Holiday Message–I’m moving to South Dakota!

This went out in email form to a good number of folks, but here it is in the blogosphere…

December 17, 2012

Friends and family,

Happy Holidays!  First and foremost, my sincere apologies for the lack of communication these past four months—ultimately, I can tell you that life has been a unique combination of writer’s block, busy nights, spiritual growth, and building relationships with the many new novices here in St. Paul—these, if any, are my reasons beyond general laziness (which I must forgive myself for).  Even so, I always desire to give more than I do to my loved ones, and none of you are ever far from my thoughts and prayers, particularly during this holiday season. On to the update.

After a busy summer, I returned to St. Paul in August for some big transitions.  Nine men took vows on August 11^th, 2012, and almost immediately left the Twin Cities for their respective studies placements.  For two weeks following their departure, the two of us that remained (along with lots of help from our superiors) prepared for the arrival of 15 new men and the transition into being second-year novices.  These new men have brought tremendous gifts to my life and to the Society, and they all remain on board for their 30-silent retreat in January.

As a second-year novice, I was able to choose where to perform my ministry this fall, and I ended up with two jobs.  My primary work took place at the Ramsey County Jail, where I served as a chaplain.  Three nights a week, I would work my way through locked doors and into the jail interior, where I would meet 1-on-1 with incarcerated men and women.  There were no guards present during these meetings, no microphones for people to listen to our conversations with, and no chains and shackles restraining the inmates; rather, it was a simple cinder-block environment grounded in the discovery of God, grace, forgiveness, and hope.  My job was to sit with them and listen.  Incredible things happened—most notably, I was able to walk with a man through his Confirmation into the Church, which took place at the Jail, and for which I was able to sponsor him.  I am fortunate to have had the experience.  Beyond the jail work, I spent an afternoon a week leading gym classes with a vibrant group of Latino youth.  It was an incredible contrast to the jail (and much needed), and beyond the friendship of the kids, I was able to perfect my Spanish command forms and my dodge ball throwing abilities.  I was always in the thick of things with them, and whether it was teaching them about free throws and layups or spirals and touchdowns, joy was always present.

I’ve done some other really random things. Despite abstaining from meat for the duration of the fall semester, a few of us prepared four different turkeys, two for Thanksgiving (complete with bacon weave overlay) and two for our Advent open house.  Not eating meat was a great practice of self-discipline and intentional living; preparing turkeys was a great experience of community and learning.  Both were well worth it. I was able to volunteer in a few ways beyond my weekly ministry: I spent a night at the St. Peter Claver Homeless Shelter, I did some phone banking against the voter ID amendment in Minnesota, and I offered vocation talks at a local Catholic high school.  I wrote a song which I and a first-year novice (Aaron Pierre) performed at our first annual Novitiate “Art Share.”  It was my first time playing guitar in front of a live crowd, and while I’m not looking to put out an album anytime soon, the experience was truly life giving.  I also rapped and acted at the event. This list of random goodness could go on and on, but for now, I’ll say simply that it has been a great four months—certainly some ups and downs—and I’m anxious for the next big thing. What’s that, you ask?

After a week at home in Green Bay, I’ll head to the Detroit area for a short formation conference and a New Year celebration.  I’ll fly back to St. Paul on January 1^st, spend the 2^nd making some final preparations, and then, on January 3^rd, I’ll take up residence at the Kino Jesuit Community on the Rosebud Indian Reservation in South Dakota.  I’ll spend nearly five months there, offering support to the St. Francis Mission in pastoral and social ministry.  After that’s all said and done (contact information to follow), the novices reunite for an 8-day retreat, a month-long history course in Denver, and then, God willing, my own vows on August 10^th, 2013. From there, I’ll move on to studies in either Chicago, New York, or St. Louis.  I will surely be in touch before any of that is finalized!

This past year-and-a-half has, despite plenty of time for prayer and reflection, moved more quickly than I could have ever imagined. I pray that we all take time to slow down and give thanks for the good gifts around us this holiday season.  Until we meet again, much love.

Posts that never were…

I put a fair amount of pressure on myself to write on a regular basis, and although my production output for “What’s up with Eric” has waned a bit over the past six months, I feel the need to share that it hasn’t been without the desire and reasonable effort to be productive and write at least once a week.  The reality is that everything doesn’t come to fruition; indeed, as Robert Frost writes, “Nothing gold can stay…”

So, in the spirit of sharing what hasn’t quite been, I thought it might be worth putting snippets of various fail-posts from the past two weeks out there, in hopes that I might come to conclude some of these beginnings. Bear with me—they’re incomplete attempts.

First, from a post I began writing on how friends can come into our lives and leave forever—indeed, there are people whom I love deeply that I will never see again:

“I must admit, I’m nervous about this one.  It boils down to the fact that I want to write about two people whom I don’t know very well (now, or ever), but who have made a tremendous impact in my life over the past few months; at some point, they might actually see what I write. The fact that their reading and treatment of these words makes me nervous is indicative of one truth about love for me: it (love, that is) is a sneaky little hellion. 

As a novice, I have a lot of time to spin the B-sides of my life, and listen deep for the lingering notes and melodies that have composed the person I am today.  I’ll abandon that music metaphor now.  But seriously—I pray for two hours a day, at least one of which is silent, personal prayer focused on simply remaining in the presence of God. The mind wanders thousands of miles in that time, and it’s incredible what I stumble upon.  That’s totally ok.”

Second, something I tried to put together just after the recent elections:

“When it comes to big, serious elections (decisions), I flutter, I falter, I’m fickle, flustered, and easily frustrated. I flirted with a vocation to the Society for nearly eight years before actually moving forward. I am not a good election-maker, and I never have been. 

