Thanksgiving week

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

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

It has helped focus my own reflections about Thanksgiving Day:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace, Hope, Love,

SPC C

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

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

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

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Factoids

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

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

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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the little men

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

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

the little men

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

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

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

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

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

All rights reserved. 2008

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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20

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

Happy Birthday, Buddy!

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

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

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

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Holiday survival tips

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Fifteen-month deployments

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

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

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

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Holiday 'wars'

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

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

Sheesh.

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

Give me a break.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"War on Christmas," indeed.

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

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


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Heavenly bodies

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

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

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

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

It was breathtaking, actually.

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Grief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's been a rough few weeks.

Each new grief brings up every old grief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More on this at a later date....

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Zion Lutheran Church

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Rain

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

For a while.

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

I had no rain gear with me.

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

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

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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A prayer

Dear God,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sheesh.

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

What a stupid notion.

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

*Please* spare Chris that nonsense.

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

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

Amen.

Aunt Pat

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

Funeral arrangements are pending.

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Machen Kleider Leute?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I heard no one complain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was awesome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Machen Kleider Leute? Niemals!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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

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Aunt Pat's illness

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

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

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

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

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

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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90

Today marks 90 days since I arrived in a war zone.

In the building where I spend most of my time, near the entrance/exit, there's a tribute to all of the Soldiers who have died since my Division's arrival Down Range. A large flat-screen video monitor hangs above the memorial stand (boots, inverted rifle/bayonet, ID tags, Kevlar helmet, coins from the CG and CSM) and flags.

The faces of the Soldiers who have died in this Area of Operations, and the simplest of biographical data -- name, rank, unit, birth date, death date, cause of death -- ebb and flow on the screen, to the accompaniment of a somber melody which repeats much more often than do the photos.

Just yesterday I noticed names I recognized because those Soldiers have died since my arrival here in theater.

The mournful music of the memorial can be heard down the hallways, and even when I'm sitting in my boss's office.

I realized this week as I watched, just how many of the Soldiers in those photos are smiling. Where I work, one cannot escape the reality of the human cost of this war, except by actively willing not to pay attention to the visuals and sounds as one enters or exits the building.

How different this is from my experience back home, especially before I joined the Army!

I've seen even very, very, very senior people (in rank, not in age, as I'm one of the oldest non-medical people here!) pause in silence before the memorial, and then resume their hurried pace to wherever they're going.

I always say a silent prayer when passing by.

At one point in the video presentation, the screen fills up completely with tiny images of all those who have died. Those are the casualties from just this Area of Operations, and just since these folks arrived a year ago for their fifteen-month deployment as part of the "surge."

Back home, the costs of this war were much more hidden from my view. I almost never saw photos of flag-draped coffins, and if I didn't watch certain news programs, I'd never have seen the faces of any of the fallen.

For ninety days now, I have daily seen the smiling faces of my dead comrades.

I hope never to forget the truth of what has transpired here.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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A Blessing

A while ago now I was asked by a very senior leader to accompany him and an even more senior Iraqi leader on a visit to some Christian churches in our Area of Operations. I, of course, made sure that SFC McG was invited along as well! I suppose it might have been a bit cheeky, but seeing as we'd actually be outside the wire and walking on neighborhood streets, I wanted to be sure SFC McG was there to keep me in line.

(Remember that he's told my parents, and pretty much anyone else who'd listen (notice, I'm not including *myself* in that category of persons) that he's going to shoot me in the foot if I do anything stupid. "I'm NOT going to lose a Chaplain on this deployment! Never have yet. Not going to now," quoth he.)

So, the next morning I piled into one vehicle and SFC McG into another and off we went. I found it a bit terrifying -- yet amusing -- that our driver took a wrong turn at some point. We wound up on a tiny, narrow dirt road in the middle of nowhere, and had to back up in order to get out of there. We're in a convoy of vehicles, mind you.

It was at that point that I noticed how far I've come in terms of surrendering to the powerlessness of the moment, and being able to relax and enjoy the ride.

For one thing, the seats in that vehicle were nicely padded (could it be that because I was with one of the Grand Poohbahs?). More than that, though, I've "gotten it" that giving in to fear and anxiety DOESN'T HELP.

