A grief observed

The last few days have borne out the adage I've repeated several times over the course of my blogging: Every new grief brings up every old grief.

It's been a difficult week.

The fourth anniversary of Saffar's death hit me harder than I was expecting.

Perhaps being mobilized / deployed for nineteen months in a row has something to do with it, or perhaps it was the fourteenth suicide prevention briefing in the last two months that I gave on Friday morning that really did it.

Then too, it might be that the biology course I'm teaching (four hours per night, twice weekly) is a 15-week class crammed into seven and a half weeks -- meaning the Soldiers taking the class don't have much time to become familiar and comfortable with the mountains of material they're expected to master -- and the lab part of the course has been thrown into my lap with a jolly, "Come up with something and make it work, but without any real support, equipment, or supplies there, or from us!"

Of course, it's probably just as likely that I've simply been extra-curmudgeonly this week.

Whatever is behind it, the grief has been kicking my butt for the past few days.

Grief is like that.

As my friend Blanche once wrote me, "Grief is not a mental illness; it just feels like one."

I do say, "HOOAH!"

And as my friends who go to a lot of AA and Al-Anon (and/or other 12-Step) meetings have long told me, "This, too, shall pass."


I appreciate their perspective, but I think they forgot to complete the thought: "This, too, shall pass.... like a kidney stone."

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Flight of Fancy

As I mentioned a few days ago, SPC C got his first ride on a military helicopter this past week. It was also the first time I'd been on a rotary-wing aircraft since May.

 

A couple of my buddies who are company commanders also came along for the ride. They're great guys.

  

One of my other buddies also flew up with us, though he looks a bit uncertain in the photo above.

  

Perhaps because I planned ahead and brought along some M&Ms and Skittles, I was able to sit in the front compartment of the aircraft. It was odd being on a bird that didn't travel with the gunner's hatch open. Of course, with no weapon in the hatch (that part was odd, given my experience last year in Iraq) there was no need for the hatch to be open.

And given that it was -5 degrees outside the helicopter when we were at altitude (as opposed to 108 degrees one night when I was in Iraq), I'm very glad the hatch was closed!

  

Part of the terrain we flew over had lots of snow, while some of the valleys had almost no snow.

  

To the north of where we were going there were lots of mountains, and a lot more snow.

  

Many of the towns we flew over had mosques with prominent minarets, such as in the photo above.

  

Our Pegasus.

I had really missed flying, but hadn't realized how much until this mission. I was able to wear headphones during the flights, so I could hear the crew as they conversed, and even chat with them as they asked me questions.

When I mentioned how many missions then-SFC McG and I had flown in Iraq, they told me I probably ought to have earned wings for my efforts. The co-pilot even said, "Wow, Sir. It sounds as though you've got more air time than I do."

"Not that that should make you nervous or anything."

Right.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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The 5000

Last night I happened to be looking through Google Analytics (very nerdish of me, I know, but hey! I like numbers and other nerdly things) before I went to bed. Google, in a rather Big Brotherish sort of way, keeps track of all sorts of information on who's using their services. Blogger, the host site for this blog, is one of a number of Google 'products'.

Anyway, I noticed that as I pulled up the stats for my blog, the number of "unique visitors" stood at 4999. There had been almost 42,000 "page hits", from those 4999 "unique visitors."

Now, I would like to think that *everyone* who stops by this page is unique and unrepeatable -- to use a phrase I learned from reading Nicolai Berdyaev almost thirty years ago when I was studying philosophy in Chicago -- and not just the 4999 identified by Google Analytics. Call me crazy.

As I was perusing other aspects of the site and the statistics contained therein, I returned to that first page, and behold! the counter was now at 5000.

It seemed like a nice round number.

It also reminds me that tomorrow, God willing, I'll have 11100 days-in-a-row of being sober (assuming I don't drink today, of course; Hooray for the Higher Power!). Another nice round number, I'd say.

But who's counting?

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Saffar Arjmandi (1977 - 2006) -- part 02

A year ago I wrote about Saffar, on the third anniversary of his death, intending to write more soon thereafter. Now it's a year later, and I've not been able to bring myself to pen anything further in the meantime.

Saffar was an NCO, RANGER, and RAKKASAN when he arrived at school for ROTC a decade ago. I was teaching biology to some of his fellow ROTC Cadets, and through them, my path crossed with Saffar's. We could not have been more different.

Though we had both been born in the U.S., Saffar was raised in Iran, and spoke very little English when he returned to the States as a seventeen-year-old in the hopes of joining the United States Army at the earliest possible occasion. As a consequence of all this, he learned to speak English *in* the Army, which meant that his vocabulary and diction were highly idiosyncratic and accented.

Many years ago, when I was the same age as he was when he joined the Army, putting on a uniform like that was the farthest thing from my mind; I was immensely relieved when my number was not reached in what turned out to be the last year of the Vietnam War draft.

When we met, Saffar's head was closely shaved, and I had rather long (but graying and thinning!) hair.

I had been a priest for almost a decade at that point, and he loathed, despised, hated, reviled, ridiculed, lambasted, condemned, and generally had nothing at all good to say about organized religion.

We could not have been more different.

But God has a weird sense of humor, and long before I became aware of it, Saffar was telling his family back in Iran that I was more of a father to him than his own Dad. I cannot imagine having a son of whom I'd be more proud, or whom I could love more. I think of him, and miss him, every day.

These photos of us were taken in April 2002; Saffar had badgered me into attending the annual ROTC Military Ball. I felt very intimidated and out-of-place there, except when I was with him and Kristen.

He found out in September 2002 that he had been walking around with a broken neck for the better part of two days, and that there was a tumor back there. The tumor proved to be a kind of cancer no one had ever seen in that part of the body; it eventually killed him.

I was not yet in the Army when Saffar died; I hadn't even yet begun the formal application process, though I'd finally been in touch with Chaplain recruiters. I can't print here what Saffar said to me in reply to my having told him just after Christmas 2005 that I was in the process of seeing whether I could get an Army commission at my advanced age.

