, and therefore unable (and as a Chaplain, unwilling to disregard the Geneva Conventions concerning Chaplains as non-combatants) to pick up weapons to support my Soldiers, so I 'have their back' spiritually instead.

How you could have read anything partisan, anti-military, or unsupportive of the troops into my post is simply beyond my comprehension. I love my Soldiers and am doing my best to be of service to them. My friends who go to a lot of AA and Al-Anon meetings have taught me that being of service is a key to staying healthy spiritually (and thereby, to staying sober).

You have come close to calling me a traitor, Anonymous Commenter Person, and I thoroughly resent your insinuation!

At the very least you have impugned the integrity of my military service. And you have done so without the courage or self-respect to identify yourself.

You have my pity. And my prayers.

Enjoy the Super Bowl in the comfort and safety of your home.

I hereby renew my request for prayerful support of the Iraqi people and my Soldiers -- for whom I willingly put my life at risk -- as we move through the election this weekend.

Blessings and peace to you, Anonymous Commenter Person, and to all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Election

Having just experienced a change in leadership in the United States without any violence, without any intimidation, without any major police activity of any kind during the Inaguration and its attendant festivities, we're pretty blessed as a nation. No one I know and love was in harm's way as a result of the election or the swearing-in of the new Administration.

Iraq presents a completely different picture for its upcoming election this weekend.

Many friends of mine at the 26 different Camps, FOBs, COPs, COBs, JSSs, and PBs will be directly in harm's way as a result of the Iraqi election over the next few days. I would very much appreciate prayers, good thoughts, or whatever you can muster for the Iraqis, and especially for my sisters and brothers in uniform who are putting their lives on the line for people, many of whom are extremely unhappy we're even here.

I now have too many friends/parishioners/buddies to name, but if you'd remember SPC C (the poet), SGT J (his buddy), CPT M, CPT M, and SPC J (just to name five off the top of my head), I'd very much appreciate it.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Hospes venit....

"And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’" (NRSV: Mt 25:40)

When I arrived here Down Range, a young priest friend of mine from Chaplain Basic Training was nearing the end of a 90-day deployment to the same unit to which SFC McG and I had been assigned. He's a Benedictine monk. Benedictines are noted for their hospitality, among other things.

Like Benedictine. (You know, the liqueur.)

But because I've been sober a while, I guess I won't pursue that avenue of discourse....

Anyway, I've been reminded of Fr. Paul often, because so many people here ask me if I've heard from him (I haven't, but they have -- how does *that* work?). The past couple of days I'm especially mindful of Paul and the Rule of St. Benedict, the foundational document for the living out of communal religious life in the western Church (and I don't mean California).

In the Rule of St. Benedict we read: "Hospes venit, Christus venit." (A guest comes. Christ comes.)

A beautiful sentiment notionally, and in the case of the Benedictines for many, many centuries now, lived out in exemplary fashion. Thirty years ago we Jesuit Novices studied the Rule of St. Benedict as we were preparing to study the Constitutions of the Society of Jesus, in order to be able to compare the two rather different approaches to religious life in community.

That was the first time I'd ever heard the phrase, "Hospes venit, Christus venit." A lovely and charitable sentiment, as I've already mentioned.

One of the "older dads" from another Jesuit community was visiting our Novitiate for spiritual direction, and stayed for dinner the night after we Novices had been discussing the Rule of St. Benedict in class. At table, he asked us if anyone knew the "Jesuit version" of that Benedictine watchword.

No one did.

"Hospes venit, Christus venit: Crucifixe eum!" was his reply, beaming.

(A guest comes. Christ comes. Crucify him!)

I have had a room to myself for the past thirty years that I've been a Jesuit. I mention Benedictine vs. Jesuit hospitality, perhaps, because circumstances over here have made it such that my boss has moved into my CHU with me for possibly as long as three weeks....

He's snoring as I type this.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Monopoly Money

I cannot access my blog from the computers at the office, so my only chance to do so is when I'm elsewhere, on a non-government computer. Such as when I'm at home.

Unless I'm at home in my CHU, as it seemed earlier today.

My sleep cycle is still all catawumpus from the long-distance travel of last week, so when I woke up at 0430 -- completely 'wired' and ready to go for the day -- I spent the next three hours trying to get an IP address from the internet service provider -- the only one available to me -- to whom I pay $65 per month for the privilege of this frustration.

Once it was time to go to work and I no longer had the time to access my blog, they finally saw fit to assign me the required address.

Not a crisis, certainly, but most assuredly an annoyance. Powerlessness is what my friends who go to a lot of AA and Al-Anon meetings would call it, I'm sure.

Have I mentioned recently how much I hate powerlessness?

The internet service here is *very* expensive, reliably unreliable, and maddeningly slow. Despite all the problems I've had with connectivity, there has never once been a refund/rebate/adjustment to the bill!

I'm sure that would cut into the profit margin of those responsible for this mess.

Whose idea was it, anyway, to give Soldiers only one option for internet access in the CHUs here? And while we're on the subject, why are we charged for it in the first place?

Sounds like a monopoly to me...

(I wonder whether this was another of the "no-bid" contracts awarded to friends of those in power?)

The young Soldiers I know who spend much more time connected to the internet than I do (hard to believe, but it *is* true!) find this a much greater annoyance. On top of all that they're already sacrificing in just being over here Down Range in the first place, how right is it that they should have to put up with this, too?

I won't say that this is just another way to screw the troops, because that would undoubtedly offend someone whose sensibilities are easily hurt (most probably not wearing a uniform, but not necessarily so). Therefore I'll just opine that this may be someone's rather odd way of saying "we support the troops."

Gosh, thanks.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Sacraments

I came over here to try to be of service as a Chaplain to those in service to the United States of America. It feeds my soul to be able to do this, despite the physical toll of starting out on this journey accompanied by arthritis, patellar tendonitis, plantar fasciitis, and having really mangled an ankle during Chaplain Basic Training.

Today was a great example of this: One Soldier showed up in my office to ask whether he could receive Holy Communion. He lives on a post that has never been visited by a priest since he's been Down Range; I'd never seen him before.

After we prayed, and he received Communion, he turned to leave. Somewhat sheepishly he turned around and asked if I were busy. I replied, "Not too busy for you, Sir." He then asked if I'd be able to do the Sacrament of Reconciliation with him. I grabbed my cover (my boonie cap) so we could walk outside, seeing as there's no privacy in my office.