Getting myself worked up into a lather because we'd taken a wrong turn would not have helped get us on the right road, or have kept us from harm in any way.

Amazing how long it's taken me to learn that!

Perhaps it's so many years of knowing so many people who go to AA and Al-Anon and other 12-Step meetings. They tend to intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle me. Perhaps it's so many years of praying the Suscipe prayer attributed to St. Ignatius Loyola.

Perhaps it's having said, at every Mass I've celebrated since Ordination, before Communion: "What return shall I make to the Lord, for all the good that God has done for me? I shall take up the cup of salvation, and call upon God's name, and the Lord will save me from all that frightens me."

(One of our Novice Masters, Frank, used to pray that prayer 30 years ago when I was a novice, and probably because I was frightened so often by so much, it made a huge impression on me. I have never forgotten it, and have adopted it as my own.)

In any event, I'm living with much less fear these days, and am grateful for that!

After meeting up with the Iraqi bigwig, we convoyed to the first of the churches we were going to tour. SFC McG and I were told that this place hadn't had services in quite a long time, because all of the faithful had fled the area in the wake of so much violence, and so much of it directed towards Christians. The caretaker was the only person left there, and we'd get the chance to meet him and see his church.

Mar Zaya Assyrian Church of the East has weathered the storms of sectarian violence, intact. One of the Iraqi General's translators told me that the "little guy" (as he called him) who looks after the place is "a giant in courage" since even many Muslims in that area fled, as did his whole congregation. The violence was too great.

It turns out that the man who is the caretaker is also the priest at this church.

Fr. Gabriel speaks no English, and doesn't even speak Arabic. He only speaks Aramaic -- the language spoken by Jesus and the ne'erdowells he was constantly pallin' around with.

Fortunately, the interpreter who came along with us could speak Aramaic as well, so he translated both to and from Arabic and to and from English for the priest. To the left is a photo of the priest with the Iraqi General (and myself).

Before we moved on, I asked the translator to ask Fr. Gabriel if I might have his blessing. At first the priest demurred, but after a short conversation in Aramaic with the translator, he kissed his hand cross and then held it out to me to kiss. He began to pray in Aramaic, with his cross held above me as I bowed down.

I caught a few of the words he said, since Aramaic is a Semitic language, and very similar to the Biblical Hebrew I studied in priest-school.

The prayer went on for what seemed to be quite a long time. I'm pretty certain he invoked the intercession of Mary and other saints. What I could not see was that the priest and four Assyrian Christians who were with us were all crying as the priest was praying his blessing.

Afterwards, when our General asked him what he wanted from us, Fr. Gabriel replied, "Nothing. I only want peace."

The translator told me as we were leaving the building that Fr. Gabriel had told him that this day was the happiest day he had had in years.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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We get mail....

Here are a couple of notes I've received in the past few days.

The first is from my friend Rich K (yet another friend who has no last name!). I've known him since he was an undergrad working his way through Berklee College of Music in Boston.

He's a truly gifted jazz pianist, but can play just about any genre with great technical precision and emotional honesty. I visited him while he was living in Oklahoma, and he took me to my first Native American sweat lodge. He now lives in New York City, where's he's supporting himself doing music.

He wrote:

You're still in my thoughts and prayers. Just read some of your blog entries. I still say please help and thank you, and I have used the resentment prayer fairly recently. I wouldn't have believed it at the end of my drinking, but these prayers have always worked.... Rich

The second note is from my friend Michael, who was in the first Intro Bio Lab course I taught when I moved to the Midwest in the late 1990s. He was the brightest student in the class, and became a star member of the University's Cheering Squad.

(After having played football in high school, he was skeptical of my suggestion that he join the CS, since the University had dropped its football program in the 70s, and I felt he needed to be on a team. However, he later confided in me that he was in much better shape physically after joining the Cheering Squad than he'd ever been while he was playing football.)

He's now a physician, and was married recently. I was, to my chagrin, unable to attend the wedding because of this deployment.