On Wednesday, 25 JAN 06, a big box arrived at my home in California, with a "RANGER Joe's" return address. Inside were a Camelbak, lensatic compass, Leatherman multi-tool, 550 cord, "Chig-Away," map protractor, baby wipes, and foot powder (though on the phone that afternoon, he called the latter two items by much 'earthier' designations) Saffar had sent me, to help me get ready for the Army. "No matter where you go, especially out in the field, if you become a Soldier," he said, "you have to have [baby] wipes and [foot] powder, Fatha."

He died early in the morning of 28 JAN 06. I had just boarded a red-eye from California, in an attempt to see him alive one last time, and got the call just as the boarding door was being closed. It was a tough flight.

Here's a copy of the homily I wrote for his funeral, which was the second-hardest thing I've ever done, after my younger brother's funeral fifteen months earlier.

As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing. (NRSV, 2 Tim 4:6-8)

Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. (NRSV, Mt 11:28-30)

The author of the 2nd Letter to Timothy is reputed to be St. Paul, though many scholars dispute that attribution. Paul, of course was known as Saul, before his spiritual awakening, and was appreciative of the stoning of Stephen, and later responsible for the persecution of early followers of Jesus. Saul was arrogant, self-assured, courageous, possessed of a brilliant mind, and proud of his way of life. He did not suffer fools gladly. He had no problem at all making his opinions known, because, since they were his opinions, they were correct! In short, he was pretty much a jerk, in a lot of ways. Who, then, could ever have imagined that God would call Saul to a faith in Jesus?

RLTW. Rangers Lead the Way. Saffar was a RANGER, through and through. I’ve come to see this more clearly in the past week, as I’ve gotten emails from the full-bird colonel who was his BN Commander at Ft. Campbell, the Officer who sent him to Airborne and RANGER Schools. I’ve heard from LTCs and a MAJ, from NCOs and his ROTC buddies. I’ve heard from folks from the Physics Departments at Xavier and UD. Saffar touched many people’s lives in profound ways. He led the way for many of us.

He lived his life since RANGER School by the RANGER Creed. He was more proud of his RANGER Tab and his affiliation with The RAKKASANS than anything else in his life, except for Kristen. The RANGER Creed was the foundation of his life. When I met him in 2000, he was proudly anti-religious, even militantly so. His RANGER Creed was all he needed. He was proud of his self-sufficiency, his RANGER courage, and his grit.

We clashed from the start, with Saffar calling me a “leftist hippie” and me calling him a “Godless Arab” – because I knew that would really, really annoy him, since he was NOT an Arab, but rather an Iranian. It did! I thought he was going to hit me!! Down the road, we began to refer to ourselves by those designations, when leaving messages on each other’s phones.

At first, I believe he only tolerated me, probably against his better judgment. We found each other insufferable, but we couldn’t seem not to interact with each other. Eventually we reached the tacit agreement that we wouldn’t talk about things political or economic (unless one of us wanted to annoy the other). Détente is a many-splendid thing.

Then came the shock of his broken neck, and his surgeries, the chemo, and radiation, and his involuntary separation from the Army. I flew from California to Cincinnati one weekend so I could take him to the clinic for his chemotherapy, because Kristen was unable to do it that one time. Afterward, as we got into the car, he looked at me and said, “I’ve got about four hours before I get sick. Let’s go to Chipotle while I still can!” He loved Chipotle.

As we were eating I said to him, “Saffar, I’m only going to say this once; I will never bring it up again. Your RANGER Creed is great, as far as it goes, but it’s not enough. What you’re going through is too much for your RANGER Creed alone. You need to find something more. I don’t care whether it’s Islam [he scowled] or Judaism [the look he gave was indescribable] or Christianity [he rolled his eyes] or Zoroastrianism [he chuckled]. But you need something else, and I pray you find it. However, I will never bring this subject up again.”

I won’t repeat here what he said to me in return; it was what he always said to me, and I know it was his way of expressing his affection for me, but it’s simply not repeatable in this venue.

Last May, when I was here in Dayton for his birthday, and he’d just found out the cancer was back, inoperable, and would prove fatal in probably 30 days, he looked me in the eye as we were out walking Masie, their beloved pug, and said, “You know, Fatha, I’m not afraid to die, if that’s what this really means, because I know God loves me.” Three weeks ago tomorrow, as I was getting ready to return home from visiting him after his release to home hospice, he told me, “Fatha, I’m ready to go, and I’m not scared, because I know Jesus loves me.”

I thought of the passage from Second Timothy we heard today: “I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” Saffar was being poured out as a libation, and the crown of righteousness, prepared just for him, was waiting.

It ripped my heart out to say good-bye, and that I’d be back this weekend. Little did I know….

RANGER Saffar has led the way for all of us. RANGER Saffar who was so opposed to anything religious! If Saffar could come to a faith that brings salvation and peace, then it’s possible for anyone, and certainly for all of us!

Against all odds, given his history, Saffar Arjmandi let go of old prejudices and fears and embraced a relationship which had been waiting for him, and which waits for all of us, if we would only embrace it, too.

He prided himself on his strength and stamina and fearlessness in the face of the enemy. And yet in the midst of all that, he found he needed more strength and stamina and fearlessness – and that, as good as it is, his RANGER Creed just wasn’t enough to supply it. My humble opinion is that Kristen’s selfless and self-sacrificing love for Saffar prepared him to recognize the selfless and self-sacrificing love of Christ in his life.

I could hardly believe it myself that here in this very church, just 13 weeks ago tomorrow, we baptized Saffar and Kristen. How far he had come since that day in January 2000 when he first appeared in my office at school: defiantly, arrogantly, combatively, proudly and self-righteously atheist.

Saffar the RANGER has led the way, from the front, which is what RANGERs do (or so he would incessantly tell me, either before or after saying something rather rude and anatomical about me). He heard the voice of Jesus say, “Come unto me and rest,” and he has found in him a resting place.