To say that is in some ways to downplay the realities of everyday life, which require diligence and intentionality in decision making all the time.  I have not taken into account my various forms of privilege (white and male, to name two), and what that means regarding the opportunities I have in the first place.  I have not taken into account the fantastic guides I have always had access to (mom, dad, friends, teachers, bosses, spiritual directors), and the ways in which their experiences influence and inspire me.  I am not admitting my complete ignorance in certain areas (growing up, I was incredibly active, and never thought about health; in college, I wasn’t active at all, and I’ll tell you what happens when you drink tons of beer and eat buffalo chicken sandwiches and fries all the time—270 lbs. and a sweating problem, that’s what happens), and how decisions don’t come in those areas until crisis settles in.”

Third, this comes from from something just this week that I can’t seem to tie together regarding my life experience versus the experiences of the inmates I visit at the Ramsey County Jail:

“Today hasn’t been so great for me.  In my efforts to wake up early, I still struggle to get to bed at a reasonable hour, and so for the second time in my novitiate life, I was a few minutes late to Mass this morning, slipping into the back pew during the Penitential Rite, wearing wrinkled corduroys, flip flops, and a flannel shirt with no undershirt beneath it. I hat4e being late, but there’s time to shower afterward.  The alarm just didn’t work today. Someone bought doughnuts to celebrate the back-to-back Feasts of Saints Stanislaus Kostka and Joseph Pignatelli, two heroes of the Society of Jesus, so after Mass, I down two of them, paired with a strong cup of fair-trade organic coffee and just a tickle of organic half and half.  I shower, dress, and get out the door with eight of my novice brothers for our biweekly trip to Spanish class at Mercado Central.  On the way home, we get a flat tire (a slow leak), and have a guy at Tires Plus fill us up for the remainder of the drive. Then, Brian, Dan, and I head out for the midweek shopping run, which is simple—some Bengal Spice Tea, a few bunches of bananas, some lunch meat and cheese, a little spinach.  We try again with the self-checkout, but something goes wrong, and we wait patiently for the attendant, Jason, to get us moving.  Upon return to the novitiate, I make up a wrap with a veggie burger, some cheddar, spinach, red onion, a dollop of hummus, some ranch, and a little hot sauce.  When I’m done eating, I spend about 15 minutes cleaning up the lunch goods, and see a frying pan out on the stovetop, used, but not washed and put away.  This happens all the time, and it’s annoying.  Can you feel my frustration?  Can you see why Wednesday, November 14, 2012, hasn’t been so great? It’s not even 1:00 PM yet.

For the sake of the other, I’ll call him “Joe.”  Joe is an inmate at the Ramsey County Jail. He woke up today at 4:30 AM by the immediately blinding lights of the jail, turned on unceremoniously by the night CO.  Through a slot in his cell door, he got a breakfast (the same breakfast every day) of a little cereal with milk, a tiny bit of cake, and some orange juice.  Then, he goes back to bed, with nothing much to do until he’s let out around 10:00 AM for some free time.  I don’t know exactly what else fills his day, other than a modest lunch, banter with other inmates, a little reading maybe, an equally modest dinner (which, according to him, is terrible and not at all filling), and a little more time out of his cell.  He might see his lawyer or a chaplain, get a visit from family (via a phone and video screen), play a game of chess or dominoes, and read / write a letter.   He might scrounge up some cash to buy a soda or a honeybun, but usually, there isn’t a good reason or resources to even consider it. All in all, he’s locked down for 18 hours and out of his cell for six.  In the back of his mind, thoughts of addiction, broken family, shame, worthlessness, even suicide, linger. He anxiously awaits his release or move from jail to prison. Generally speaking, he is happy and filled with the love of God.”

Lastly, something about love and community living:

“Near the computer rooms in our Novitiate, there is a statue of St. Stanislaus Kostka, the patron of all Jesuit novices. His feast was yesterday, and it was a celebration. On a three foot pedestal, he stands carved from maple-stained wood, with the Christ child in his arms and a full set of rosary beads dangling from the cincture around his waist.  And, at his feet rest a smattering of coffee mugs, cans, and water glasses, abandoned by various novices throughout the day in honor of the house norm which calls us to leave any food or beverage outside the lab.  These beverage containers go forgotten until someone takes the initiative to tidy Stanislaus up a bit. 

This type of forgetfulness (at times) sullies the novitiate community—papers and books scattered on various end tables, clothing forgotten in washers and dryers, copies made and overlooked on fresh paper near the Xerox Machines, candles left lit in the chapel, failure to remember tasks assigned to individuals like setting the tables for dinner or cantoring Mass, talking loudly on the second floor of the novitiate (which is designated as silent), missing car keys, missing YMCA passes, empty toilet paper rolls, missing shampoo bottles and toothpaste tubes, and on and on and on and on and on…living in community with 19 other people is simultaneously an act of total intentionality and immense patience.”

What to do with all these words?  Perhaps a line from a famous prayer: “We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker. We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.”

When I sit down at the keyboard and try to write something, it’s because I’m seeking a truth.  It could be, though, that that truth, usually rooted somewhere in my desire to be a more loving, prayerful, and competent man, isn’t quite ready to reveal itself yet.  And, as is the mystery of the tension we are called to live within, I might learn to let it go.  When the time is right, the truth will instead find me. 

The perks of seeing a movie twice in two days…

A  note before diving in.  First, you might notice the new look to the blog.  Have you ever had the experience of feeling a bit stale about something, only to make a simple change, and reinvigorate yourself completely?  That’s the need for a new theme on WUWE.  I’m still tweaking it, but know that I’m diving back in bit by bit.  As an aside, I’ve had a similar experience with handwriting lately (just not that much fun with your standard Bic Round Stic anymore), so I went to Dixon Ticonderoga #2 pencils the other day, and it’s a whole new world.  Erasing! Sharpening! Wow! Moving on.