His note:

Chicago is going well. People in business tell me that I am stupid for going into medicine, and from a financial perspective, they might be right. However, I'm really happy with my job, and most people can't really say that. I enjoy taking care of people. Tif is really enjoying her job as well. She really likes OB/GYN. I think it is a nice match for her. I suspect that living the military life, you are probably more ripped than I am now. I have been reading your blog and enjoying it. It has been difficult for me to return to religion, but I find myself praying and contemplating more, and I feel positive about that. At any rate, sorry for the schizophrenic email. I have about a million questions about how you are doing but am scared to ask. I am not sure that I really want to know vs. I am superstitious. At any rate, tell me what you think is appropriate vs. what you are allowed to discuss. You seem much more patriotic than you used to be judging by the blog. Miss you and love. Mike

I'm gratified to know that the simple spiritual exercises of remembering to breathe, of saying "HELP ME" and "THANK YOU," of praying for the jerks who live rent-free in my brain, etc., work in the live of people who are not 'professionally religious'.

I'm also grateful that internet (albeit as slow as this is over here -- it took 2.5 hours of trying the day before yesterday to send a note consisting of only 14 words!!) allows contact with my family and friends at a time when I'm so far away from home.

Hooray!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Mom: Update 04 (plus: Aunt Pat, Elaine W, and Mrs. SFC McG!)

I spoke with my mother, my Aunt Pat, and my friend Elaine this weekend, and all seem to be doing spectacularly well.

Mom is tooling around the house with the aid of a walker (and the watchful eye of my father). It seems she's doing "laps" from the bedroom through one part of the living room into the kitchen, then out through the dining room into the other part of the living room and back toward the hall near the bedroom, where she pivots (pirouettes?) back toward the kitchen.

She described what the surgeon had done to her back in some detail, but I was frankly a bit grossed out, so I'll spare you the details....

Many thanks for all your prayers on her behalf!

Aunt Pat -- having suffered a ruptured cerebral aneurysm six weeks ago, and having opened her eyes just as the docs were going to remove the life support equipment while all the women from her religious community were in her hospital room, praying -- sounded terrific, if a bit weak, when I spoke with her for a few minutes by phone.

What a miracle she is!

Aunt Pat is presently in a rehab facility where she's up and walking and re-learning to do tasks that most of us take for granted. She has a steady stream of visitors from her religious community, including Aunt Loretta (we adopted her) who schleps down from Albany by train every weekend to visit Aunt Pat. Thank you all for your continuing prayer support!

Elaine W, who has some pretty radical cancer surgery a little over two weeks ago is back to being herself, which is a delight. A couple of times now, including this weekend, I've called and she's admitted to being very "cross" or "vexed" or "vituperative."

('Vituperative'? Sheesh. I think she's spending too much time talking with me.)

I tell her she's just being crabby, and that it's really cute. Inevitably I'll say something outrageous enough that she'll start laughing. What a delight!

She's still having some significant pain in the vicinity of the incisions, so please keep sending good thoughts her way if you would. She visits the surgeon on Monday, and hopes to have some insight into what's going on at that point. I'll let you know!

Mrs. SFC McG, whose birthday was not long ago, continues to recover from her knee surgery. I get almost-daily updates on her progress from SFC McG, who speaks with her most nights and some mornings (our time, anyway!).

I sent her a small gift for her birthday and got back an email which read, in part, "You're fired," so I'm still piecing all that together. (SFC McG says she fires him routinely, so I guess it means I'm part of the family now, or something.)

In any event, continued prayers on her behalf are greatly appreciated.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Spiritual Exercises IV

This is not something I've published in our unit's newspaper, but figure is worth sharing with you. But first, an email, a bit redacted to protect identities, I received recently:

I would like to start coming to services. Also, would it be possible to talk with you again next week? [My wife] told me she had emailed you. I'm glad she did that for us. Made me feel like she is trying to help me. I said the "two words" you gave me yesterday. I got goose bumps, that felt like someone heard me said "ok". I look forward to saying the other two tonight. Talking to you has taken a great weight off my shoulders. Thank you.

Now, an explanation:

Friends of mine in AA long ago pointed out two sentences in their AA "Big Book" to me: "The spiritual life is not a theory. We have to live it." [italics theirs] That seemed like a pretty good sentiment, but I wondered what it meant in practice.