As we began, he smiled and said, "Maybe I should have reversed the order of these requests."

I laughed and told him what my SCUBA buddy Brian once told me, "God doesn't understand time." (Very profound spiritual truth, that. God is so big that God exists beyond time, such that the whole of human history is but the same instant for God....)

Afterward, this Soldier (almost my age, but more than a couple of pay grades about me; he's at least made something of himself!) had tears of gratitude in his eyes, and couldn't stop thanking me for having been there for him.

This is why I came over here.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Surprise!

People asked me, almost as soon as I arrived back Down Range, if I noticed any differences from when I left. Now, from my perspective, three weeks is not *really* all that long to be gone, as compared, say, with having been gone from home for six months. Just as a f'rinstance.

It seemed like a somewhat weird question each time it was asked.

Especially since there really wasn't anything different. It felt a bit surreal to be back, seeing how much I loved my time with my family and friends in the States, but everything looked pretty much the same.

Now it's true that things will change here -- that's just the way life is. (Reminds me of a song from about twenty years ago, "Everything Must Change," a really beautiful tune with some lovely, but melancholy, lyrics.) But I was only gone three WEEKS, folks.

Anyway, there were a couple of changes that I noticed almost immediately after going in to the office the first time upon my return. Here's a photo. See if *you* notice anything:


Not only did they take away my "secret squirrel" computer, they took away my non-secret-squirrel computer, and replaced the latter with the one pictured above which is missing the key for the letter "g" (and "G," too, when you think about it).

I can't remember what value "G" has in Scrabble, but it's probably not much more than 1, which leads me to believe it's probably a fairly commonly-used letter. Granted, a quick review of what I've typed so far (on a different computer, of course) indicates I've not used the "G" very often in this post, but why let facts get in the way?

If nothing else, the letter "G" is strategically placed on the keyboard, so that the kinesthesia of attempting to use that key, and not having it there, is very discombobulating. Not to mention that it takes several jabs at that gaping wound to make a "G" (or "g") appear on the screen....

Moreover, when they took away my computers to have their hard drives wiped clean prior to shipping them elsewhere, no one appears to have thought to have backed up the email files I had on those machines. Nor any of the other files, either.

Sigh.

Additionally, the "new" computer functions more slowly than an old 386 MHz antique I used when I was in priest-school more than twenty years ago now.

(And to think I'd been led to believe I was joining an organization that routinely used cutting-edge technology. Though, maybe the paper-cut-like lacerations (small, granted, but present nonetheless) I've received from the tiny, sharp metal spikes sticking up from the keyboard are what is meant by "cutting-edge"....)

I guess there have been some changes since I went home on leave.

Surprise!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Travel Schedule

I posted yesterday about my recent return to this combat zone, and since it sounded perhaps a bit more curmudgeon-y than usual (hard to do, I know), I thought I might give some insight into just what I was dealing with, for whatever it's worth...

Here's a timeline of my recent travel, with all times converted to Greenwich Mean Time minus 8 hours, since that's the time zone from which I started out:

Since I can only sleep in a moving vehicle if I'm driving, I didn't get much in the way of sleep while I was on any aircraft, busses, or in any waiting areas at airports during this trip. I did, however, get to travel on the biggest military aircraft I've been on to date, so that was interesting and fun. It also turns out that my new boss was traveling on the same plane, though we only met upon arriving here Down Range where we'll both be living and working.

SFC McG had gotten to the office at 0330 Down Range time just to be sure he'd be there in case I called for a ride. I called at 0540. It was great to see SFC McG again when he picked me up about 30 minutes later. How blessed am I, anyway?

I'm grateful for the trip home, and as I was walking to the shower trailer after I got back, it seemed more than a bit weird being back here in Iraq. But I am glad to be back, and I am very grateful to be back safely. Here's hoping I can continue to be of service to Soldiers and others who deserve spiritual and psychological solace, and challenge.

Thank you, gentle readers, for your continuing prayerful support of SFC McG, my Soldiers and me!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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The Travail of Travel

Have I mentioned how much I loathe long-distance travel these days? My arthritis, patellar tendonitis, and plantar fasciitis go ballistic when I spend hours cooped up in small airline seats.

The miscellaneous joints and knees getting annoyed I understand, but what's with the soles of my feet getting so upset?

I wound up being in a window seat (rather than on the aisle, as I prefer, so I can get up and stretch my legs whenever I can), and since the Soldier next to me was sleeping soundly for most of each leg of the trip, I felt a bit trapped, and didn't move around as much as I probably needed to.

As an aside, on one of the legs of this seemingly interminable sojourn, we hit some of the most violent turbulence I've experienced in that last twenty years, at least. One guy, attempting to return to his seat, wound up on his knees in the center aisle, right next to me. One of the flight attendants barked over the PA system that the people on either side of him should hold down his shoulders with our forearms.

I complied.

After a long five or six minutes, and after the plane dived about 5,000 feet, we encountered much smoother air, and everything returned to normal. I found, perhaps because of my "Mr. Toad's Wild Rides" on Army aircraft, that the skipping and bumping and lurching and rapid descent were mildly amusing, actually.

What a difference a deployment makes, I guess!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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A chance meeting

While traveling recently, I wound up getting bumped from the plane I was scheduled for, along with a couple dozen other Soldiers. The Army put us up at the local Sheraton Grand, which wasn't bad, all things considered. The bed was actually the most comfortable bed I've slept in for a long time.

My roommate was a young Infantryman who's been serving in Afghanistan during this deployment. He served in Iraq his first time in combat. He joined the Army because he couldn't find a job after high school, and has decided he wants to go to school on the Montgomery G.I. Bill when he leaves Active Duty late this summer.

SPC P and I spent quite a bit of time talking. I was actually surprised by this, given the football games that were on at the time, and the presence of a very large flat-screen TV in the hotel room. I overheard him telling someone on the phone that his credit card had been declined (he figured his younger brother had gotten hold of the number and was attempting to use it online), and that he was out of cash.

At the three meals we ate while in the hotel, he did most of the talking, and much of our conversation concerned his experiences in combat. He was especially concerned about the 'gallows humor' he shared with his buddies during some very difficult engagements.