Until recently, the last time I can recall paying to see a movie on consecutive nights was just before I moved away from Green Bay to attend college.  As it goes, the pool of high school friends dwindled while the last days of summer crumbled around us, and at the end of it all, we were nearly out of parties to go to, flings to explore, and goodbyes to offer one another just before the plunge into true freedom.  There are memorable moments in those last days—drinking my first (and only, prior to age 21) beer with Andrew, his mother, Mike, and Katie; spending an evening talking about hopes and dreams and fears at the docks behind the Four Seasons Tennis Club just north of De Pere on Riverside Drive; one last shift at the Applebee’s East store with my long-lost friend Katie Rose.  Nothing during that time, though, sticks out for me like paying to see “The Princess Diaries” in the theater. THREE times.  My friend Paul Kellner was there with me. TPD is not a fantastic movie, and for all intents and purposes, not worth paying for at all, let alone three times. I remember very little of the actual content, though now, I’m sure I’ve seen it five times or more. There was simply little else to do.  Or, maybe I had fallen in love with Anne Hathaway (of Love and Other Drugs and The Dark Knight Rises, among others) in her breakout role.  While I don’t recall exactly the reason, let’s just say I’m really excited to see the film production of Les Misérables, and it’s not (although a profound and seminal work) entirely for the story.

A few Sundays ago, a group of us went to see “The Perks of Being a Wallflower,” which for me was more about supporting Emma Watson (Hermione Granger from the Harry Potter movies) than about the story. At first glance, the film seemed to be another typical coming-of-age tale set during high school, and we’ve had plenty of those over the years. But, after my first viewing, I was back at the theater the next day for the same show.  When you live on $75 of expendable income a month, spending money on it twice has to mean something. There are three reasons. Note that I have no intention of utilizing “spoilers” here to make my case.

First, much like the way a great song can, the movie left me with a feeling that I wanted to retain, and a sense that there was much more I could find in the experience of it.  For those of us who have made retreats, I could relate this feeling to the “retreat high;” that sense of clarity and conviction we feel on the last day of a powerful spiritual experience, and that fire and passion we desperately seek to retain.  I had that feeling upon completion of the Spiritual Exercises, which is shocking, considering that I (a known talker) was rounding out a full 30 days of near-silence.  Seeing the movie again so quickly made the characters, the plot, the writing, the symbolism, the tension, and the resolution a deeper part of my own story.

Second, it created in me a desire to reignite and recommit to the profound friendships that I have created in the course of my life.  There is a scene in the movie when Emma Watson’s character returns home for a visit after beginning college, and the dynamic between the friends in the movie was palpable for me; I am, in some ways, built and sustained on those moments of long-awaited reunion between friends.  In moving forward with life, we sometimes move away from loved ones in time, space, and emotion.  A chance to capture old feelings, memories, and relationships is something I revel in, and something that keeps my intense affinity for regret at bay, transforming it from an act of dwelling in the past to a deep desire for recollection of powerful moments (good, bad, or ugly) as I keep pushing through. 

Lastly, it reminded me of Jesus.  It’s easy for me to say that in a certain sense, because I live as a Jesuit novice, and I’m grounded in prayer and the Eucharist now more than ever before in my life.  But, in a deeper sense, I saw Jesus in the characters of the movie because the characters in the movie each experience suffering in some way.  They all struggle.  The movie beautifully depicts that suffering and that struggle as not only a part of the high school experience, but as a part of the human experience.  I left the theater with the profound sense that I could relate to the characters because I felt the same things in high school—love lost, rejection, crisis of identity, extreme self-consciousness, and so on.  But beyond that, I left with a deep connection to the characters, because despite the fact that their lives existed in a fictional world and mine is real, despite the fact that they are teenagers and I’m 30 (dang), despite the fact that I have not experienced the exact same things in my own life, my own suffering and struggle is common to their lives here and now.  I didn’t just relate to them as a former teenager—I relate to them as a 30-year old seminarian. I certainly wasn’t there when Jesus felt those nails drive into his hands and feet, and yet, I am able to experience the suffering of Christ.  Every high school kid in America might not explicitly understand my life and its challenges, but they know challenge, and they know hardship.  Same goes for the inmates I visit at the Ramsey County Jail, and the kids I play dodgeball and kickball with on Thursday afternoon, and the people experiencing homelessness that stop by the novitiate to chat, and everyone else who, at first glance, is nothing like me.  I cannot feel everything they feel, but I can feel for them, and I can understand that suffering, in whatever form it takes, is a universal experience. 

My friend Patrick Wessel passed away a few years ago, and though he was much too young, he left a tremendous legacy in peoples’ lives.  At the end of his eulogy, Patrick’s brother quoted a speech Patrick made at his high school graduation: “Where we come from holds us captive, and that is something we cannot forget.  But while you journey on, let your happiness, hardship, and youth reclaim us again and again…”  So, I want to do that.  I want what happened to me years ago reclaim the man I am today.  I want my happiness, hardship, and youth forever etched into my being, such that I never really feel like I’ve moved on, but rather, moved deeper and deeper into what it means to live with others—to struggle with, and suffer with, and get better with the other at my side. 

There might be a different way to say it, but that’s what I got from my little double feature.  It’s a good movie.

 

PS–thanks, finally, to Jenny, for helping me to always remember what Patrick said.

We R Who We R…

After a series of interesting events on Saturday night, I sat with a few novices and my good friend Lucas at a bar 15 minutes by car from the novitiate.  We were there on a promise to the bar owner, whom we met earlier in the evening watching Iowa get trounced by Penn State.  She said that if we came out to see her that night, she would treat us to a brew. As life at the novitiate goes, we typically take people up on offers like that.  There was karaoke, too.