I'm a slow learner, and so I do a lot better when things are presented simply and unambiguously. But I'm also an alcoholic, so I naturally complexify everything beyond human comprehension.

Couple all that with an overly developed sense of needing approval for "doing things right," and a desire to outperform others (as long as it doesn't take too much energy, time, or other investment on my part) and one winds up in a quotidian quagmire of questionable quandaries.

(Seriously, now: When was the last time you encountered an alliteration like that?)

No wonder I drank.

Anyway, over the years I've learned that simple is preferable to complex, and this applies to all aspects of my life.

I suppose it's a corollary of the "one day at a time" adage of which my friends who go to AA meetings are always reminding me. Simplicity is especially important in terms of the spiritual life.

This became very clear to me one evening when I was in the Midwest, talking with an alcoholic/addict who was incarcerated (yet again) on account of driving under the influence.

We'll call him SPC C (though I didn't know when I met him that he was a Veteran). His father had called one of the Jesuits in my community at the time to ask whether he'd go visit this wayward son in the hooskow.

Now, Fr. Tom is a wonderful, sweet man, but a bit timid, so I suspect the prospect of visiting someone in lock-down because of 'the drink' was probably a bit much. He asked me to speak with the Dad, and to go visit the son, seeing as he knew I used to drink.

Turns out that getting into the facility was no problem. It was getting *out* of it that presented some challenge.

It took me six weeks of classes, and getting a special photo ID, and getting fingerprinted, and a background check, and other annoyances just to be guaranteed safe passage out of that place. SPC C's dad was getting pretty annoyed with me, and almost accused me of malingering. Easy to understand, from his perspective!

The evening finally arrived. I showed up downtown at the appointed time and place and had to surrender everything metal I had with me. At one point I felt sure the Corrections Officer was going to ask for the rivets from my black jeans. I suspect the building had been the inspiration for the "Adams Family" house. I'd never gone to a place like that before, and felt massively intimidated.

I was shown into a room and then left there, alone with my thoughts. I was reminded of the scene from the movie Amadeus after Salieri has been institutionalized. As I sat there, locked in all by myself in this scary house, I expected to hear moans and cackles off in the distance at any moment.

SPC C finally showed up and was ushered into the room by his handler. He seemed annoyed that it had taken me six weeks to show up down there, though perhaps because I was wearing a Roman Collar (yes, Elizabeth, I *do* own one!) he didn't press the issue too much. I decided not to mention that I felt annoyed at everything I'd had to go through just to be able to meet with him....

Soon he launched into a maudlin tale about how sad and pathetic his life was, and how understandable that was because God and the Church had let him down. He whined on for an eternity, it seemed, as I just sat there, listening. He was explaining how he'd been told by the staff at his institution that if he wanted to get -- and stay -- sober, he'd have to work a spiritual program. But that he knew that would be impossible because it was clear that God was out to get him and the Church was full of hypocrites and on and on and on. There was no way he could pray, and he certainly refused to go to Mass.

Outside, the rain was turning into snow.

After he'd been droning on for what seemed forever, I interrupted him by saying, very loudly, "SHUT ___ ____ UP!" (You can fill in the blanks.)

I thought he might be going to have a heart attack, he was so startled. Perhaps it was the volume. Perhaps it was the vehemence. Perhaps it was the Roman Collar, or perhaps the combination of the invective and the vesture and the volume and the vehemence.

He actually was speechless, with his eyes bugged out, and his mouth open.

Made my night, actually.

I then proceeded to tell him to forget everything he thought he knew. Clearly, whatever he'd thought he'd learned hadn't worked to keep him clean and sober!

The only thing he needed to know about the spiritual life and prayer was this: In the morning, just after waking up, say "HELP ME." In the evening, just before going to sleep, say "THANK YOU."

Don't address it to anyone in particular. Don't analyze it. Don't do the Serenity Prayer at AA meetings. Don't do the prayer at the end of meetings. Don't do anything else but "HELP ME" and "THANK YOU."

I told him to keep doing that until I told him to stop.

The crazy thing is, that here it is years later, and SPC C has been sober quite some time. He now prays at home and at meetings and at Mass. He has a rich spiritual life today which has seen him through much adversity since that night we met.