Throughout his military life – for I believe he remained a RANGER and RAKKASAN to the end, despite what the Department of Defense might have had to say about the matter – Saffar lived the Army Values listed on a card he carried in his wallet. He conducted himself, ultimately, with Personal Courage beyond anything I could ever have imagined. He lived and died as a credit to the United States Army.

If Saffar, the Warrior, could come to a faith that gave meaning to his life and terrible suffering, he can lead the way for the rest of us, should we choose to follow his example. The same Christ who beckoned Saffar to “take my yoke upon you” is beckoning each of us, should we choose to hear that call.

Saffar was a lot like Saul, who would become the Apostle Paul, as I mentioned earlier: “arrogant, self-assured, courageous, possessed of a brilliant mind, and proud of his way of life. He did not suffer fools gladly. He had no problem at all making his opinions known, because, since they were his opinions, they were correct! In short, he was pretty much a jerk, in a lot of ways.” As unlikely, then, as it was that God should call Saul to faith in Christ, so it was at least as unlikely that God should call Saffar.

If it could work for Saul and Saffar, it can work for us, too, if only we’ll follow their lead.

RLTW, Saffar. Thank you, Son.

May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, rest in peace. Amen.

And may God bless Kristen and her new husband Brian with the richest of blessings! I was in Iraq when they married. It's so good to see her happy again.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Flying high

There was a time in my life, more than three decades ago, when 'flying high' meant something very different from my present experience thereof.

But we're not going to go there now!

Recently, SPC C and I managed to do a religious support mission via helicopter -- my 170th time (169 missions in Iraq, of course), but SPC C's very first. We'd been attempting to accomplish this milestone for him for quite some time, but each time we were set to go, the weather did not cooperate.

So SPC C would have to drive us to our destination -- quite a feat, given the distance involved, and the condition of the roads here, especially in the midst of blowing snow and poor visibility! With the locals being such idiosyncratic drivers (read: crazy, irrational, and dangerous), I'd much rather have flown on each of those occasions.

SPC C is a great driver, by the way.

Having been so constantly thwarted by climatic conditions in this regard, I began to give a hard time to one of the regulars at Sunday Mass, a young weather professional (Air Force, naturally). Without fail, it seemed, the weather on the days leading up to our scheduled flights would be perfect for flying, and there'd be aircraft visible and/or audible at various times during those mornings and afternoons. Ditto for the day or two *after* our each of our scheduled flights.

But on the days when our names appeared on the aircraft's manifest -- AIR MISSION CANCELLED.

I told the young Senior Airman, SrA J, that he was skating on thin ice, being responsible -- as he undoubtedly was -- for the repeated cancellation of our missions by air. He attempted to foist some cockamamie excuse upon me to the tune of, "I don't cause the weather, Sir. I just report it."

Yeah. Right.

Week after week we were denied our opportunity to fly, meaning that SPC C would have to sit behind the wheel of the car and negotiate the intricacies of the Kosovo "street system" for many hours. Week after week, my 'chats' with the young Airman grew more serious in tone and nature.

Finally, exasperated, I told him after Mass one Sunday, "Look here, young man! You've got one more chance. You prevent us from flying this time, SrA J, and I'll excommunicate you!"

"I'll do my best, Sir," was his stammered response.

SPC C flew on a Blackhawk for the first time just a couple of days later.

Amazing what a little 'contextualization' will do in terms of one's job performance, eh?

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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The Feast of Sts. Timothy and Titus, Bishops

Many, many thanks to all who have sent along felicitations on this, the Feast of Sts. Timothy and Titus.  I've now been away from home for a couple days shy of nineteen months in a row, so such thoughtfulness and generosity demands recognition and gratitude.

In some cultures one's "name day" or "saint's day" is a bigger deal than one's birthday.

Who knew?

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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St. Sebastian's Day

Last week, SPC C and I took off for a town not too far away from here (though it takes some 45 minutes to get there) so that I could concelebrate Mass in a Catholic parish there. Our translator (who was not with us for this trip) had told me I was invited to the church as the parish celebrated its patronal feast day, but as it was the Feast of St. Sebastian, and the church is named in honor of St. Anthony, I was a bit confused.

(Actually, I'm a bit confused a lot these days. Must be the creeping Alzheimer Disease or something....)

The church was PACKED. There were at least as many people there at 1100 hours on that Wednesday as there had been at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. It was bedlam.

Even more surprising to me were the eight other concelebrants who were there. Though I didn't speak any Albanian, and they didn't speak much in the way of English, they made it clear that I was supposed to be one of the three principal concelebrants.

When the pastor had called our translator to invite me, he made sure I knew I was supposed to sing something for them, preferably after Communion.

I'd brought along some sheet music, hoping their very accomplished keyboardist might be able to accompany me, but she begged off. This left me in a bit of a quandary as to what to sing.

Imagine my surprise as I found myself singing a song, the words of which I'd set to another tune (which lends itself to unaccompanied singing), in its original setting, but without accompaniment -- something I'd not done in perhaps a decade. I managed to quell the onslaught of panic as I realized what I was doing, and made it through the song without any major mishap.

It was a very odd experience.

The church interior is rich with colorful frescoes, as might have been noticed in the photos of the place I posted after the Midnight Mass there. Since it was a sunny day, the colors were much more vibrant than they had been that night, so I took a number of shots to share with you.

They tell the story of salvation, generally, and of the history of Albanian Catholics in the region, in particular. Mother Theresa, being Albanian, and having received her religious calling right here in Kosovo, is represented prominently, of course.

I hope you like them as much as I do.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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Speaking in tongues

Recently I received a phone call that we had an ambulance on its way to Post with one of my Soldiers on it (he's quite fine, so no worries, though we didn't know that at the time). I was told it would probably arrive in about an hour.