I assured him that the attempt to normalize an absolutely abnormal situation did not constitute any sort of pathology, given that the 'gallows humor' did not involve any otherwise inappropriate behavior. It's what we human beings often need to do in order to survive psychically. He seemed to relax visibly, and his whole demeanor brightened.

After we turned out the light at night, he said, "Thank you, Sir. You've really helped me a lot today."

I felt great gratitude to God for being able to be of service to him. He's just 21 years old, and has been through two long combat deployments already. He's going back to a very difficult and dangerous place for the rest of this tour.

I slipped some money into his backpack when he wasn't looking before we went our separate ways.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Updates

Here's the latest on my family and friends. Many thanks for your continued prayers!

Mom is recovering from her back surgery last October. The trip out to see me, and then back to the midwest was difficult but manageable. She's continuing physical therapy. I'm hoping the therapy will do as much for her as it did for me after the surgeries on my shoulders and ankle.

I'm so glad I invited Mom and Dad out to visit me, rather than having to endure midwest winter! What a good call, given the frigid temperatures and snow of the past while.

Elaine W's surgery for cancer was not quite successful, so she underwent a rather grueling round of radiation therapy. I arrived home the same day she finished up. Seems the staff at the clinic always have a little celebration when a patient completes the course of therapy. As Elaine was leaving, staff members lined the hallway and rang cowbells.

It's been great spending time with her, and even better seeing that she's still as feisty and spunky as ever. Hooray!

My colleague Angela has been fighting cancer for almost a decade now, and recently discovered there were more tumors in her liver. After ablation surgery she's doing pretty well.

Dorothea, my friend the poet, has had a rough few months. I'm really glad I got the chance to get out to spend some time with her and her husband Mike. She's facing more and more challenges as time progresses, but I feel confident she'll continue to meet them with her usual grace and dignity.

I've not seen young Chris, since his infant son was murdered (see an earlier post). I suspect he's not returned to Iraq. My heart still aches for him every time I pray for him.

Please keep these good folks in your prayers, if you'd be so kind!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Singing

Writing about the Vatican Astronomical Observatory yesterday got me thinking more about that summer. Perhaps the highlight of my experience was singing for Pope John Paul II while I was living in the Papal Palace there at Castel Gandolfo, about 30 kilometers outside Rome. The Jesuits occupied two floors of the living quarters, while the Pope and his entourage had the rest. Because of light pollution in the area, neither of the two telescopes on the grounds of the Palace was being used for stargazing; one was ultimately moved, I believe, elsewhere so that it could be.

Of course, being there for Italy winning the World Cup wasn't so bad, either. What an amazing celebration! Getting to hang out with the Swiss Guard, most of whom were my age, was a blast, too.

I found it amusing, and somewhat ironic, to be living in a palace that had been built by Pope Clement XIV. He was a Franciscan Friar who had been educated by the Jesuits, who later suppressed the Socity of Jesus (the Jesuit Order) by Papal decree in 1773. The jealousy and fear of the Bourbon monarchs of Spain and France impelled them to seek the destruction of the Jesuits. Catherine the Great of Russia, perhaps to annoy the Pope or the Bourbons, forbade the publication of that decree in her realms, and thus the Jesuits survived until their complete restoration in 1814.

My friends who go to a lot of AA and/or Al-Anon meetings would probably say that this sad history simply reflects the truth of their Tradition Six which states that "problems of money, property, and presige divert us from our primary spiritual purpose."

One might note that the French Revolution took place in 1789, just 16 years after the suppression of the Society of Jesus. Soon all the monarchies which had aligned against the Jesuits were overthrown, and people who had earlier pushed for the destruction of the Society of Jesus began to ask for its return.

Be careful what you wish for, I guess...

(Tom W, sober since God was young it seems, says that I'm easily distracted by 'sparkly things' and I guess this digression into Jesuit history proves his point...)

Getting back to Castel Gandolfo, then. There's a central spiral staircase in the living quarters of the castle, the stone steps of which have tiny enough rises that donkeys in the Eighteenth Century would be able to carry provisions up to the highest floors. The acoustics in that stairwell were simply awesome.

I would go there after dinner and sing for an hour. (Before coming to Rome, while I was obtaining my master's degree in philosophy, which I'd just finished, I had been taking voice lessons for the first time since college.) It was a space that made even *my* voice sound good, and bigger than it is, which is saying something.

What a trip!

The summer I was there was the first time JPII returned to Castel Gandolfo since the attack on his life by Mehmet Ali Ağca in May, 1981. The Pope had a childhood friend visiting him for about a month that summer. She couldn't speak English, and I couldn't speak Polish, but we were able to communicate in German. Go figure.

Herta was there with her daughter and two grandchildren. Those youngsters heard me singing one evening, and went to get their grandmother, because they and I could not understand one another. Over several weeks' time, they tried to teach me to count to ten and to prounounce the days of the week in Polish.

Boy, did they laugh at my expense! And laugh. And laugh. Herta even laughed at my German, which of course was the only appropriate response to it. Other than pity. Or perhaps horror.

One night I was in my room at the Jesuit Community and was told I had a couple of visitors. The children had come to see me, with a message from their grandmother. "You must there be. If late not work."

I admit I was a bit confused, yet intrigued. They were very pleased with themselves, having spoken to me in English. I congratulated them as we went to speak with their grandmother, since I had no clue what was going on.

Turns out, Herta had arranged for me to sing -- all by myself -- at a Mass in the Pope's private chapel there at Castel Gandolfo. It was 10:30 at night when I found out that Mass was at 5:30 the next morning, and that I had to be at the entrance to the Papal apartment at 5:00.

I hadn't brought any clerical garb to wear, and I surmised it might not be a good idea to show up wearing what I had brought with me. I wasn't sure how well my *very* long hair would go over, either. Long story short: One of the community members told me he thought he had a black suit, somewhere, and that I could wear it if he could find it.

Get this: It was a black polyester leisure suit which had been stored wadded up in a ball in a paper bag on the floor of his closet, for years. It defined "perma-wrinkled." I spent a couple of hours engaged in the Sisyphean task of trying to iron the wrinkles out, without melting the "fabric." I finally just gave up.