Upon arrival, the truly local bar (which is 15 minutes from the novitiate) was more empty than not, a few regulars enjoying low-rent beer and karaoke classics.  I started with “Brandy” by Looking Glass, and before long, we were on a first-name basis with our waitress.  At one point, she and I were on the back patio indulging in a “few beers on a Saturday night” bad habit, and I asked her, “What’s your story?” In a few of her own words, I had it—single and raising two kids with support from her parents and the kids’ father (who, despite things not working out, was a really decent man); a former culinary arts student who, after jockeying for a good job in the private school sector, found the service industry higher-paying and less stressful; a Lutheran who sought a little more compassion and forgiveness in the world.  She was a good person.  I was glad to know her. Eventually, she turned my question back on me, and, given her own honesty and vulnerability, I was prompted to respond with equal depth.

There is a continually unfolding process within the novitiate and beyond which pits some young Jesuits against a mild discomfort in breaching the topic of our “religiousness.”  As soon as someone wants to know our story, we bridge a gap between appearing “normal” and telling new friends from the get go who we are and what we do.  There were five of us at this bar; four of us were novices in the Society.  And while (I have to admit) I come across people whom I’d rather not share my desire to be a priest with, it is who I am right now.  And so, I told her just that. 

Without any major concern, I continued my evening in sharing beers with friend and singing my heart out, sometimes mic in hand, sometimes from my seat in support of others offering their very best renditions of karaoke classics.  It did, however, spread around the bar that we, these men who came out of nowhere, were seminarians (though not all of us actually were), and as a result, it became a central piece of the rest of our evening, with people dedicating songs to us, people referring to us as “Father What-a-wastes,” people refusing to believe that our claim was true at all, and the like.  This interaction with others led to confused responses from our group.  Do we let them believe we’re lying?  Do we encourage them to forget that some of us want to be priests and just treat us like any other patrons? Do we attempt to explain, amidst the revelry of it all, why we would do this with our lives?  Do we simply carry on with the truth on the table, despite the potential discomfort and criticism we faced?  There isn’t an easy answer in queue. 

In our postmodern, individualistic society, I often find myself deeply afraid of labels.  My life as a novice brings this forward all the time.  When I enter the Ramsey County Jail, for example, I’m wearing a Roman collar, which is an immediate invitation to openness and honesty for some, but skepticism and anger from others.  I needn’t mention scandal in our Church today, but, there it is. When I say that I’m voting for either Romney or Obama, the labels undoubtedly follow—conservative, liberal, republican, democrat, rich, poor—some of which might be accurate, but mostly not to a full extent.  My priest shirt or my voting record indicates only in part who I am, and how the outside world views me.  This labeling goes even further into the depths of one’s own self.  I have recently been going through a period of unproductiveness, and it helps to name what’s going on—lazy, or confused, or depressed, for example (it’s lazy right now).  I think that I might be afraid of labels because they seem limiting, and they uncover tough truths about who I am and what I do.  But, at some point, things have to get real.

We are free to own whatever label we or others give—parent, spouse, sibling, friend, priest (or wannabe), optimistic, pessimistic, happy, sad, angry, faithful, doubtful, fearful, anxious, underwhelmed, underworked, curious, questioning, or just plain bored. It is in that ownership that we unlock our way of proceeding.  It might not be true clarity, but it clears the air bit by bit.

My hope is that we can accept who we are.  My desire is that I can look deeply inward and admit that right here and right now, this (whatever “this” is) is what I am.  My prayer is that in knowing myself a little more each day, I can see every label, truly everything that I am, as an opportunity and a beginning.  Admitting what and who I am is not limitation and an end, but liberation and a means to go further still into unlocking the incredible gift that is my life. 

I am Eric—a karaoke singing, worrying, thought-full, at-the-moment-lazy-and-needs-to-file-his-papers-dammit, afraid of the dark, Jesus loving, tired, balding Jesuit novice.  This Eric, labeled and uncovered will today set the pace for what will come tomorrow and beyond. 

Thanks to that waitress for knowing herself first.  The things one finds in a karaoke bar…

A post to get me back in the swing of things…

Certainly not my best work, but something…

Two facts to begin:

1. I voluntarily woke up at 5:00 AM today.
2. My friend John called me three weeks ago, and I didn’t call him back until one week ago.

Every Jesuit novice in our house spends around 12 hours a week in ministry.  For first-year novices, that ministry entails working at a school or other educational institution, as well as serving a primarily Spanish-speaking community in catechesis, ELL (English Language Learning), or youth group support.  Last fall, I worked at St. Pascal Baylon School, and I also tutored a woman named Evangelina in perfecting her second language.  The novice directors chose these opportunities for me, and I don’t think it could have worked out any better. They were both powerful experiences, and in many ways, provided the milieu for my happiness, my comfort, and my (continuing) transformation as a man of religious life.

In the fall of the second year, novices face the prospect of choosing their own ministry, and in reality, there are very few limitations.  From work with people experiencing homelessness to community organizing around the significant issue of human trafficking in Minnesota, I had opportunities across the board, and when given the chance to be creative, I tend to run pretty far with things.  The questions I typically ask when committing to something: What are my strengths in this work?  What can I contribute?  What can I change for the better?  How can I make others feel good?  How can I make myself feel good?  How can I make myself look good?  What will take time and energy, but still be easy and joyful?  What will be fun?  These, my friends, were ultimately the wrong questions.  When moving more and more deeply into the call to ministry this fall, the questions in choosing made a significant shift:  What makes me uncomfortable?  What haven’t I seen and done before?  What has deeply impacted novices before? Where is there a significant need?  What will help me take ownership my desire to serve the Church as a public minister?  And so, I decided on jail chaplaincy.