Forty-five minutes later I was over at the hospital, waiting at the Emergency Department. Our hospital here is the best around, for many hundreds of kilometers in any direction.

That's actually a comforting thought.

The ambulance operators spoke no English, other than "I speak no English" (which was actually spoken quite well). None of us spoke their language.

In addition to our Soldier, there was an Italian Soldier on the ambulance who required quite a bit more attention than did my guy (who was released to the unit within 90 minutes of arrival -- not bad for an Emergency Department, eh?). The Italian didn't speak a whole lot of English, and almost none of his buddies who showed up not long thereafter spoke English either.

It turned out that one of the ambulance drivers could speak a bit of German. I audited a couple of Quarters of German while I was in college, after I returned from Foreign Study in Spain. That was 33 years ago now.

Had someone been recording our attempts to speak German to each other, I suspect the YouTube Embarrassment Quotient (YEQ®) value might have been great. I was able to tell the Italian gentleman (in ItaloSpanglish) that the ambulance drivers were apologizing that it had taken them so long to get him to the hospital, as there was the complication of having another patient to stabilize and transport.

Our Italian guest was not at all upset about any aspect of his transport to our hospital.

Our unit's medic, who'd heard about our Soldier's plight, came to the hospital to transport him back to the unit. Our medic watched with some measure of amusement as I attempted to switch among German, Italian, Spanish, and English as I triangulated among the hospital staff, the ambulance drivers, and the Italians visiting their Carabiniere.

It was pretty humbling, and quite comical, I'm told.

When I went back the next morning to visit my Italian friend, after a couple of visits the night before, he had been through surgery and was about to be released for return to his own base. He told me, in a combination of Italian and Spanish (for my own benefit) that it had been very important to him that one of the first persons he'd met upon his arrival at our Camp was a priest.

He mentioned that the fragrance of the anointing oil I had used on his hands and forehead had been a source of comfort for him as he awaited surgery, and that he could still smell it when he awoke from the operation.

He also stated that he'd been in a number of incidents, given his profession, which had required hospitalization before, but that he'd never encountered hospital personnel as competent and caring as we have here at our Camp.

I love my job!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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You've got mail!

My friend Cina, who used to live in California, but who now lives in Nashua, NH (because I suspect she *used* to live there), recently sent me a note:

Hi Tim,

We have read that wearing a red shirt on Friday shows support for our troops, so 'tis the custom here to do so -- each and every Friday.

Here's a picture from one Friday awhile back -- our group includes many vets (WWII, Korea, VietNam), and the women, some of whom are widows of vets, participate in their support.

Someone suggested that "my friend the Chaplain" might appreciate this and want to share it with his troops, thus I send this message!

Love and peace,
Cina

My sincerest gratitude for the support, Ladies and Gentlemen! But I'm even more grateful for the sacrifices you and/or your loved ones have made by serving in uniform before me.

Thank YOU!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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The new Patriarch

According to reports I've read, two hard-line nationalists and one "moderate" bishop were the three finalists in the election of the new Serbian Orthodox Patriarch yesterday. The name of each finalist was sealed in an unmarked envelope, and each envelope was placed into a Bible. After a prayer to the Holy Spirit, a monk from one of the local monateries (an archimandrite) then picked one of the three envelopes at random.

The envelope was given to the president of the Holy Synod (the gathering of bishops), who read the name aloud to those present, signaling the election of the Patriarch.

The Serbian Orthodox Church is the only autocephalous Orthodox body to conduct an election in this manner. It was adopted during the time of Soviet domination, as a means of thwarting Communist pressure to install someone of their choosing as Patriarch.

This method has been viewed with skepticism by some of the other Orthodox, because of its novelty. No other Orthodox church elects its Patriarch this way.

The Bishop of Niš, Irinej Gavrilovica, was elected in this manner, and will be enthroned as Patriarch later today in Belgrade. Niš is the birthplace of Constantine the Great, who decriminalized Christianity in the Fourth Century of the Common Era. The 1700th anniversary of that event will be observed in 2013.

Of the three candidates, he is considered to be the most moderate. Earlier this month he stated that he was open to the possibility of the Bishop of Rome, Benedict XVI, coming to Serbia for a visit in 2013. Such a visit would be unthinkable for other more hard-line Serbian bishops, who are very conscious of the split between the Roman church and the Orthodox churches.

The schism which separated the Eastern and Western branches of Christianity took place in the year 1054 of the Common Era.

My friends who go to a lot of Al-Anon meetings have told me that anyone from a goofy family knows that a 950-year-long resentment is one that's just getting started.

Given the troubled history of the Balkans, especially in the recent past, the position of the Patriarch is an important one politically, as well as spiritually.

May God bless the new Patriarch, and the people throughout the Balkans.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Half time

My orders for Iraq ended six months ago today, and my orders for Kosovo started six months ago tomorrow. Go figure.

It's hard to believe I've only know the people in my new unit for six months.

In some ways, it seems like years....

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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More horsing around

In addition to the crazy drivers over here (who'll pass on a blind curve, for example), we have to put up with vehicles on the roads that I have either never seen before (they're called "Kosovo Harleys") or that I've only ever seldom encountered.

The Kosovo Harleys have to be seen to be believed; unfortunately, I've never been able to snap a photo of one which would do justice for the uninitiated. I'll keep trying, however, and post one at some point.

Not long ago SPC C and I were driving somewhere and we wound up behind one of the many horse-drawn contraptions which congest the roads in these parts. Locals buzz past them with great regularity, seeming to dare the oncoming traffic to hit them in the process.

We encountered this guy on his merry way somewhere, just as we entered the town where we were to meet up with one of the religious leaders we chat with regularly.


It was cold and drizzly, so the roads were pretty slick and dangerous. I chose not to open the window to try to get the photos of the thing, since I didn't want my camera to get wet.

That did not keep others from defying death in order to get around this guy, but fortunately SPC C drives responsibly, and we just followed along behind this vehicle until he eventually turned off the road, and we continued on our way.