He says it all began with "HELP ME" and "THANK YOU." SPC C continues to pray those prayers today.

Starting simple works. Keeping it simple, works.

Some days, to be honest, I wake up and am not sure I believe in anything, but I make sure to say "HELP ME" and "THANK YOU." Inevitably something will happen -- a phone call, or an email, or a chance meeting in the hallway, or a beautiful sunrise or sunset, or I'll hear an evocative melody -- and my faith will be restored.

But when it seems as if everything is broken (especially me), and it's beastly hot, and I'm far away from my loved ones, and 'the sun is burning out' (as Tom W and Annie L say), if I can just remember those two sets of two words, I'll be OK.

Which brings me back to the email at the beginning of this post.

The young man who sent me that note has been Down Range for almost five years, continuously. His lovely wife has a rich faith life, but this young man stopped believing in God and going to church when he was 11 or 12 years old.

BLUF (bottom line up front, in 'Army-speak'): his wife has had it and wants out. Part of the problem is their lack of common spiritual experience. He's in so much pain, he finally asked to see a Chaplain -- something he'd told himself he would never do. He wants desperately to salvage his marriage, and is even willing to go to church, if that's what it takes.

I told him that's laudable, but since it's been so long, and since he's told himself for all of his adult life that he didn't need or want church or God, it would probably be a good idea to revisit the decision he'd made as a pre-teen, but slowly.

My hunch is that children who make adult decisions probably don't make the best decisions...

I suggested he might want to start very slowly, by simply saying "HELP ME" in the morning and "THANK YOU" in the evening. By the look of the note he sent me, it seems as though he's begun that journey, and already has noticed something.

I'm not sure what it means, but getting "goose bumps" and having the sense that "someone heard me [and] said OK" is an incredibly rich beginning.

I, too, have had those goose bumps since being Down Range.

Perhaps if you're having a tough time with the spiritual life, a simple "HELP ME" in the morning, and a "THANK YOU" at night might prove helpful to you, too.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Mom: Update 03

Mom's getting along quite well, all things considered.

The younger of my two younger sisters is an occupational therapist, and has been able to be with my parents from the day of the surgery until today. She's been a great blessing!

Mom is still in a considerable amount of discomfort, in part because she cannot take the pain medication that's commonly prescribed after surgery like this, but seems to be doing remarkably well.

Many thanks, as ever, for your continued prayers.

I hope to be able to speak with Aunt Pat tomorrow, who's continuing her miraculous recovery from the ruptured cerebral aneurysm. I'll let you know how that goes.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Spiritual Exercises III

Here's the last of the three articles I had published in our semi-monthly newspaper.

In the last two issues of our paper I've suggested that the Army expects Soldiers to be both physically and spiritually fit in order to thrive – and not just survive – while deployed. I've proposed a couple of simple spiritual exercises that can do for our spirits what physical exercise can do for our bodies. Something as ordinary as breathing can become a spiritual exercise, as can something as seemingly mundane as reading – spiritual reading.

We measure our physical fitness using the metrics of the APFT (Army Physical Fitness Test), but there's no agreed-upon metric for gauging our spiritual fitness. However, we can get a good sense of how well we're doing spiritually by looking at how we react to resentments.

I know I'm not in a good spiritual place if I'm letting others "live rent-free in my brain." That's what I call it when I wake up in the middle of the night (with no need to do so), because I'm so angry with what *she* said or did, or *he* didn't say or do. When I can't let go of perceived wrongs, when I'm trapped by feelings of wanting vengeance or retribution, that's what resentment does to me. Ironically, I can wind up becoming so much like the people I'm angry at, it means they've won. I deserve better than that. The people who love me deserve better than me becoming someone I'm not.

That's where a simple spiritual exercise can come into play. It's a short prayer that works, even if I don't mean it. I just have to do it for at least 21 days in a row. (Now, there's nothing magical about the number of days; I just need to keep doing it – daily – until I come to realize that I'm willing to pay whatever price is necessary to be freed from the resentment. That almost always takes me three weeks.) This prayer doesn't have to be addressed to anyone in particular, but I find it helpful to address it to a Higher Power.