Despite all this, I managed to get there on time, and sing for the Pope and the Canadian pilgrims at Mass. Afterward, as the Pope was shaking my hand, a photographer from L'Osservatore Romano, the Vatican newspaper, snapped photos of us.

Two days later, I went to the newspaper's central offices, and bought copies of the photos.

Once I returned to the United States, I turned one of the photos into Christmas postcards which read: "Merry Christmas from the two of us."

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Stars

We had a very clear night the other night while I've been home, and despite the light pollution which accompanies being in a large metropolitan area, the stars were bright and beautiful.

I felt a powerful sense of awe and wonder, as so many have felt when allowing themselves to pause and contemplate the wonders of the night sky. I'm half a world away (and eleven time zones) from Down Range, but the same stars illumine that part of the globe (though not at the same time!).

The beauties of nature have always impressed me, even from the time I was very young. I suspect that's one of the reasons why I wound up loving science, and especially biology.

It was thus a great honor -- and a real blast -- to spend a summer at La Speccola Vaticana (the Vatican Astronomical Observatory) many years ago, doing astronomical research. This was something I'd never done before (and haven't done since), and something I'd never imagined myself doing.

(Hmm. Here I am in the Army, something I've never done before, and something I'd never imagined myself doing. I guess there's a pattern here!)

Living at the Papal Palace at Castel Gandolfo for the summer turned out to be a memorable experience. The Jesuits who lived and worked there came from all over the world. A number of us went running every afternoon in the Papal gardens, among Roman ruins dating back to a century before the Common Era. I went swimming in the Papal pool (who knew that Pope John Paul II had built an indoor pool in the gardens there?) with the Swiss Guards.

I met Pedro Arrupe, the General of the Society of Jesus, who'd had a stroke and was able to speak only Spanish at that point. (I was supposed to translate for my buddies as I was speaking with him, but got so caught up in the experience, I forgot to.)

I identified seven hundred red giant stars near the center of our galaxy, using data gathered at the observatory at Cerro Tololo, Chile. (Not bad for a neophyte, eh?) Instead of looking *up* at the stars that summer, I was looking *down* through a microscope. Weird, eh?

The stars here at home, or at Castel Gandolfo, or above Cerro Tololo, or Down Range continue to fascinate and delight me. I'm reminded of a passage from the Psalms:

"When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars that you have established;
what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them?" (NRSV: Ps 8:3-4)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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No greater love

"No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends."

(NRSV: Jn 15:13)

I've heard, read, prayed over, and felt comforted by this verse from the Gospel of John for many decades now. Before joining the United States Army in my sixth decade as I did, I hadn't realized how much more meaning this passage from Scripture could take on for me.

A few years back now, I had a pretty scary experience in which I realized I could very well wind up dead, but as there were youngsters around me who were at very great risk -- and no other adult at the moment -- I knew there was no way I could abandon them to that risk in the effort to save myself.

I'd not realized I had that in me.

By the grace of God, everything (and everyone) turned out fine, if a bit shaken and chastened. Very shortly thereafter I found myself in the company of people who go to a lot of AA and Al-Anon meetings, talking about the experience. Amazing how that happens....

Anyway, since the process of being commissioned as an Officer began, I've been very aware of the dedication and selflessness of many Army personnel who have entered my life, and and more and more convinced that I am surrounded by Junior Enlisted, NCOs, and Officers who would quite literally lay down their lives for me.

This is certainly true of SFC McG, of whom I've been speaking a lot since arriving back in the States. "How's your guy?" or "How's your sidekick?" or "How's your hired gun?" are some of the ways people have asked about him. I usually reply with, "He's just great! *And* he's not even shot me in the foot yet!!"

(Those of you who have been following this blog will have read that he met my parents when they drove down to Summer Camp to bid me farewell on my journey Down Range. He promised them he'd bring me back safely, and then looked at me very severely and said: "Don't try anything stupid, Sir. If you do, I'll shoot you in the foot.")

As I've talked about SFC McG with my friends here, and of my absolute confidence in his abilities and care, I've been reminded of just how many others in my life these days who would literally lay down their lives for me.

That, then, reminds me of my Higher Power, who has already done just that.

I am, indeed, richly blessed....

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Anticipation

I've lost track of the number of people who've asked me, "Are you scared about having to return to Iraq?" since I arrived home in the States on leave. I hadn't even been here one whole day before I heard the question the first time.

The multitude of queries invited me to reflect upon a phenomenon (for me) of this deployment: I've been taking things just one day at a time (or one thing at a time, or one hour at a time, or one moment at a time) since I mobilized more than six months ago. This is relatively new behavior for me -- or at least, the instinctive employment of this program for living is relatively new.

Friends of mine who have been attending many AA and Al-Anon meetings for many years now (one day at a time, they tell me) have been encouraging me to try this technique. "It really works!" my friend Cormac B has told me, again and again. "It's really simple, too."

Be that as it may, when my self-will runs riot, I just stop listening to what other people are saying. I can become so self-obsessed that I lose sight of the fact that there are others even around me. My contempt prior to investigation will keep me paralyzed into doing / believing / saying what's familiar, even if it's not comfortable.

Sure, they've told me for years that living one day at a time works for them, but my situation is unique. Don't they know that? "Sure you are, Tim. You're unique all right. You're so unique, you'll be *terminally* unique!" says my friend (and identical twin, separated at birth) Susan R, who celebrated 29 years clean and sober this past September.

(As an aside, if you're ever looking for proof of miracles in ordinary daily life, I'll introduce you to Susan. She's a miracle, and I don't use that word lightly. I heard her tell her story of sobriety once, and it sent shivers down my spine in the midst of the spontaneous and uncontrollable fits of laughter I experienced while listening to her. She is a gift.)

So these friends of mine (all of whom lack last names, which had never before seemed odd to me, until just recently when someone who was reading this blog wrote me to point that out...) have for years encouraged me to try living "one day at a time." I've got to tell you, that just seemed boring.

Of course, my friend Fr. Joe K from Chicago, who was patiently trying to share his many years of experience, strength, and hope in AA with me over the course of a couple of years, pointed out to me that "boredom is a form of grandiosity." I *hate* it when that happens!

It has always seemed more exciting and energizing to try to take on the whole of the rest of my life, or at least the end of life as we know it, all at the same time. Anything less would seem to be wimping out.