Three nights a week, I enter the Ramsey County Jail to attend to a list of around 60 inmates seeking spiritual guidance.  I, along with 6 other chaplains, make rounds with very little restriction as to where I can go, what I can say, and what I can give the people I speak with.  I wear clerics (my priest shirt), gain access to certain areas of the facility, and with the help of the Corrections Officers (CO’s), move from pod to pod, offering spiritual support to men and women who face trial and sentencing for crimes they have been accused of committing, from petty theft and drug charges to domestic abuse and murder.  I sit across from unchained and unguarded individuals in a cinder block room with access to a privacy switch, and I listen to whatever they have to say.  I honestly don’t say (and don’t have to say) too much in response.  I pray with them, and promise to keep praying for them when we part ways.  I try to help them feel the freedom that God desires for all of us, despite the limitations we face in our lives. It is, needless to say, really intense at times.  It is also heartbreaking, deeply hopeful, incredibly raw, and truly rewarding work.  But, it’s still a little shocking to think that I’ve traded smiles, laughs, hugs, and conversations about Justin Bieber and One Direction (at the school last fall, and things I understand) for conversations about why I believe God exists, why bad things happen to good people, and why forgiveness can tear people apart (things that remain a mystery).  I am constantly reeling.

The other night, after a particularly trying experience at the jail, I looked into my room mirror, in full priest gear, and I felt very much alone and restricted.  The clerical shirt is, after all, an outward sign of my inward commitment to God, and although it is a powerful experience to wear it in ministry. Truly, there might not be a quicker way than wearing clerics to feel the knowing eyes of others regarding the kinds of sacrifices I’m making to be a Jesuit.  Clerics are also remarkably uncomfortable—after all, it isn’t quite like a tie—it’s more like a hard and harsh piece of plastic raked across my throat, wedged into a wrinkle-prone, not particularly soft or well-made poly-cotton blend dress shirt.  Locking eyes with myself, I loosened the collar in relief and let out a sweet, deep breath, grounded in both the reality that I was away from the jail, and free of my swag. Practically speaking, because clerical shirts are usually black and cover from the neck down, there is no need to worry about the kind of undershirt I’m wearing. As I continued to unbutton my shirt, I realized that I was wearing my favorite t-shirt—a heather green organic cotton ditty emblazoned with the words, “John Hillebrandt smells like cabbage.” There’s also a little cabbage decal on it.  It is the only shirt of its kind in the world, created and crafted through a custom-design t-shirt website, and despite the reasons I had it made years ago, it now serves as a nostalgic reminder of John, and of how important he is to me. Immediately, my spirits were lifted, and although I was struggling to process my time at the jail that evening, I had a lock on something that will always make me better—not the shirt, per se, but the man and the concept of friendship behind it.  In that moment, the jail became easier, because although it presents significant challenges to me, I know that it is simply another piece of my own experience—one as dynamic and authentic as a custom t-shirt. It is all a part of shared reality.

I realize that the transition here might not be terribly smooth, but the link between jail ministry and being reminded of friends is clear to me.  They both push me more deeply into living an “all-in” kind of life.  So often, I feel I’ve gotten further and further away from simple truths and desires, only to paralyze myself from honoring those truths and desires.  I want to be at that jail despite how hard it can be, but I’m not the one behind bars, so it is ok for me to feel so challenged by it?  I want to get up early in the morning to enjoy coffee and prayer, but I have to drag myself out of bed.  I want to be in better touch with my friends, but I wait a little too long to make that call, and before I know it, I’ve closed the door on myself, even though the person on the other end (thank God) still wants me in their life (and, I know I want them in mine).  I don’t blog for a few months (even though I truly love it) because yes—I’m busy helping nine men take vows and move on from the novitiate, I’m helping welcome and support 15 (yes, 15) new novices to the Society, I’m constantly writing homilies and reflections for the immediate community, and I’m learning how to be in one place again after eight damn months of living on the road—but no, because I don’t make the time. Yet, only I perpetuate the feelings of loneliness and restriction.  The world—indeed, God—gives me hundreds of ways out of it; I simply need to take them.  As Ben Lee says, “Awake is the new sleep, so wake up and do it, whatever it is.”  My desires are clear.  But, those desires must lead to decisions.  I will stumble again, but waking up at 5:00 AM to write even once is a start, and calling my friend John is never a bad decision.

Now is the time.  More to come.

A different kind of decade…

Usually, when I meet someone who is crafty, I want one of their crafted items, and I ask for one.  It’s often an indulgence, and well beyond my needs, but I enjoy having these things as a reminder of good people I meet along the way.  The most recent instance I can recall was the gift of a scarf from a Jesuit novice at the east coast novitiate.  Sal and I were on long retreat together, and during the evening hours while I or another novice tended a roaring fire, he would sit close to the blaze and knit beautiful scarves.  Naturally, I told him that I would love a scarf, and in return, I received a massive rust-colored scarf made from hand-dyed Peruvian wool.  In his note gifting it to me, he called in “Bear Hug,” and I’m telling you, if there was a scarf knit specifically for Antarctica, this is it.

When I studied Saint Louis University, I had a good friend named James Meinert. We were involved in various campus organizations together, we helped lead summer orientation together, and we spent countless hours at the front desk of the Busch Student Center.  He even made a few appearances in the “Eric Immel Dance Hour.”  We ran in different groups for the most part, but James was a go-to for me during college, and an incredibly talented, passionate guy.