Just another day here in Kosovo....


Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Horsing around

There were lots of birthdays observed recently. My older brother, for example, just celebrated his birthday over the weekend. Happy Birthday, Big Brother!

We threw a party for the boss, too, on the occasion of his natal day.

(Yet again we have the situation wherein an Officer is significantly younger than me, and higher-ranking....)

You might notice the plethora of brown "Campaign Hats" in the photos. As mentioned previously in my blog, mine is a Cavalry unit that wears something other than the black Stetson which I acquired while in Iraq.

One of the traditions in this unit is for Officers to get together to smoke cigars as the day draws to a close.

This is not a tradition I've chosen to participate in, however. I used to smoke. Even cigarettes. I have no desire to do that to my lungs again, even in the context of "unit cohesion."

If there's going to be cohesion, I'd rather it not be in the cancer unit.

Given the fact that most of us are from California, where it's been illegal to smoke anything indoors for many years now, there seems to be quite a bit of glee that folks can smoke anywhere they want to in this part of the world.

So before dinner had even started, the stogies came out and the puffing started.

Fortunately for me, SPC C and I wound up arriving a bit late (because another Officer couldn't leave before completing a time-sensitive task, and didn't have a vehicle to use, so we offered to drive him), by which point all of the seats at the very long table had been occupied. This meant that I got to sit on the other side of the room, at a small table, at which we had no one smoking -- at least *during* the meal.
SPC C got back recently from having spent Christmas with his new bride, as I wrote about earlier. He seems to have weathered the trip well.

Now, the properties of diffusion being what they are, not having people at my small table smoking during the meal didn't mean I wouldn't have to breathe in other people's smoke (I did), but at least I didn't have someone next to me or across from me exhaling it into my mouth as I took a bite of food or a sip of Schweppe's Bitter Lemon.

(As an aside, I'd not seen Schweppe's Bitter Lemon in probably 20 years or more. I really like it, and hadn't realized how much I missed it, until I saw someone drinking it here in Kosovo the first time I had a meal off-Post. Mmmmmmm!)

Because the boss likes his cigars so much, we pitched in and got him some expensive smokes (I guess). We also got him a customized Zippo lighter, which seems to be an Army tradition from long ago. He seemed especially pleased with the lighter, as I noticed he would take it out of its box and admire it, showing it off to the dinner guests, again and again.

If you've seen the movie "Gran Torino" -- a must-see, in my book -- you might remember that the protagonist has a Zippo lighter with the yellow and black First Cavalry crest on it. The character obviously cherished that lighter.
I suspect we have the makings of something similar here.

Despite the sea of brown Campaign Hats, there were three of us there with Stetsons. I made sure we recognized that fact, though our photo-op occasioned a few choice comments from others who were quite clearly jealous.

Or something.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Terminus ad quem

Now that I'm done teaching the "Contemporary Moral Issues" class here in Kosovo it's time to start in with the General Biology course (plus lab). Whereas the Ethics class met twice per week, three hours each night, this Biology class meets twice per week, *four* hours each night, from 1800 - 2200 hours.

That's 6 p.m. until 10 p.m. in non-Army-speak.

Whew.

The semester began for us last night, and I had thirteen students show up, out of the sixteen that are on the roster. At least a couple are on R & R and should be back later this week or at the beginning of next week.

A long, long time ago (in a galaxy far, far away....), the College I attended used the Quarter system: three ten-week Quarters rather than two fifteen-week semesters. We typically would take three classes per Quarter rather than four or five per semester; I usually had four, as it turned out, what with my double major in Biology and Music, and going to foreign study in Spain (which had nothing to do with either of my majors).

I actually liked the rhythm and pace of the Quarter system more than I've like semesters over the years.

Here, perhaps because we're in a deployed, military situation, the term of instruction is 7.5 weeks. That means we're cramming a whole semester into half the time it might take somewhere else.

Hence, four hours per night, twice weekly.

I say again: Whew!

It's a good thing I love Biology, and a better thing that I love it when others learn things. I'm especially chuffed when students master a subject area they'd let others convince them they never could. It looks as though I might have a couple of that kind of student in this term's class.

We're going to have a good time, I hope. My goal this term (as ever!) is their success, as I told them.

It's going to be a lot of work, for all of us.

They at least get to remain seated for most of each four-hour session, as I bounce around attempting to hold their interest -- and keep them awake after a long day of soldiering, and dinner.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Ordinary Time

In my liturgical tradition, now that Christmastide is over, we're back in Ordinary Time. At least until Lent begins next month, that is.

As I've often said, the only "ordinary" thing about Ordinary Time is God's extraordinary love for us.

In this year's Lectionary cycle, yesterday's Gospel reading for the Second Sunday of Ordinary Time was one of my favorites.

It's the story from John's Gospel of the first miracle Jesus is recorded to have performed. Jesus turns water into wine at a wedding feast in the town of Cana, after the wine runs out.

I'm always amused and delighted when I read this passage. (I wonder if my being sober for over thirty years has anything to do with this....)

For one thing, I find it a bit odd that the passage starts off by noting that Jesus' mom had been invited. It next says that Jesus and his disciples were also there -- as if their invitation might have been after Mary's.

I'm also reminded by this passage that in the Gospel of Luke, Jesus is criticized by his detractors as being a "winebibber" (Luke 7:34; King James Version) -- someone who drank too much wine. Of course, many commentators are quick to point out that this must just be a scurrilous attack.

But I'm not so sure.

It could explain the story of the wedding feast at Cana, in my opinion.

Let's say Mary had been invited to this wedding, but because Jesus and his buddies were known for liking a good party, they weren't. Being a good "mom" in the ancient Near East, Mary would have worked to get her -- unmarried -- son invited to the feast. Wedding celebrations in that time and place lasted over several days, and were the occasion for families to work out details such that other wedding celebrations would take place.

So Mary got Jesus and his pals invited.

Then what happens? The wine runs out.