The adrenaline rush can be awesome.

At least until I suffer a stroke or a heart attack.

But over the years, with so many last-initial-only people drumming this concept into my head -- by showing me how they're living their own lives -- I guess I finally began to recognize the wisdom they were trying to impart to me, and almost despite myself, I've found myself beginning to live my life the way they've been living theirs.

Anticipation -- whether it's of something delightful or of something distasteful -- can prevent me from "doing the next right thing" as my friend Elizabeth G keeps telling me. The reason for this, I've discovered, is that anticipation takes me out of the present moment. I either wind up in the past or in the future, which might not necessarily be a bad thing, except for the fact that my Higher Power only exists in the "now."

If I'm wallowing in the past or cowering in the future, I'm unable to have any conscious contact with that Higher Power, whose realm is the present.

"One day at a time" really means one thing at a time, or one breath at a time, or one present moment at a time.

And feeling pelted by the same question again and again, "are you scared about returning to Iraq?" I've come to see that the answer is a definite, "NO!" The reason for this is that I'm not even thinking about being in Iraq, seeing as I'm here in the States.

I look back over the last six months, which have seemed to fly by rather quickly, when all is said and done, and I see that I've been taking this deployment one day at a time. I've not been concerned about stuff down the road which only exists in the future. My focus has been in and on the "now" -- a prime example of living "one day at a time."

By willfully staying in the "now" -- in the present -- I can remain in the Presence of a power greater than ourselves. Rather than being something boring, living in the now opens up the present to me as a gift.

I encourage you to give it a try.

"Seek the LORD and his strength, seek his presence continually." (NRSV: 1Chron 16:11)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Gran Torino

I recently went to the movies while home on leave, something I don't often do. I met up with friends and we went to dinner and then to the theater. I'm not sure why I don't go very often, though I suspect the pesky vow of poverty might play some role.... (Being Down Range might also figure in, come to think of it.)

In any event, after a rather hasty Chinese dinner (because we'd decided late on what our course of action would be), we got to the cinema shortly before movie time. The room was packed, and we wound up not being able to sit together. I hate it when that happens.

My seat was closest to the front of all of us, perhaps because they figured the old guy needed to be near the screen. I'd have preferred to be farther back, but it wasn't a crisis.

Clint Eastwood has another triumph on his hands with "Gran Torino," from what I saw and heard. As I'd expected, after learning that he'd written the soundtrack to accompany "Flags of Our Fathers," Eastwood wrote music for this film, as well.

I'd read that "Gran Torino" had been shot on location in Detroit, and I even recognized some of the street names and had been in the church which figures prominently, though I'd remembered the name incorrectly. The car itself reminded me of my grandmother's 67 Chevy Caprice, which I'd inherited and then drove during my senior year of high school.

The movie was exquisitely written, shot, and produced. While the language can generously be described as a bit harsh, and the themes difficult, I highly encourage a trip to the theater.

This is a love story, ultimately, and as is so often the case, a story of redemption.

Don't wait until it comes out on DVD. It's worth the effort.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Pedagogies

What with the start of the new year, and the start of a new term at schools around the country, I've been missing my studentsand colleagues at my 'day job', and especially *my* ROTC Cadets.

I love teaching.

It energizes me when students "get it" and wonder or relief or gratitude shines through faces that had been clouded by frustration or confusion. I've lost count of the number of times over the past decades when students have told me they've gotten past a seemingly insurmountable hurdle of incomprehension, and finally actually understand what they were studying. I find that fun and rewarding.

Feeling some nostalgia for my "day job" also has me reflecting on the different pedagogical styles I've encountered over the years. After all, having gone to school through the thirty-seventh grade, I've encountered a lot of pedagogical styles!

I'm extremely blessed to have studied with some of the best professors in their fields, whether those fields were music, philosophy, theology, history, immunology, or molecular neurobiology. My philosophy and theology courses, in Jesuit schools, were second to none.

My PhD mentor is arguably the best teacher I've ever had the privilege to study with -- and given my age and experience, that's saying something!

I've also had some rather idiosyncratic teachers as well. (I was going to write "bad," but figured that might seem a bit hostile....)

I'm reminded of a science course I had long ago now that was team-taught by two world-renowned experts in their fields. On the first day of class, one of them asked a question of the class, and an eager graduate student responded eagerly with an eager answer. The professor eagerly shamed him for his answer.

He continued to shame that student, every couple of weeks, for the rest of the term.

That'd be "poisonous pedagogy" (to take a term from Alice Miller out of context), in my considered opinion.

That scientific duo was also famous in my book for seeming to have united the following rather odd pedagogical presuppostitions: "What the heck are you doing in this class if you don't already know all this material beforehand?" and "But if I tell you this [looks around furtively, and blinks eyelids rapidly], then I won't be the only one to know it anymore."

Helpful, eh?

All that notwithstanding, the move from academia to the Army has been a bit rough for me. Army pedagogy is in a world of its own. Perhaps that's why it's unlike anything I'd experienced until signing up at age 50 a couple of years ago. The charitable description of much of it is: "Death by PowerPoint."

There's something to that description!

A rather idiosyncratic [wink, wink] example comes to mind.

I was sitting in an Army classroom, in the front row (unfortunately for me), and given that it was after lunch, I'm quite certain my eyelids were at half-mast. The instructor was giving a class on safeguarding electronic information (I think), and the PowerPoint slides being shown us were crammed with whole paragraphs of text.

News flash: That's not how PowerPoint slides are used to their best advantage.

One might be reminded of the Emperor's critique of Mozart's music, as given in the movie Amadeus: "Too many notes."

As the eleventy-seventh slide with at least 250 words on it was projected, the instructor in a rather stentorian -- yet mumbly (I still don't understand how that's possible) -- voice declaimed: "I think Chaplain [Tim] should stand up and read this slide!"

Without quite finishing the sentence, and certainly without taking a breath, the instructor changed the mission: "No. I think Chaplain [Tim] should stand up and SING this slide!" The look of self-satisfaction on the instructor's face haunts me to this day.

Now, I was fifty-one years old at the time, and felt instantly catapaulted through some sort of space-time discontinuum back to being seven years old, and deeply ashamed.

This was not what I'd call a peak educational experience, nor particularly valuable pedagogy.