James was also a crafty guy, and among other things, he made rosaries.  One day, I asked if he’d make me one, and after deciding that green was a good color, he set to work.  The rosary he made for me that day was the only rosary I prayed with for nearly 10 years.[1]  I prayed gratitudes[2] and the rosary prayers with it countless times. It was very simple—a long, thin cord of colored string tied over and over again with stopper knots to make the necessary beads of each decade, as well as the cross and beginning beads. The cord was melted just slightly with a match in two places to secure the whole thing together.  I loved it. 

I only recently made a switch from James’s handiwork. During my time in Boise on pilgrimage, I met a kid named Joey who made rosaries, and after he and his mother found me on my way out of town to present me with one of Joey’s creations, I felt it was time for a swap.  We talk a lot about detachment in the Jesuits, and it seemed that the time had come to allow my beloved rosary to accompany someone else. But, after a few goes with the new beads, I realized that while praying the rosary doesn’t require the object of a rosary at all, much of my comfort and peace with the prayer was gone with the old rope outfit James made for me.  It’s no knock on Joey’s work—the rosary he made is beautiful.  But still, it just hasn’t been the same. So I’ve been looking for a functional replacement.

Yesterday, we took a tour of el Centro Muchacho Trabajador, or the Working Boys’ Center, in Quito.  There, young boys and girls who work to assist their families financially receive an education, technical skills, financial support, and a safe place.  Among other areas of work (sewing skills, carpentry, car mechanic work, baking), they learn to make and sell various craft and artisan goods.  Sure enough, when I peered into a case displaying the work of poor boys and girls, I spotted a rosary much like the one James made for me, and just by looking at it, I knew that it would fill the void I had been missing since Boise.  It is made from a multi-colored cord unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I was told that a girl of 10 made it, and that during the mornings three days a week, she sells caramels to help her family.

Last night, after our tour, the Ecuadorian novices and a few of the American novices decided to pray vespers and say a rosary in Spanish.  It was the perfect chance to break in the new beads.  The first four decades went as smoothly as they could (what with me struggling to say the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Glory Be in Spanish), but as we made the turn on the last decade, I realized that my rosary wasn’t complete—the last decade (traditionally with ten knots) was one short, and I was left with nine prayers to Mary. 

Imagine a young girl learning to make rosaries with the help of a non-profit Jesuit social apostolate, who has been working since the age of six to make some money so her family can eat.  Imagine that as she learns to make rosaries, she’s also learning how to count, how to read, how to write, and how to hope that life can be better.   Imagine that she’s made fifteen rosaries already in a day, and while tying the last one, she counted one short, 49 of 50, but didn’t notice, and put it on sale for $2.00 anyway.  That is what I bought yesterday. 

Every time I use my new rosary, I will not only think of James and Joey, I’ll also think of the nameless, faceless girl who tied it together for me.  Every time I get to the place where that last bead should be, I’ll be reminded of the beauty and struggle of imperfection, in work, in prayer, in life.  When I see it lying on my nightstand back at the novitiate in the US, I’ll remember the place it came from, Ecuador, with all its dichotomies: roads leading up to 18,000 ft. snow-capped Cotopaxi lined with trash from peoples’ cars, a hard-working and proud people who start everything an hour and a half late, a rosary that costs $2.00 (which is not cheap here) which doesn’t quite match the traditional style and rigidity in prayer of a people dedicated to their faith.

It doesn’t matter that there are 49 beads in five decades.  It doesn’t matter that there are beads at all.  My prayer isn’t rooted in repetition—it’s rooted in relationship.  The weight and feel of a rosary in my hands is simply a catalyst for the weight and feel of God in my life, and how God gives me thousands of ways to know more deeply the divine presence. God, like Sal, James, Joey, and my mystery rosary maker, is very crafty in that way. Whether through gifts from friends, stories of the poor, the realization of my failings and flaws, letting go, rediscovery, or simple prayer, I know that God desires to be with me.  Something as simple as a rosary can take me back through the prayers of my past, keep me rooted in relationship with that God, and in turn, with those who bring me closer to God. Wherever I am in the world, and whatever bead I am on, all I really need is the comfort of God and those whom I love saying, “I am right here.” Gloria a Dios por eso.

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[1] I have had in my possession a few other rosaries in my time, but they have served as reminders of those who gave them to me, and not as aides for praying the rosary specifically.  For example, the rosary that Ryan Ricke, a Creighton student, gave me on one of my last days at the University.  It and others are very special to me as well.

[2] “Gratitudes” are a type of rosary prayer I learned in Mark Chmiel’s book “The Book of Mev.” Instead of the formal repetitious prayer of a traditional rosary, Mev suggests that sometimes, we simply move with each bead, offering prayers for something we are grateful for at each stop.  It’s excellent, and a great practice in Ignatian spirituality (I think).

Old Man Immel…

This is a bit generic and sentimental, but I felt compelled to share. Today is my 30^th birthday, and so far I’ve spent it with 14 Jesuits, a team of dedicated social service providers at the Working Boys’ Center, and about 300 of the poorest children in Quito, all of whom work 20 hours a week (starting at the age of 6) to help provide for their families.  They shine shoes, sell candy, sell newspapers, all the while going to school learning vocational trades, and readying themselves for a better life, which comes in small ways every day.  So far, it’s been a heck of a birthday.  I even got a run in which, at 9300 feet above sea level, left me winded and happy. Tonight, it will be pizza and beers with the community, and the day marking 30 years of my life will have come and gone. Not bad at all. But, what am I supposed to notice about 30?

I could look at turning 30 holistically—it’s the birthday in my generation that makes young people finally feel old, and it’s the birthday that marks the difference between being on time and late in getting started with life. At least, that’s been my experience with what culture throws at me regarding 30. I’m not even close to being a kid anymore (though I still feel very youthful), and now more than ever, I need to put my big boy pants on.  It’s hard to admit that life got so far beyond childhood, and that lots of experiences are over.  But, that’s a small part of growing older.