When the wine ran out, the mother of Jesus said to him, "They have no wine." And Jesus said to her, "Woman, what does this have to do with me? My hour has not yet come." His mother said to the servants, "Do whatever he tells you." (John 2:3-5)

It always seemed strange to me that Mary would come tell Jesus this news, unless "they have no wine" is seen to be an accusation, rather than a statement.

If it's an accusation, then Jesus' rather snippy response (remember, he had a bratty response to Mary after he's "found" in the temple after the Passover celebration one year [Luke 2:41-51]), makes more sense, too. "Woman, what does this have to do with me?" -- they *both* know it has *everything* to do with him: he and his buddies drank it all!

Mary's not in the least off-put by how Jesus talks back to her, but instead says to the staff (the people who really run things), "Do whatever he tells you," good "mom" that she is. This puts Jesus on the spot, so he tells the servants to fill six water jars with water, and then to draw some out and take it to the head steward.

Can't you just hear the resignation (perhaps with a twist of exasperation or sheepishness) in his voice as he's being watched by his mother's eagle eyes?

She's mortified, and he knows it.

According to the text, the six jars together hold between 120 and 180 *gallons* of water, which then become wine -- really, really good wine! Let's say it's just 150 gallons. That's still a lot of wine.

It turns out that one of the Soldiers here in Kosovo is a big-wig with one of the most famous wineries in the world, so I asked him at Mass just how many bottles of wine those 150 gallons might represent. (It was not very nice of me to ask him this, during the homily, out of the blue, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.)

"At least 256," said he. Then a moment later he said, "No, it's not 256. It's more like 500."

Five HUNDRED bottles of wine. That's a LOT of wine, wouldn't you say?

Now, I've had some people try to tell me that the water-made-wine was "new wine" and therefore had no alcohol in it. But that just wouldn't make any sense, in terms of what the text says. The head steward, not knowing where the wine in the stone jars came from, goes to the bridegroom and says, "Everyone serves the good wine first, and when people have drunk freely, then the poor wine. But you have kept the good wine until now." (John 2:10)

Why would "good wine" be served first? So that people wouldn't notice the inferior quality of the wine served later, of course. This would only be true if the people had gotten a bit buzzed off the "good wine." That would not be possible if there were no alcohol in it.

It hardly seems likely, then, that the head steward would call the water-made-wine "good wine" if it contained no alcohol....

Let's face it, I can drink lots and lots of milk, and still know if someone then serves bad milk; or I can drink pitchers of soft drink and know instantaneously if someone tries to pawn off soda that's gone flat on me; or I can swill down eleventy-seven cups of really good coffee and immediately turn on the one who's attempting to foist a cup of instant decaf -- quantity of those beverages is no bar against recognizing quality!

But long ago, when I was drinking, there were surely times when I didn't know -- and didn't much care -- what I was drinking at that point, precisely because of what I'd been drinking beforehand. That's exactly the situation in this Gospel story.

Q.E.D.

Now there's a lot more that can be gleaned from this story of Jesus' first public miracle, but I won't go into that here.

Suffice it for now to say that Jesus was concerned that the wedding guests have a good party, and that he did what he could to make that possible. By extension, I believe Jesus wants us to be able to celebrate enthusiastically and well, too. Some of us can even do that *without* alcohol!

Jesus' interest in our joy is just one of the things that's "ordinary" about Ordinary Time.

I rather like that in a Savior.

Don't you?

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Everything hurts!

It sure would be easier to be back at home, doing my teaching gig and freelance priestcraft.

I'm quite certain I'd not be going to the gym as often, nor for as long!

My bilateral plantar fasciitis is on fire, constantly. My bilateral patellar tendonitis has never been worse. My bad ankle rankles at just about any sort of movement.

One of the specialists I've seen in the last couple of years mentioned that she'd never seen anyone with so little padding on the bottom of the feet, and not many with arches so invisible to the naked eye.

Given all that, I'm glad to have a permanent no-run profile from the Army, meaning that I am not permitted to do the two-mile run during the Army Physical Fitness Test (APFT). However, all other things being equal, since so much of the Army is about running, that means that when everyone else trots off, I'm left behind.

That's not where I'd rather be!

Moreover, seeing as I'm usually in places these days that lack the facilities or equipment to do swimming or biking as the alternative to running, I'm stuck doing the 2.5-mile walk.

Oy.

Now *that's* a bummer!

Have you ever tried doing a 2.5-mile walk in just over 30 minutes? It's decidedly painful, and long. Everybody else has finished the 2-mile run soon enough to have stopped sweating already before I complete the 2.5-mile walk.

Sigh.

All this being said, I'll be back at the gym later doing my time on the cross-trainer and the treadmill (but not *running*), and then I'll limp back to my room to ice my plantar fascii down with frozen water bottles.

I really do love my job, and am grateful to be here.

Of course, at my age in this business, I'm pretty much grateful to be anywhere, breathing....

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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A return visit

Whereas I had a rather difficult meeting with one religious leader this week, I had a couple of other, much more cordial and satisfying encounters as well. Both involved meeting gentlemen I'd met previously. One was at the same -- but not so smoky -- coffee bar I described earlier this week.

The temperature was almost pleasant, and most definitely unseasonal for this time of year here, so the bar's proprietors had the door propped open. That let fresh air in, thankfully!

The other meeting took place at the home of the man we were visiting. Last time he had his young grandson with him; this time he had the boy's cousin there as well. She was cute and painfully shy. The children's fathers both work in other countries, and both had come home to their father's house for the New Year's holiday, so SPC C, Mr. A (our Albanian-language interpreter), and I met them, as well.

Our host welcomed us warmly and graciously with food and drink, and I suspect we could have stayed there all afternoon, noshing and chatting. He even had one of the sons prepare some of their home-made beef jerky for us, by grilling it a bit on the barbecue.

It's decidedly different from the beef jerky so favored by Soldiers.

