Seeing God Now

I went to confession today. The sacrament of confession has been a blessing in my life that I cannot even begin to describe, so I will not try. I try to go regularly, but sometimes it isn't easy, even in the Philippines. The parish on my post, for whatever reason, does not have regularly scheduled confessions. In other parishes they have confessions scheduled five days a week, but I cannot always get there. Today, however, I was able to get out for confession.

Now, on the schedule it said that confessions started at 2:00 PM. I was planning on seeing a movie with the guys, which I remembered from seeing on the billboard the day prior, started at 3:00. Accordingly I arrived early, so as to be the first in line. I was early enough to make a short visit in the Blessed Sacrament Chapel before getting into where I assumed the line would form. I was 15 minutes early, a respectable time.

The priest was not 15 minutes early. He was not early at all. He was, in fact, on what Americans lovingly refer to as "Island Time," which means that you show up, you know, meh... whenever. As time ticked by I said a rosary, and still no priest showed up. Other people came and got in a sort of line behind me, and still no priest showed up. I, being the only white guy in church, also appeared to be the only one at all perturbed by this.

While I was waiting in line I was reading "The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything," by James Martin, SJ. The chapter I was reading was called, "Surrendering to the Future," in which he talks about the Jesuit vow of obedience and what it means to be obedient to God's will in day-to-day life. He quoted from a Jesuit named Walter Ciszek:

"The plain and simple truth is that His will is what He actually wills to send us each day, in the way of circumstances, places, people and problems. The trick is to learn to see that... Each of us has no need to wonder about what God's will must be for us; His will for us is clearly revealed in every situation of every day, if only we could learn to view all things as he sees them and sends them to us."

Of course! God's will in the moment! I get it, so this late confession thing is like a test? Right. I got this. I immediately set myself to surrendering my impatience. Cool beans! I surrendered the heck out of it!

Then when my buddy M texted to ask about the movie, I told him it was at 3:00 (he had thought it was 3:30) and I replied I probably wouldn't be able to make it to the movie. I was stuck in confession line. So I wouldn't get to hang out with the guys? I wasn't looking forward to being stuck in the hotel room by myself, or going to see a movie by myself later if I still even wanted to see it, but God's will. Surrender. Got it.

Finally the priest arrived at 2:38. I was out of the church at 2:48 thinking I might just have time to

catch a trike cab to the theater by 3:00. (Trike cabs are the primary transport around here. The small ones are basically a small motorcycle with a covered side car. The large ones are a medium motorcycle with a frame welded around them with a passenger compartment to the right and behind the motorcycle.)

Unfortunately, all the trikes waiting outside the church were the little kind. When I told them I wanted to go to the mall they shook their head and replied in Cebuano, which I do not speak. Something about too small, which I thought was a reference to my size, but I saw an identical trike carrying three Filipinos. No matter how small they are, three of them are bigger than one of me.

Eventually I figured it must be illegal for them to drive on the highway, since I only ever see the big ones on the highway outside our hotel. These guys were little trike drivers, but they cheerfully spent ten minutes trying to flag me down a big trike. When that was to no avail, they suggested I walk back to the corner and try to get one from the other road.

So I headed back to the corner, and then when no trikes would stop there I kept walking. No point in bothering about the movie now. It looked like God wanted me to have some alone time. Maybe I would do some more reading? Maybe journal for a bit? Spend some time in prayer?

Eventually I got picked up an made it back to the hotel so I didn't have to walk the two miles. Which, two miles is nothing, but I was still glad to get a ride. I walked into the library, still trying to accept God's will being me spending the rest of the afternoon by myself. In the elevator I accidentally pressed the 3rd floor button instead of the fifth floor button. That was a slight irritation, because it's an old fashioned elevator and you cannot cancel a floor by pressing the button again, and it takes a long time to slow down and start back up again.

Then the door opened at the third floor and my buddy H was standing there. He stepped into the elevator, and then looked at the number 5 and then at me. "Wait, are you going up?"

"Yep. Are you going down?"

"Yeah. Are you going to the movie?"

"I am pretty sure it started at 3:00."

"M is pretty sure it's at 3:30. That's where I am going now, down to his room. Are you going to come."

"Sure, let me drop off my book and I will meet you down there."

And so it was that all of the delays and frustrations and accidentally pressed wrong buttons served to put me in the exact right place at the right time to meet up with H in the elevator. And it turned out the movie was at 3:40.

God is sometimes obscure, or maybe I am obtuse. I can sometimes see Him in hindsight, but only rarely in the moment. But that was so obvious even I couldn't miss it. He was saying, "I care about everything, even the smallest details. You can trust me with your life."