I could also look at 30 as the end of my 20’s, which were some of the best and most influential years of my life.  Ninety percent of the big mistakes I’ve made took place during my 20’s, including over-intoxication, addiction, unpaid bills, losing touch with friends and family, the general deceit and struggle of unhealthy relationships, and so on. I received a few degrees.  I fell in and out of love, and back in love a time or two.  I got pretty chubby, and then pretty strong, and then skinny, and then strong again, and now, a little chubby.  I rode a bike across the US (I haven’t forgotten, Wadas). I got my first real job.  I watched my parents retire and settle into an even more amazing life together.  I watched my brother and sister marry the loves of their lives. I saw the same thing with most of my best friends, and now, they’ve got kids and dogs and homes…and, among many, many other things I could list, I finally joined the Jesuits. Good things, and experiential things.

I could look at the next 10 years, which will be spent in Jesuit formation (if I can make it through). Better not to worry about all that just yet.  I need to survive Ecuador first.  On Thursday, we’ll hike to 18,000 feet…for fun.

I’ve looked briefly through all those lenses to see where my heart rests on this special day, but interestingly, two things have dominated my mind more than anything: my friend Amy King, and the “Jesus Years.”

The short story of Amy King is that she was a friend of mine (beloved by many others, as well) who died from bacterial meningitis while studying abroad during our sophomore year in college.  It remains one of the most memorable and challenging time periods of my life.  I have little to no contact now with the people whom I most closely walked with during that time, but they still come up often in my mind and prayer, and Amy remains especially close to my heart, even nine years after her death.  I remember a conversation with my friend Dave after she died about how she never turned 21 years old, and what a tragedy that was.  She would never have that first epic night out with her real ID, she wouldn’t wear a funny tiara out to Humphrey’s, she’d never have a shot book with her girlfriends. Today, I’m struck by the fact that she never turned 30.  She never finished her degree, saw her siblings on their graduation days, never got her first real job, never met the love of her life, never had her first kid, and never dealt with the strange and sweet emotion of her own 30^th birthday. I understand that this is a little morose, but with the potential emotional disaster that turning 30 can bring, I’m struck especially today at how lucky I am to be here. To be anywhere, really. How good the people I’ve crossed paths with have been.  How good all my days, even the bad ones, have been.  How now, more than ever, the fact that I am still here means something big, and that I need to do good things in my 30’s and beyond.  And, how quickly it might end. For Amy, and for all the others I know who left us here a bit too soon, I am ready to give the next chunk of time to bringing good love into the world. Which leads me to the “Jesus Years.”

Until joining the Jesuits, I hadn’t heard that the years between 30 and 33 are known as your “Jesus Years.”  It makes sense; we say that Jesus started his public ministry at 30, and died when he was 33.  Jesus did a lot in that time—he healed thousands, fed thousands, taught thousands, and ultimately, confirmed that God loves us enough to become human, suffer, die, rise from the dead, and give us the gift of eternal life.  Yes! As I give my life more and more to Jesus and the Jesuits, I know that these years are a special time to grow into the man I still desire to be, and walk intimately with my friend Jesus through it all.  More than anything, these years are a jump start to being for and with others and getting my hands on anything and everything I can to do good for the people I love.

It’s a good day.  I’m in Ecuador. I’m a Jesuit novice. I’m 30.  And that’s not bad. That’s actually pretty damn good. At the end of the day, I feel like turning 30 is just another reminder to be grateful and keep trying. If I had any resolutions, goals, or schemes for the beginning of my fourth decade, they’d be trumped by that. 

Big ups to Stephen Wolf and Bob Hillebrandt, my birthday buddies.  Thanks for indulging a balding, old(er) man. More on Ecuador soon.

 

* Not intentionally, I started my day with a POP music mix while gazing out over the Andes just outside Quito.  First, Colin Hay’s “Waiting for My Real Life to Begin,” which was a clear message for reinvention, patience, faith, and openness.  Second, Jessie J’s “Domino,” (which is still better than Carly Rae), setting me up to remember that fun is an essential part of my life and work.  Third, Sugarland’s “Stand Up,” which will keep me focused on strength, perseverance, and the all-encompassing power of love.  Fourth, Ben Harper’s “Blessed to Be a Witness,” because I am. God I love pop music and its powerful messages.

Swing and a miss…

Ecuador is great.  In my first week here, I ate liver, stomach, and intestine, all of it delicious.  I have discovered the joys of Pilsener and Club, the local domestic brews, which they serve regularly in giant bottles. I have played tons of fútbol and Frisbee with the local niños and niñas, subsequently sweating profusely nearly all the time. I have misspoken dozens of times, including an inappropriate use of the word huevos, and a mispronunciation of the word for potatoes (papas), making a number of people think that I love eating fathers (papás) for dinner. Note the accent.  I am doing my very best to savor every moment here, and for the most part succeed, despite some tough challenges regarding work and language, some truly disheartening poverty, and the occasional bout with any number of stomach bugs and parasites.  Yet, something lingers that isn’t quite comfortable.  I think I know what it is.

It lingered in my mind when June 30^th and July 4^th came and went. Because I’m in Guayaquil,  I missed out on two of the most important days of 2012 for me, one being the wedding of my great friends Matt and Jenni (a once in a lifetime occasion) and the other, the annual Lutsey 4^th of July party (damn near the best day of the year every year).  I was really sad not to be there. True, a photograph of me circulated around  the wedding (and went with Matt and Jenni on their Honeymoon), and an email from me was read aloud at a Door County dinner the week of the 4^th, but I still felt very far away.  