Fortunately, SPC C was there, and he was able to do us proud in the consumption department.

Our host brought out a photo of himself with one of the U.S. Chaplains from at least a couple of years ago, of which he was obviously very proud.  After showing it to us, he almost demanded that SPC C take a photo of himself and me together.

I promised him I would get it printed up before we returned for our next visit.  He beamed.

This is a very, very different place from where I was a year ago!

The chickens in these parts grow incredibly large, and have fluffy feathers even on their feet. What's up with that?


I suspect the jerky had been the rather large cow we'd seen in the yard on our first visit, but was not in evidence this time.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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An Ancient Church

Yesterday SPC C and I met up with our Serbian-language interpreter, Mr. Z, and we went to visit an Orthodox priest who was just finishing the Divine Liturgy on the Feast of St. Basil the Great (it was also New Year's Day according to the Julian calendar). It took us about 45 minutes to get to where we were going because the roads are so narrow and serpentine in places.

Boy, the locals here are crazy drivers!

Though my predecessors from the last two rotations here tried repeatedly to meet with this man, they were never successful, so Mr. Z suggested we catch him at the end of his morning Mass.

The church building is tiny, and windowless from what I could see. The outside is very nondescript, and not very Orthodox-churchy, unlike all the other Orthodox churches we've seen so far.  There's even a centuries-old free-standing bell tower with a stork's nest on top of it!  At the base of the tower is the crowded cemetery, many of the headstones of which date back less than a dozen years.

The doorways into the church are so small that even I had to stoop to enter. Mr. Z suggested that SPC C wait outside, seeing as he was packing heat. It was quite a cold morning, and as is his wont, SPC C was not wearing a jacket or coat. (I, on the other hand, was bundled up, yet still felt cold.)

Once inside the sanctuary, though, I realized that SPC C would have been colder had he been with us, as it was probably ten degrees colder inside than out.

There was only one other person present for the end of Mass. When we arrived, the priest and deacon were behind the Iconostasis with the door closed. We could hear them singing, and could definitely smell the incense. The door opened and the priest appeared. He blessed us with the chalice, which was covered with a purificator and pall, and then he disappeared behind the screen again.

At the end of the service, the priest came forward to distribute the blessed bread (different from the consecrated bread of the Sacrament) and to give a final blessing with his hand cross. He was vested in a beautiful blue phelonion (the Orthodox equivalent of the Roman chasuble).

Mr. Z introduced us, and the priest pointed out items of interest inside the building, which had been a church since the Thirteenth Century of the common era. It clearly was the oldest building I'd been in for quite a while!

A large section of one wall was taken up by a depiction of Judgment Day for a soul, shown as a small body suspended from a scales between heaven (above and to the left) and hell (below, and to the right). Someone is attempting to preserve or perhaps restore the images, as can be seen by the many rectangles of what looks like cheesecloth plastered over the paint.

It seems remarkable that as much color still exists, despite the age and bad condition of those paintings. I would have liked to have spent more time in that space, but seeing as the priest was so hard to get to talk to, I only snapped a few photographs, and left.

Mr. Z, SPC C, and I accompanied him into a tiny room heated by a wood-burning (or in this case, corn-cob-burning) stove. The priest attempted to offer us some rakia, and was beginning to take offense at our refusal, until I used a trick I'd learned in Italy many, many years ago.

I told him I had a bad liver.

He understood immediately, and calmed down.

The conversation which ensued (actually, it was more of a monologue on his part) was certainly the most difficult one I'd had to date with any of the other religious leaders I've met.

Old animosities and fears can have a power to fester and metastasize that defies rationality and description.

I guess my friends who go to a lot of AA and/or Al-Anon meetings are on to something, as they've tried for years to explain to me that resentments shut us off from the sunlight of the spirit.

It is plain that a way of life which includes deep resentment leads only to futility and unhappiness. To the precise extent that we permit these, do we squander the hours that might have been worth while. But with the alcoholic whose only hope is the maintenance and growth of a spiritual experience, this business of resentment is infinitely grave. We find that it is fatal. For when harboring such feelings we shut ourselves off from the sunlight of the Spirit. The insanity of alcohol returns and we drink again. And with us, to drink is to die.

If we are to live, we must be free of anger. ("Alcoholics Anonymous," Chapter 5, p 66)

"If we are to live, we must be free of anger."

Indeed.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Stupefy!

A decade ago now, when my friends Mary, Elizabeth, and Brian (all of whom were going to lots of AA and Al-Anon meetings at the time; Brian died sober almost eight years ago) and I were on our way to Fiji for a vacation, Elizabeth insisted that I listen to the first few CDs of a book series she'd gotten pretty excited about.

I was underwhelmed by the hype, but seeing as we had a fourteen-hour plane ride from Los Angeles to Nadi (pronounced: "Nandi"), I put up a good front and thanked her in advance for her generosity and thoughtfulness. She'd told me I only had to listen to the first couple of disks (the first book was seven disks, total, if I remember correctly), so since I'd given her my word, I was going to listen to the first couple of disks, and then be done with it.

As an aside, I might mention that we'd decided to go to Fiji because Brian had found round-trip airfares for a fraction of their usual price: the four of us flew for less than a single round-trip fare usually cost. Coupled with an incredible deal at an all-inclusive resort (SCUBA diving, too!), the trip was just too good to pass up.

Once we arrived at Nadi we realized why we'd gotten such incredibly reduced airfares and accommodations: Fiji was in the midst of a military coup. There were Soldiers all over the airport in full battle-rattle to include loaded automatic weapons. As this was pre-9/11, that was a sight that gave more than a little cause for pause.

At the resort, seeing as Australia and New Zealand (from which the bulk of tourists to Fiji come) had place Fiji under embargo, after the second of our ten days, we were virtually the only guests present. The food was the best I'd ever tasted, the beaches were pristine, the diving spectacular, and the staff were incredibly attentive yet unobtrusive.

Everything was good beyond our imagining.