Here's the prayer: "God, please grant this so-and-so every good gift I could wish for myself or those I love most."

After about the first week of doing it, I start using the person's name. At about the beginning of the third week, I actually mean what I'm saying – I've gotten to the point of being willing to accept that if something good should befall this person, because of this prayer, I'm OK with that, because I'm so ready to be free of the resentment.

In the Christian scriptures, Jesus admonishes his followers to "love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you" (Mt 5:44). Prayer is the only effective means that I've found for evicting someone from living rent-free in my brain.

That's why this is a spiritual exercise.

After all, when I'm awake at 0230 (when I really need to be sleeping!), it hardly ever occurs to me that the persons I'm angry at are sleeping soundly. What's wrong with this picture? I deserve better. A very simple spiritual exercise can be the answer: prayer.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Mom: Update 02

Many thanks to all of you for your prayers and support! I spoke with Mom today after she'd gotten home from the hospital, and she sounded tired, and in a bit of pain, but otherwise great. Amazing what medical science can do these days! I'm still not exactly clear about what was done to her back, but I think it involved a disc job.

And, to be honest, I was just giving my bro-in-law a hard time about calling the surgeon, "the paleontologist." Mom and Dad had actually been using that terminology after the surgeon had tried, gently, to indicate the need for Mom to stay overnight in the hospital. Others (read: younger patients) didn't have to do that, so Mom decided the doc figured she was just a fossil....

In any event, she's doing great. Thanks be to God!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Mom: Update 01

I managed to speak with Dad and one of my sisters Tuesday evening (my time), which was just after they'd finally talked briefly with the surgeon. It looks as though Mom came through OK (thank God!), and they're going to keep her in the hospital overnight, as originally planned.

(My brother-in-law Steve keeps referring to the surgeon as "the paleontologist," which I think is just a little hostile, don't you?)

More updates, as they're received.

Thanks for the good thoughts and prayers; please keep them coming!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Mom's surgery

My mother's surgery is scheduled for 10:30 a.m. Tuesday, EDT.

Please keep her, my father, and my mother's medical team in your
prayers, if you would.

It's tough being half-way around the world at times like this.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Happy Birthday, Mrs. SFC McG!!

Tomorrow, Monday, is Mrs. SFC McG's birthday. Hooray!! Please remember her in your thoughts and prayers, if you'd be so kind.

She and I have not yet met, but I feel as I know her pretty well, if for no other reason that SFC McG talks about her so much, and with such affection and longing. The two of them have been married a long time, and though life has put them through the wringer far too often, they've come through it all with dignity and grace and an ever-deeper love for each other.

It's a blessing to behold.

SFC McG has spent the lion's share of the last five years being deployed, twice now to Iraq and quite a long time on Active Duty with the Army National Guard. When this country has asked SFC McG to be of service, both he and Mrs. SFC McG have not wavered or hesitated, but have responded with generosity and enthusiasm.

Most recently, just days after moving his family half-way across the country, SFC McG found himself asked by the Guard, "Are your 'A' and 'B' bags packed?" His answer: "Of course." He was about to finish up the Active Duty mission he'd been on for the better part of two years, and actually get to spend a few months at home (in their new location) with his wife, before shipping off to another overseas mission with the Guard.

Instead, within a week of that question, he was at Summer Camp - South with me, training up for the mission here Down Range.

Mrs. SFC McG just took it in stride, as it seems she's always done.

She's every bit the hero her husband is.

Happy Birthday, Mrs. SFC McG! Thank you for your sacrifices on behalf of your nation. Thank you for supporting your husband -- once again so far away, and in harm's way -- with such a loving heart.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Biology in the Barracks

Well, not really "in the barracks," but "Biology in the Latrine Trailer" doesn't have the alliterative quality of the former....

Yesterday I'd been feeling a bit homesick for California, especially after one of my bosses had asked if I was missing being at work in the Biology Department.

Last night as I was finishing up "personal hygiene time" and washing my hands, the Soldier at the sink next to mine asked me what it was I teach in college. He explained that he'd been at the Multicultural Gospel Service a couple of weeks ago when I preached, and that I'd mentioned that I was a teacher, among other things.