One of my fears before going off to this school had been that I'd wind up being the oldest non-prior-service Soldier there (fear realized) and that I'd have to deal with Cadre working out their 'daddy' issues at my expense (perhaps realized in this instance....).

I was, of course, instantly wide awake, and my eyelids were certainly no longer at half-mast. I suspect it might have looked as though my eyeballs were going to pop out of their sockets at any moment. Or that perhaps steam would begin issuing from my ears and/or nose as my visage reddened noticeably.

I couldn't believe this was happening. At my age. In that school.

Sigh.

As I rose to my feet, to the position of parade rest, I said to myself, "Self? This person will *never* do this to me again."

I took a deep breath, and then proceeded to turn the text on the slide into an operatic recitative, replete with melismas and arpeggios. I instinctively decided to use the Phrygian III mode because it's a minor mode and I like its rather evocative and mournful sound. (Think "Third Mode Melody" of Thomas Tallis).

If I was going to have to endure this treatment, I was at least going to enjoy what I could in the midst of it!

It rapidly became clear that I was doing my own thing with the order I'd been given, so the instructor began giving the throat-slash sign to stop. Being a curmudgeon who was old enough to be the instructor's father, I kept going.

And going.

And going.

I was the veritable "Energizer Bunny" of sung PowerPoint slides.

I have been blessed with pretty good lung capacity, and I put it to good use that afternoon. Even *I* felt as though I was going on too long, but I kept on vocalizing anyway.

After I finally tired of hearing myself sing, I brought the recital to a close and sat down. My classmates were either stupefied or simply horrified, because there was a deathly silence that followed. The instructor glared at me.

I smiled back, sweetly. Innocently, even.

I cannot really remember what the class was about, let alone what was on that slide. I wonder whether anyone else can, either. But everyone got to 'check the block' for that class, which seems to be the Army way.

By the way, as I'd suspected, the instructor never did do that to me again....

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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Storytelling II: The Sequel

A couple of days after my latest storytelling venture with the LTC K family, I was back with them for lunch, but this time with two Army friends of mine in tow. They had both been ROTC Cadets at the midwestern university where I was teaching almost a decade ago, and this was the first time the three of us had been together in uniform since I joined the Army two years ago.

CPT J had "Battle Assembly" over the weekend, and had arranged for me to come to do Chaplain-things on Sunday morning, essentially on the same post where LTC K and his family live. I finagled an invitation for the two of them, knowing that they'd appreciated the culinary stylings of Mrs. LTC K. Hope does not disappoint (Rom 5:5).

LTC K was out running an errand when we arrived, and Mrs. LTC K was busy upstairs, so their daughters answered the door and showed us in. Daughter Three (D3) was immediately smitten with CPT J, and soon brought out her "My Little Pony" collection to share with him. Not long thereafter, all three of us Soldiers were playing with her toys.

CPT J began accosting CPT S verbally, in the voice of "Princess Sparklepony" (or whatever the name of the thing was). "CPT S, did you know that you missed a spot when you were shaving this morning?" CPT S responded with, "CPT J, did you know you were ugly?"

The girls laughed uproariously.

Daughter One (D1) said for the first time that day, "I've finally found my people!"

CPT J ripped the unit patch off of CPT S's uniform and gave it to D3: "Here, CPT S wants you to have this." I responded by taking off CPT J's RANGER tab and giving it to D3. "You're now the only girl in the world with a RANGER tab, so that makes you *really* special."

"No it doesn't," said CPT S's pony, "it just makes you more prone to needing me to put you back together again."

D3 put the RANGER tab in her hair, and tried to get it to stick to her shirt. She put it into the rather outrageous hair of one of the ponies (though why it's called a "pony" when it has a unicorn's horn in the middle of its head escapes me; I guess I'm just an old curmudgeon....).

Energized by the RANGER tab, "Princess Sparklepony" began accomplishing great feats of derring-do at the hands of CPT J. Her voice became rather dark and menacing, and she turned into a weapon, it seems. This evidently encouraged the other ponies to become weapons as well, brandished by CPTs J and S and the girls.

As LTC K and Mrs. LTC K finished up the preparations for lunch, we kept on splitting our guts laughing in the land of Princess Sparklepony.

I certainly have not laughed that hard or long since going Down Range.

At one point CPT J had two ponies in the front pockets of his blouse. They were engaged in some sort of contest, which I never did quite understand, because I was laughing so much. Needless to say, while it was all in good fun, and remained within the bounds of good taste, given the assembly, the dialogue between the ponies held by CPT J and CPT S simply had to be heard to be believed.

D3 brought her RANGER-tabbed pony to the dining table, having made sure she'd be sitting next to CPT J. After she'd finished eating, she climbed into his lap, while still clutching her pony with the RANGER tab. She lounged there for quite a while while the adults (i.e., LTC K and Mrs. LTC K) and my buddies and I talked about topics not very interesting to young people.

She and D2 later went off with CPT S to read stories in the other room while CPT J and I remained at the table with the grown-ups.

As the three of us were leaving the house later on, the girls accompanied us outside to say good-bye. D3 repeated her mantra of the day: "Dad, I have finally found *my* people!" D2 and D3 begged us not to go. Hugs all around, and a final sortie for Princess Sparklepony RANGER.

D3 gave CPT S his unit patch back, but kept the RANGER tab.

LTC K told me the next day that when he went to tuck D3 in for the night, she had her RANGER pony with her. She told her Dad that she was afraid of something or other, so he replied, "Darlin', you know that I'm always here to protect you, so you don't have to be afraid. Besides, you know that CPT J told you that Princess Sparklepony with her RANGER tab was going to patrol the perimeter for you while you're asleep."

D3 looked at him, rolled her eyes, and in a rather exasperated-seven-year-old fashion, said, "Dad. It's just a *toy*!"

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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Storytelling

One of the delights which I've been missing out on since leaving for this mobilization/deployment has been reading bedtime stories to the young daughters of LTC and Mrs. LTC K. A couple of years ago now, LTC K took me under his wing and began to mentor me in what it means to be a Staff Officer in the United States Army. As the Executive Officer for the Reserve-Component Brigade he worked for at the time, LTC K worked full-time on a post not far my HOR (home of record). Though he's in the Reserve and I'm in the Guard (and thus he has no real military connection to me, other than wearing a uniform that has "U S Army" on it), he went out of his way to square me away. For his kindness and generosity, I'm deeply indebted.