Except for the poisonous snakes.

Well, yellow-lipped sea kraits [Laticauda colubrina (Laticaudinae)], to be exact.

Highly venomous, they produce up to 15 mg of venom, only 10% of which is enough to kill an average-sized human being. On the island of Toberua (pronounced: "Tomberua"), these critters congregate on land in large numbers after dark. Some of them get rather large (1.5 m in length), and they seem even larger when they're slithering around inside the bure (pronounced: "Booray") where we were sleeping each night....

Fortunately for all concerned, they're actually pretty docile, and can be picked up by the tail and tossed back into the sea whence they came. This came in very handy one night when Mary screamed at the sight of a krait attempting to slither into her bure from the front porch.

Brian, ever the gallant one, ran up and grabbed the serpent by its tail just after its head had disappeared into the wall. Yelling through gritted teeth, "Oh no you DON'T!" he pulled the creature out of the wall and threw it, writhing, through the air at least a good thirty feet.

(I don't think Mary has forgiven us yet for failing to mention the presence of those reptiles as we were planning the adventure.)

Anyway, I actually got hooked on the book that Elizabeth had brought for me, and asked if I could 'read' Book Two, which I did on the plane going home. It was eight CDs, and worth every minute.

As heretical as it seems to some in my profession, I actually find Harry Potter to be an allegory of good and evil which is complex and beautiful -- not unlike how life can be. Over the past eight years I've listened to each successive book as it's come out, though I had to wait until I got home from Iraq to 'read' the final installment.

One of the great spells the characters cast causes the recipient to stop dead in his or her tracks, for a time. This has the side effect of preventing the person from speaking, too.

In the aftermath of the disaster in Haiti which defies adequate description, I heard that one media loudmouth had declared over the radio that people shouldn't donate to relief efforts because those donations might make a political figure here in the States look good (what kind of reasoning is that, anyway??), and that another had blamed the people of Haiti for the earthquake which has wrought so much death and destruction, I found myself really wishing for a magic wand and the ability to shout, "STUPEFY!"

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Haiti

The news coming out of Haiti is monstrously bad.

Several of my Jesuit friends are there; two of them live and work in Port-au-Prince.

Please, if you can find it in you, at least pray or send good thoughts their way. If you're able to do more, please consider donating money to a reputable charitable organization. The Jesuit Refugee Service, Catholic Relief Services, and the Red Cross are three that come to mind immediately.

The mind boggles at the devastation in this island nation that has suffered so much for so long.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Light show

The sky here changes often, sometimes minute-by-minute.

Unfortunately for me and my small camera (and idiopathic benign essential tremor), I just can't capture the grandeur and wonder of it all. The beauty is quite breathtaking, and fills me with gladness and gratitude.

With my bad knees, ankle, and feet, however, I doubt I'll be climbing that mountain in the distance any time soon. (Lot of Soldiers do it.)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Smoke but no mirrors

One of the perks of my job is that I'm able to go outside the gate with SPC C and a translator (in this case, Mr. A) to meet with local religious leaders. One of the drawbacks of my job is that many of these visits take place in local coffeehouses, in which almost everyone else is smoking.

I've gotten really spoiled living in California where it's now illegal to smoke indoors in just about every imaginable setting. I often find myself surprised -- indeed, a bit shocked -- to enter a restaurant in some other part of the U.S. and be asked, "Smoking, or Non?"

I'm pretty certain that has never once happened to me in California since I moved out there almost twenty years ago to begin my doctoral studies in molecular neurobiology.

Here in Kosovo, it's an entirely different story altogether.

I'm in the minority in my Battalion, it seems, however. When the Staff Officers and NCOs have gone out en masse, a gaggle of Soldiers (I won't reveal names, ranks, or positions!) light up their cigars eagerly, indoors.

Yecch!

It may be a great "bonding" ritual for them, but the health and welfare of my alveoli and bronchioles are much too important to me to be sacrificed in the name of "fitting in" or being "one of the guys."

I say again: Yecch!

After each of the sojourns to meet these local religious leaders, I come back to Post and immediately throw into a laundry bag everything I'd been wearing. I made the mistake, the first time, of not taking that bag immediately to the laundry. Instead, I waited until the next morning.

Bad move on my part!

My room stank for a couple of days.

Yecch.

I've left those meetings, as rewarding as they are in other ways, with my eyes bloodshot and watering, and my bronchi constricted almost to the point of asthma.

I can't wait until the warmer weather again, when they'll have doors (and, one hopes, windows!) open in those establishments!

After meeting with one of those religious leaders, I asked SPC C to snap a photo of Mr. A, our guest, and myself. We were in a "Titanic"-themed coffeehouse, and I believe just off to my right on the wall behind me was a rather large photo of Leonardo DiCaprio. You might see the nautical images in the frame on the wall behind us.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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More rainbows

I had heard that it rained a lot here in Kosovo in the winter months, and quite frankly was not wildly enthusiastic to hear that news. Nor that the snow can get to be fathoms-deep.

This winter has been remarkably mild so far, to hear the locals tell it. I'm told that Western Europe has been buffeted by one snow storm after another (rather like parts of the U.S., I guess). But here we've had no snow that's lasted more than a week, and no accumulation of more than a foot.

I've been glad of that!

We've had a lot of rain, though. I really do not like cold, wet feet!

So I'm especially grateful that my parents snagged me some Gore-Tex socks which have aided and abetted my plan to keep my feet dry during all the precipitation.

One benefit of the rain here has been all the rainbows I've seen. I can't remember living in a place this cold that has had as many rainbows. I don't remember a single one from Iraq, though it may just be my incipient senile dementia that's preventing me from remembering those data....

In any event, one day last week we had two (count 'em!) rainbows -- one in the morning, and one in the afternoon. I didn't have my camera with me in the morning, but did manage to shoot the tail end of the afternoon light show from two different spots.

There is something about that visual phenomenon that really lifts my spirits.


Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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