When I told him I teach biology, he smiled and said he'd thought so, which was why he asked. He had just taken an online test "on meiosis and mitosis" in the biology class he's taking and was waiting for the results to be posted. This young man is taking four college courses online in an attempt to get an Associate's Degree so that he can submit a packet for Officer Candidate School.

He asked if I liked teaching biology, because he was not having very much fun taking it. This prompted a rather lively exchange between the two of us, as others came in and out for their own "personal hygiene time." (I suspect that may well have been the first time any of them had heard the finer points of the cell theory being discussed in a latrine trailer in a war zone.)

I suggested that perhaps he might be psyching himself out, and that my experience has shown me that when students allow themselves to believe they can master the subject matter at hand -- and do the requisite amount of hard work to make that happen -- they're much more likely to experience success. I encouraged him to stop by my office before his next online biology exam. He mentioned a couple of things that were confusing to him, so we chatted about them for a while.

As we finally went outside, he said with a huge smile on his face, "I just learned more biology in the past fifteen minutes than in the past seven weeks of this course -- and the two other times I've tried taking this class."

I went back to my CHU feeling as if I believed in everything again, and that all was right in my world, at least for that instant.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Spiritual Exercises II

Here's another installment of the series on spiritual fitness I published in our unit's semi-monthly newsletter:

In the last issue of this paper I suggested that the Army expects Soldiers to be physically fit and to be spiritually fit as well, in order to thrive -- and not just survive -- in the midst of a war zone. I proposed that engaging in simple spiritual exercises can do for our spirits what physical exercise can do for our bodies. Something as ordinary as breathing can become a spiritual exercise, as was detailed in that article. This week, I want to present another easy and accessible action which can improve our spiritual fitness: spiritual reading.

The practice of reading has long fed the human spirit. Just as breathing meditation can be identified with many Eastern spiritual traditions, "lectio divina" (Latin for "divine reading" or "holy reading") shines as a hallmark of Western spirituality. Like the breathing meditation mentioned last week, this spiritual exercise is simple, easy, and need not occupy a lot of time in the schedules of busy military personnel.

There are lots of writings (the Latin word 'scriptura' comes to mind) which can serve as the basis for spiritual reading. An easy and readily available one would be the Holy Scriptures from the Jewish and Christian traditions. However, given one's background and preferences, the Qur'an, the Bhagavad Gita, or your own favorite spiritual text can serve as the basis for this spiritual exercise.

A key to making this practice become a true spiritual exercise is to set a particular time each day to be devoted to this action. By being faithful to the time set aside each day -- I suggest starting out very modestly, say, five minutes if you've never tried this before -- you'll develop a habit of doing it. As with physical exercise, repetition and discipline are crucial to the effectiveness of spiritual exercise. This habit of spiritual reading, when coupled with the simple breathing meditation from the last issue of this publication, can yield wonderful results in terms of stress reduction and a growing intimacy with the Divine.

One suggestion for approaching a period of 'divine reading' might be to see it as a four-fold action: 1) Read a short passage from your text, slowly. 2) Read it again, pausing on a word or phrase that attracts your attention. Breathe. 3) Offer a prayer of thanksgiving or petition, based on what you've read, and how it's affected you. 4) Rest for a moment in the love of God who has brought you to this time and place.

If you've not attempted this sort of spiritual exercise before, it's helpful if you can find a place free from distractions. After a while, with practice, even those distractions lose their power to divert you from your primary spiritual aim. It's much better to start out slowly and work into and up to more time, if this practice feeds your soul, than to adopt an unrealistic expectation ("I'm going to do one hour of spiritual reading each morning.") and become disillusioned with the practice and yourself because you're not able to follow through on your resolution.

"And there was very great rejoicing. And day by day, from the first day to the last day, he read from the book of the law of God." (Nehemiah 8: 17b-18)

Easy does it, but do it, is an appropriate spiritual maxim in this case!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Technology's tyranny

All other things being equal, my life here is pretty cushy. This is brought home again and again to me as I get outside the wire to visit Soldiers in other places, and to meet Iraqi noncombatants who've endured so much.

That being said, it amazes me how easily small annoyances can present themselves to my psyche as monumental, cataclysmic crises.