Not long after we met, LTC K invited me to his home for dinner. Mrs. LTC K manages to dazzle me with her culinary creativity every time I have supper at their house. Whether I show up more or less unannounced, or with planning aforethought, the food is simple, richly flavored, and beautifully presented. How she manages to do all that, given her busy daily routine remains a mystery to me. About the time I mobilized for this deployment, LTC K moved his family to another part of the country, which saddened me but gladdened LTC and Mrs. LTC K and their children. They really didn't like living where they were.

That first night I went to their home, I met their daughters, who for some reason took a shine to me. All three girls get prettier every time I see them.

The youngest (Daughter Three (D3)) was five years old at the time, and the cutest little pixie imaginable. I guess I *am* getting pretty old, because I'm not sure anymore whether she or I suggested that I read a story, but soon she was nestled next to me as I was reading a children's story to her. I figure that the point of such a venture is to use as many strange voices, emphases (pronounced em-PHA-ses, of course), gestures, extraneous noises, and editorial comments as possible when reading to an audience. D3 seemed positively enraptured as she laughed and giggled and gasped as the story progressed.

Soon Daughter Two (D2) stopped setting the table (much to the chagrin of her mother, as it turned out) and was on the other side of me, following along eagerly. She was nine years old, I think (I just *know* I'm going to get in trouble with the ages of these young women....). Almost immediately thereafter, Daughter One (D1), then twelve years old, joined us on the couch. I can't remember what the story was, at this point (there have been *so* many since), but I do remember being surprised that D1 would be interested.

At story's end, I had to promise to read another story *after* dinner, and then the girls went and finished setting the table.

Before the next time I had supper with LTC K and his family, a condition of my being fed was at least one story, preferably two.

That next time -- and ever since -- not only were the three girls present, LTC K and Mrs. LTC K made sure *they* snuggled into the other sofa for the reading.

Over the past two years, I've lost track of how many books we've read together, but I made sure for Christmas 2007 to get each of the girls a book that figured prominently in my childhood reading: Cheerful by Palmer Brown for D3; Across Five Aprils by Irene Hunt for D2; and A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle for D1. I was able to find first editions, first printings of the first two books, and a first edition, non-first printing of the latter. I'm hoping the girls will come to treasure the act of reading -- and the books themselves -- as much as I do.

(This year, I didn't get anyone anything for Christmas.)

One of the sadnesses I experienced during Chaplain Basic Training in summer 2007 (other than the fire ants, the dead-of-night (seemingly) PT, the sauna-like weather, and NCOs barking at me because I was such a klutz) was that I went three months without reading any books to the LTC K family. Before this weekend, it'd been six months since we were able to read together, which is much too long!

It was great seeing them again after such a long hiatus! LTC K himself came to the airport to collect me when I arrived Thursday evening, and then we took public transportation to their new house (well, new to me, anyway). D3 met us at the door, and blew right past her Dad to tackle me. She's now seven years old, but still pixie-like. However, she practically knocked me down, and left her Dad grumping that he'd been ignored.

That night, after supper, we read Cheerful again, all of us together. I was sandwiched between D3 and D2, with D1 on the couch with us. LTC K and Mrs. LTC K snuggled on the other couch.

It was easy to forget, for a short time, about Iraq.

I even got to spend the night.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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Expectations are premeditated resentments

One difficulty about being CONUS is that there simply are too many people to see than I have hours in the day. Now, this is not a complaint on my part! But it has already led to a number of complaints from friends whom I treasure, but simply don't have the time to spend time with on this very short trip.

I'd prefer to be able to just be home for good already, so that I'd have plenty of opportunity to make the rounds of everyone with whom I'd love to be spending time.

Now that I've been CONUS for a bit more than a week, my return to a war zone is looming larger on the horizon. A number of people have been asking me about what I'm feeling about returning. As I wrote in an earlier blog post, I'm not really dreading being back there; I'm just not really looking forward to *getting* there. In that post, I believe I mentioned that, "like a fine wine, I don't travel well" anymore, given my advanced age and all.

A now-former friend wrote to me in response to that statement: "You are definitely NOT like a fine wine; you're an old whiner."

Sigh.

Be that as it may, I'm feeling a bit sad that I'm not able to luxuriate in the company of my many good friends, and can't even *see* some of them, let alone be in their presence. I'll have to wait -- we'll all have to wait -- for that, it seems, until my return from this deployment.

So, my apologies to all who are feeling sad, hurt, disappointed, dised, or otherwise rankled that I'm not as available as you'd hoped / expected / wanted / deserved. It's certainly not for lack of desire on my part!

"I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers." (NRSV: Eph 1:16)

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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Random conversation

So there I was on my way to the East Coast to visit the Army buddies I knew from their days in ROTC back in the midwest a number of years back, and my good friend CPT L. The night before my trip, I was on the phone with one of them, CPT J, who was chatting away after a long day at law school. It was a delight to have the luxury of having *him* call me for a change, since where I am Down Range my cell phone doesn't work, and there's no way for someone without a DSN to contact me by phone.

Anyway, we wound up blabbing until after midnight his time, which meant I was going to get somewhat less than six hours of sleep before I had to be up at 0300 in order to make it to the airport with my parents, turn in their car, get through security, etc. Being able to talk like that was definitely worth it.

At the airport I asked whether there might be an exit row aisle seat available. The agent at the counter was very helpful, but managed only a wan smile after checking her computer, saying, "I have one, but it doesn't recline." Oh well, I've had seats like that for much longer flights. Not a problem. At least there'd be some measure of leg room. The flights back from Kuwait, through Shannon, had me in the fetal position, the rows were so close together. (See an earlier blog post for more on that trip....)

Mom and Dad bade me adieu at the gate, seeing as their gate was right next to mine (that was certainly a first!), and I was able to board with the "elite" passengers because I'd done so much flying before this deployment. (Many thanks to Delta Airlines for extending my status for the duration of my deployment; I'm obviously not able to do much civilian flying while I'm Down Range!)