Community

In January of 2012 I moved from Fort Bragg, North Carolina to Fort Lewis, Washington. I had been living within a 3 1/2 - 5 hour drive from Aunts, Uncles, cousins and grandparents, and now I was going to be three time zones, and three days of driving from anyone I knew or cared about. I wasn't too worried about that, but I knew that I never would have made it through the Q course without that regular presence of family, and I was equally certain I would not make it through my time in Special Forces without an equally strong support system. So I planned on:
1) Joining a Bible Study.
2) Being Active in a Parish
3) Building an active social life
4) Doing charity/volunteer work in my spare time
5) Read more books and start college.

With these goals in mind I set out across the country. I drove for 3 days by myself, doing 16-18 hours behind the wheel each day. I especially loved the Rockies and the high deserts of Wyoming and Eastern Washington, which were wide open, sunny, wild and beautiful. I loved that countryside and just driving through it made me happy, despite the fact that I was sleep deprived like crazy.

Then I hit the green belt. I crossed over Snoqualmie pass and dropped down into western Washington, and the whole world changed. The clouds crashed down in around me, the rain started, the trees and hills rose up on either side of me, the traffic turned thick. Then I hit the Seattle/Tacoma area and the buildings loomed around all gray and gloomy and sad looking, and the traffic was terrible and I was tired and homesick, and right then I was certain that I was going to hate living in Tacoma.

I spent the next week living in a hotel room, doing in-processing stuff on post, and playing World of Warcraft most of my spare time.When you move to a different duty station the Army gives you 10 days of leave free (meaning it doesn't come out of your ordinary 28 days of leave per year) to get settled in. On top of that, however, you have just signed out of your old unit, so while you are technically on their books they aren't keeping track of you. You haven't signed into the new unit yet, so they are not keeping track of you either. It's easy to fall between the cracks for a while and get a lot of free time off. I didn't do that, but there was a snow storm in Tacoma that closed post down for three days, and a four day weekend, so I had a lot of free time. I played a lot of World of Warcraft.

I moved into an apartment and kept playing WOW. Life was still miserable. Then one Monday I looked at myself and realized that I hadn't done any of the things I said I was going to do when I moved to Tacoma. Not one thing on that list was checked off. So I deleted WOW and Googled Catholic young adult groups in the Tacoma area.

It would turn out to be one of the best things I have ever done in my life. I walked into Panera bread at the Tacoma Mall on that Monday night, and met the group of young adults who would become my friends here. It wasn't immediate, or easy, but I built relationships within that group. I had to force myself out of my shell, just like I did the first time, many times over. There is a reluctance to reach out to other people which is pretty common for most people, I think. Even if it is just trying to get a couple of guys together to drink beer and smoke pipes, there is the fear that maybe they won't want to do it. No one likes to get rejected, so it is easier simply not to take that risk. If you have a group of friends that you can depend on, it is easy just to stick with that little group that never lets you down, never challenges you. But that is the way of death. That is how your soul dies, and your ability to love shrivels up.

So I forced myself to reach out, invite people out for coffee, or drinks, create events, host pizza parties, even a couple of dates. And you know what? It is fun! Being in community is fun! Sure there is some friction from time to time. Of course there are competing schedules and sometimes you can't make plans work, and sometimes you don't see so-and-so for weeks because they are just busy (I am usually that guy).  It cramps my style, in some ways, meaning it challenges selfishness. It changes priorities. Things that I used to spend time on (like WOW) I no longer even want to waste my time with. On the whole, however, it is good. It opens my eyes, and stretches my heart, and even fills up holes that I never knew were empty.

Since then I have been in and out of the area, Special Forcing here and there around the world. I was right, I don't much care for Special Forces, and I don't intend to re-enlist. However, through all the vagaries and pointlessness of military life, I have friends here who share the same values. When I come home I have folks I can drink a beer with without worrying that the evening is going to end up at a strip club. I have people I can invite over to pizza parties and serve good quality food and drink, and know that no one is going to end up puking all over the furniture. People I can pray with, or talk about God with.

It makes all the difference.

Change of Plans

Last saturday evening (not the saturday evening that just went by, but the one before it) I was in Front Royal, VA visiting family. Two of my cousins and a bunch of friends decided to go to a swing dance. My cousins had been to one before, at the same place, and said it was a lot of fun: live orchestra, lots of young people and (best part for them) guys who knew how to dance and would ask the girls to dance. This is, apparently, a rarity. Guys wander into ballroom, dragged by their girlfriends, dance an obligatory dance and then, shocked at the sight of people spinning and swinging around the room, wander off to a shadowy corner to stand awkwardly with their hands behind their backs. The two gentlemen who actually know how to dance then have their pick of the bevy of ladies standing in a line along the walls staring wistfully out onto the floor.

Drawn by the promise of dozens (and dozens) of graceful young Fred Astaires, my cousins were able to get a party of five ladies together. Drawn by the fact that these five ladies were going, myself and one other guy decided to go as well.