I went to prep the wonderful videocam which my good friend Sal gave me for Christmas a few years back, because I'd promised my boss he could use it for a project he's working on. Much to my surprise, it records sound but no picture these days. It was working not long ago.

When I attempted to upload a Teaching Company course and some other music onto my iPod, I found that my 320 GB portable hard drive (less than a year old) is no longer recognized by my computer. So much for all the music files I'd dutifully paid for and archived onto that disk! Now if I try to add music from some other source to the iPod, the program will delete my other music presently on the device.

As I've mentioned before, the WiFi connection here is so inadequate, it took me more than two hours to send two photos (less than half a MB, total) by email to Soldiers at one of the outposts I visited recently.

The smoke detector in my CHU keeps beeping, despite repeated battery changes, each time with a fresh battery.

And on and on.

I suspect it's related to being far away from home, in a place where I've heard many more ordnance detonations in the past three days than in the almost three months that I've been here, this disquiet which erupts into impatience and intemperance.

It probably has to do with being surrounded by monochrome. Almost everything is gray. Today the air (which I can see -- always disconcerting) is so thickly gray that I cannot see the end of the row of CHUs where I live. It stings the eyes and rasps the back of the throat.

It's about expectations being premeditated resentments, too, I suppose. Sal paid a lot of money for the videocam, undoubtedly, and the portable hard drive wasn't cheap. Sixty-five dollars per month for internet service which is slower than most dial-up connections I've had seems exorbitant.

One might expect expensive technology to work, after all!

But as I look at the combat patches of those who served here in other times, under far more trying conditions, I'm reminded of friends of mine who go to AA and Al-Anon meetings who talk about how their problems these days are 'country-club problems' or 'gold-plated problems' because life had once been so much worse. The Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, Marines (and Coasties, too!) who have served here and elsewhere really know hardship, and because of their sacrifices I get to have 'gold-plated' technological annoyances during my time here.

I'm deeply grateful for their courageous and honorable sacrifices.

I needn't succumb to the tyranny of technology. Gratitude makes all the difference, as my friend Elaine W keeps telling me.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Of T.S. Eliot and Wallace Stevens in a war zone

Not long ago I returned to one of the JSSs (Joint Security Stations) I wrote about a while ago. The Soldiers there share a post with Iraqi Security Forces. It's pretty Spartan living: when we arrived last time, they'd literally just completed installing air conditioning in the place, which is pretty much all underground. The post had been operating for quite a while before getting some cool air circulating therein.

The guys still sleep on cots (I have a bed), and use port-a-potties (I have access to real toilets). They go on foot patrols in neighborhoods on a daily basis (I have only been out walking on neighborhood streets once; more on that in a later post). When they're "at home" there's not much room to stretch out, or go for a run, no PX (Post Exchange = shopping) or large DFAC (Dining Facility) -- there are designated running trails where I live; I can get to a number of PXs and to even more DFACs, if I have the keys to the truck.

Their life there is tough. They've been at it almost a year, and they still have four months to go. Fifteen-month tours are significantly longer than twelve-month tours. These guys are about to experience their second Christmas in a row away from their loved ones.

One of the Soldiers I met at that JSS studied poetry when he was in college before joining the Army. As a college graduate, SPC C's a bit older and perhaps a bit more given to introspection than many of his buddies of similar rank. Once we began talking about poetry, though he was dog-tired and needing to get ready to go back outside the wire, he perked up right away. We started flinging names at each other, finding commonalities and noting differences.

But we'd started this conversation about poetry after we'd finished celebrating Mass, and because of his impending mission, and my need to move on to another JSS, there wasn't much time to continue it. Before I left, I gave him the tiny, colorful Beanie Babies that Wendy W from Northville, MI sent me, so that he and his buddies could hand them out while on patrol. (Thanks, Wendy!!)

Since that day, SPC C and I have been exchanging emails and poems. I left him with Sarton; he suggested Levertov. I sent him Szymborska; he responded with Yeats. I shared Hopkins; he countered with Stevens. I'm waiting on Eliot, having offered him Rumi.

I sit here in my hooch safely typing this while he's undoubtedly out on foot patrol, again.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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