The airport we flew out of still has the hint of "Hooterville" about it -- we used "sky stairs" to get from the tarmac up into the plane (no jetway). A woman in front of me was obviously having trouble negotiating the stairs, so I offered to carry her luggage up the stairs for her, and then wound up putting it in the overhead compartment before she took her seat. Turns out, she had had both knees replaced, and so sky stairs are a real challenge.

I got settled in to my seat, and much to my surprise eventually found myself sitting in the same row with the Commanding General of an Army Division, and more to my surprise, he and I had met in June before I mobilized. We remembered each other, and he wasn't even upset about the memory. Who knew? (I think that's a first.) 

There was no one between us, and we wound up chatting for quite some time at the beginning and end of the flight. As a Major General in the Reserve, he is very concerned about the situation of Reserve Component Soldiers who are deployed as "fillers" -- not with their own units. We discussed the challenges faced by Family Readiness Groups for Reserve and Guard units, whose deployed Soldiers might live at great distances from one another.

I was surprised to learn from the General that families of Reserve Component Soldiers who are deployed with units not their own are supposed to receive phone calls on a regular basis from Family Readiness Group people. To the best of my knowledge, no one in my family has received a single one of those calls, let alone calls on a regular basis. 

The General said our families should have been receiving these contacts. Perhaps it's because SFC McG and I have deployed as our own unit, or perhaps we've just fallen through the cracks. Despite being our own unit, we're not deployed with the Guard, so it would seem we *ought* to fall under this rule. I'll look into it to find out what is going on.

One surprising aspect of this interaction with a General Officer, is that this time I managed *not* to annoy, vex, irk, incense, or otherwise bother the man (unlike what happened within six months of my joining the Guard, for example -- but that's another story....). To the contrary, the General gave me his coin before we exited the plane.

Go figure.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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Gratitude lists

Friends of mine who go to a lot of AA and/or Al-Anon meetings tell me that they benefit from making gratitude lists on a regular basis. They say that if they're in the habit of listing what/whom they're grateful for when things are going well, they're more likely to make a gratitude list when things are difficult. An attitude of gratitude, especially when times are tough, is a sign of spiritual health and maturity.

So, while things are peachy, here's a gratitude list.

Among the niceties of being CONUS (in the Continental United States; Army-speak) are being able to wear my non-ballistic prescription eyeglasses. I'd not realized how much I'd taken for granted my no-frame, wire-rimmed spectacles. I put them on for the first time in five months shortly after I arrived home, and haven't seriously considered putting the ballistic frames on since being back. I'm told the Oakleys I wear Down Range are very stylish, but I think they look pretty stupid, to be perfectly honest.

My wire-rimmed glasses appear more professorial, I suspect, but given my 'day job', I don't see that as a negative.

Another, rather basic, but very noticeable nicety of being home concerns "personal hygiene." Not to put too fine a point on it, but not having to get dressed to go outside, crunch down the row of CHUs to the shower trailer, and around and behind it and around another trailer to get to the latrine, is positively decadent.

My Jesuit Community gave away my room after I deployed (not a surprise; that's why I needed to put all my stuff into storage), but they've put me up in a newly-renovated suite in the building which was the coach house of the original estate which later became the Retreat Center. Having a room all of my own, and a bathroom and shower of my own -- heaven, these days!

Being able to get together with other people who go to a lot of AA and Al-Anon meetings has been a delight, as well. Someone pointed out to me in the last few months that it seems as though the vast majority of my friends only have last initials, and not last names. She's right. I've seen many of them just in the last few days, and that's been a blessing.

As an aside, my friend CPT M has now redeployed, and I'm already feeling sadness at the distance between us, while at the same time feeling ecstatic that he's home safely after fifteen months Down Range. But just knowing that he was a SIPR phone call away was a great comfort while we were both over there.

I'd heard people describe the military -- and especially the Army -- as a 'band of brothers', but had no experiential knowledge of that truism. Until now. Until SFC McG, and CPT M, and PFC D, and SSG L, etc. Amazing.

Thank you, CPT M -- my brother -- for your courageous and honorable service.

Speaking of family, spending time with my parents has been wonderful. Not surprisingly, there have been times in the past when I'd not have been able to write that sentence (nor would they!), but that's no longer the case. Hooray!! I'm really glad, though, that they came to California rather than my having to go to Michigan. I'm no fan of urban snow in the midwest, and am grateful I didn't have to deal with that during my leave!

As things turned out, Mom and Dad and I left on flights that left from adjacent gates, within a few minutes' time. So we got to spend time hanging out at the airport together, and they saw me off at the gate, since my plane was scheduled to leave eight minutes before theirs. Sweet! Thanks, Mom and Dad!

It's also been nice to drive a non-tactical vehicle without having to be wearing a uniform while doing so. When on the road, I don't have to be concerned about IEDs or EFPs or RPGs or "reacting to contact." Nice! Someone who used 'my' car while I've been gone managed to scrape up a rear fender a bit, and the guys at the house seemed concerned that that might bother me, but since it's not really "mine" (it belongs to the Community; I just usually have exclusive use of it), I'm glad no one was hurt.

What a surprise and a delight to find the price of gas to be under $1.85 per gallon!! It was $4.75 when I left in June.

I've been able to celebrate Mass three times with some of my most favorite people, and that has been a blessing for me. It did feel a bit odd, being back, though. Other than when he was on leave, SFC McG has been with me just about every time I've celebrated Mass since he and I met up in July at Summer Camp. Praying the same prayers here that I pray when I'm Down Range gets me choked up, to be honest.

Because the Eucharistic Prayer for Masses of Reconciliation II is concerned with healing among nations, it's especially poignant in the context of living in a war zone. Praying that same prayer here, knowing my buddies (and others) Down Range are still in harm's way -- and some in mortal danger at this moment -- affects me deeply. Perhaps that's why I'm not dreading returning. (I'm just not looking forward to the process of getting there -- I have learned that like a fine wine, I do not travel well.) I'm grateful for the support and encouragement of all the folks from STA and the TMC (Thomas Merton Center, not Troop Medical Clinic)!

Anyway, when writing this I'd been up at 0300 after less than six hours of sleep, so that's enough gratitude for the moment.

⁸O give thanks to the LORD, call on his name,
make known his deeds among the peoples.
⁹Sing to him, sing praises to him,
tell of all his wonderful works.

(NRSV: 1Chron 16:8-9)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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