Unfortunately that was a bit of a disappointment. The half hour lesson at the beginning of the evening taught us exactly three moves, all of which I already knew, and none of which were adequate to maintaining a dance for more than one song. Three moves runs out pretty quickly, and after that Mark Twain's dictum becomes your only life-line, "Just move your feet and keep the conversation good." Although I imagine that worked out better for Mark Twain than it does for the average joe.

Then there was the band. The band itself wasn't so bad. The singer was. If you cast your eye over this photograph to the left, you will see a pink, sparkly creature with a really bad blonde hairdo. She looked and sounded exactly like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Lena Lamont, which got on my nerves after about the first two seconds. Rather a pity, as their selections were great. I like big band music, but what this poor lady did to the music was heartbreaking. Obviously at some point in her life someone told her that she could sing and she started singing with a band. I can imagine the looks the musicians must have given each other, the whispers, "Who is this doll?" "I don't know. She sounds awful, though." "You should probably go tell her that." "Why don't you go tell her? Why do I have to be the bad guy?" "I'm not telling her." "Let's just let her keep going for a bit, maybe she'll get better." And here it is, years and years later, and she is still going and apparently hasn't gotten much better. Or (frightening thought) she has gotten better.

The dancers outside our group were mostly old folks, 60+ years old. Let me tell you, some of them knew their business, especially the men. I plotted a direct correlation between the presence of suspenders and spats and the level of dancing ability. A guy in just slacks and a button up oxford shirt might know a move or two, but most likely he was just fudging his way around the floor. Throw on a bow tie and his skills were likely to improve by about 22%, both in number of moves known, and smoothness of execution. If he was wearing suspenders you could expect moves, smoothness and a little sway in the hips, a touch of spring in the step, some sprightliness in the way he grasped his fair partner's hand. But if he was wearing spats!? Wow. Between dances I stood to one side in my cargo khakis and black polo shirt, and stared in awe at these masteres of style. Someday, when I am sixty and have a totally sweet salt and pepper moustache, I too will wear spats and suspenders and unleash the swing dancing magic!

Unfortunately for the ladies in our party a good number of these fabulous gentlemen were a bit snobby about it, sprinkling cool, condescending compliments or saying things like, "Come on, you can do better than that." My friends were, unfortunately ignorant of the honor being bestowed upon them by such notice, so they decided to leave. And we didn't get our $20 back.

However, it being still early in the evening we had to find another activity. It made no sense to have driven an hour and a half out there for less than an hour of dancing and then turn around and drive back. So a vote was taken and we decided to find a karaoke bar. One of the ladies with a phone that can do things when you talk to it found us a karaoke bar fifteen minutes away that would allow patrons under 21 years old, so we loaded up in the vehicles and headed out. the lady with the intelligent phone was leading the way, but she couldn't find the place. Her phone dropped us right in the middle of a little Korea Town.

As I looked around I thought, "I wonder if this is a noray bong." (That is a really bad transliteration of the Korean word for karaoke, which literally means "Song room".) I looked around the plaza, and sure enough there was a building with the words "Noray Bong" on it in Korean (I took Korean for six months in the Q course). We drove past it once, and the girls got sketched out. We drove past it a second time and they got sketched out even more. One of the girls said, "Wow, this place looks like a really cheap, sleazy strip-joint." And it did.


There was a neon light over the front, and through the windows we could see a counter/bar and a deserted table area. From the front area a psychadelically blue-lit passage led back into a shadowy back area with little doors leading off on either side into individual rooms. The rooms had padded leather benches and mirrors all around the sides, with a table in the center. Oh, and the rooms were rented by the hour. So yes, it did have some resemblance to the sleazy underworld establishments you see on movies and whatnot. The group was about to decide to give it up and find somewhere else to go but I said, "Whoah, guys, this is Korean karaoke. It isn't like American karaoke. In America there is just one karaoke machine in the bar and one person at a time goes up and inflicts his voice upon everyone else. In Korean karaoke the group rents out the room and they go in and sing to each other for as long as they like without bothering or being bothered by anyone else. Plus you can order food and drinks. At least let's go in ask how much it is for an hour." So we did. (The clerks eyes went almost round when I asked him in Korean how much it was an hour.)

It was only fifty dollars an hour, which is not that much divided between seven people. We had some kimbap (kind of like Korean sushi) and some non-alcoholic beverages, and had a good time goofing around with each other. Karaoke is always more fun when you're all friends and everyone can sing pretty well. Although I must say, the group-impromptu-choral arrangement of Bohemian Rhapsody could have been better. It was a good laugh for everyone though. And no alcohol was involved. So a night that looked like it was going to be awesome turned out to be aweseome, but in a way that no one at all had expected.

The moral of this story is that we all sing better than the sequined lady, but she gets paid for it and we don't. But we have more fun with it, I bet, so all in all I would rather be us. Wouldn't you?