It came up the other day when I discovered a friend request from an old friend, Katie Rose, after checking my University of Wisconsin Facebook account for the first time in nearly six months. I happily accepted it. Katie and I worked at the East Side Applebee’s together years ago, and were named co-employees of the month in November of 1999.  We were a good team. I still have the plaque somewhere in a drawer in Green Bay, and I’d be willing to bet our names still hang in the foyer of that store on Mason St.  I haven’t talked to Katie in a long time.

It has revealed itself dozens of times over the past month (and, in many ways, beyond). When I saw my old grade and high school classmate Brian Borley’s parents at Mass before leaving Green Bay a month ago. When I realized that many of the students I worked with for three years at Creighton graduated in May, and I did virtually nothing to offer my congratulations or to find out what their post-college emails were, because I was out on pilgrimage at the time.  When I thought about that girl from college that I never did kiss, but always thought I should have. When I think of how much fun the College World Series is with Lucas and Mandi. When I see hundreds of mutt dogs digging through trash on the streets of Monte Sinaí, and wonder how Bullet and Scout and Lucy and Maggie (my favorite dogs) are doing, and how John’s yard looks this summer, and how Michael’s mastering his Green Egg, and how Andrew is helping raise chickens now, and how their sons Peter, Paul, and Henry are growing, and how their wives are enjoying motherhood. When I think about how my brother and sister are married, and I don’t really know when I’ll see them again.  When I hear the song Bossy by Kelis on an alimentador in Guayaquil, and realize that Jenny is engaged, and I’ve never met the guy (who is stupendous, I’m sure, and also very lucky).  When I catch wind that a friend put together a new set of drawers for her house by herself, even though the instructions say that it takes two people to do it…

It is this—I miss so much. I can guarantee that I miss everyone who reads this.  I’d go so far as to say that I have thought about, and as such miss, nearly everyone I’ve had a close relationship with over the span of my nearly 30 years…especially in the past two and a half weeks halfway around the world.  I am not anxious to leave Ecuador.  It is beautiful and inspiring. I am not lamenting on how I turn 30 in a week.  I am already bald, and feel that it’s ok for a 30-year-old to be bald. I am not looking for any sort of pity, because I pity myself enough as it is.  I just miss you, proverbially and individually.  

Being the good Jesuit Novice that I am, however, I take these “missings” to prayer.  And, as a result, I know two things.  First, everyone and everything that I miss carry the reasons I miss them into the world every day—the good love they bring to those they encounter, the humor they bless peoples’ lives with, all the generosity and courage and passion and faith and hope they contain.  All of it still exists in the world in some shape and form.  And, if all of it made me feel as good as I do, then golly if it isn’t doing the same thing for tons of others who need it just as much.  Second, I know that all these people are taken care of, and by God if anything else.  Kevin and Liz are back in the same city, and Kate is still watching The Bachelorette. MacGarrett probably remembers me, and Katie, Katie, Katelyn, and the Creighton crew are still working hard.  Paul is globetrotting, and despite some challenges, Andy and I have summers from 10 years ago to rebuild a friendship on if we want to.  Mom is getting that hip taken care of, and Dad is busy using scrap wood to build some cover for something.  It doesn’t make my friend-sickness and home-sickness any easier, but despite missing so much, I am certain that all is as well as it can be.   

That is why right now, I can leave this post behind and instead go sit next to Paquito, a Jesuit in my temporary community who turned 88 today, and who offered me a cigar to share with him while he watches CSI:Miami with Spanish subtitles.  I know that while Paquito is on my right, all that which I miss is just on the other side, never far away.

Words…

I began writing at ericimmel.wordpress.com  just over one year ago.  46 published posts (including this one), 11 unpublished posts (failed attempts that now sit in the graveyard of archived drafts), and over 55,000 words later, I’ve got a real happy mess on my hands.  To be sure, I love sharing these random musings with anyone who will read them, and the posts will serve me well into the future as a record of what the hell happened in the past 12 months.  But, on the eve of a month-long trip to Ecuador, I’ve been thinking about these words, all words really, a lot…

The vast majority of the people I meet and serve in Ecuador will not have access to or understand the words I’ve spent all this time writing.  If I speak to them in the language these words have been written in, they might look at me like I’m loco. Similarly, I will struggle to understand many, many of the words they speak and write.  My Spanish is ok, but when a coastal Ecuadorian gets his / her “r’s” rrrrrrrrrrrolling, I’m totally lost.  All I can do is dive into the unknown yet again, this time relying more on my good energy and attitude than ever before. And, I’m a little stressed.  It’s been a long time since I couldn’t “wordsmith” my way out of something.

My relief in this stress comes in the form of two simple quotes. As a new friend and fellow Jesuit in formation told me, “You don’t need words to love people.” Just a heart, I think.  And, as St. Francis of Assisi said, “Preach the gospel every day.  When necessary, use words.”  So, no more words.  Not for now, at least.  Instead, I think I’ll start tomorrow with a look toward others that says, “You matter to me.  I can’t wait to help.”

 

 

I brought my iPod on pilgrimage…

When I left St. Paul for Boise, ID on April 23^rd, I didn’t have much.  A few changes of clothing, a raincoat, a bag of trail mix, $35.00, a toothbrush; had it not been for the kindness of those I met, my pack wouldn’t have contained anywhere near the essential gear for a 30-day trip.  I had some contraband with me as well—an item so vital to me I couldn’t possibly leave it behind—my iPod.

In the days preceding our departure, Matt (my fellow 1st year) and I had several conferences with our formators about the looming experiment. Grouped with tons of other tidbits of wise and practical advice, we were encouraged not to bring anything on our trip that would draw attention to us as someone who lived beyond the means of those we met along the way: things like our credit cards, gaudy name-brand clothing, bits of fancy technology, and so on.  I thought it likely that I would spend a few nights sleeping in homeless shelters and on the streets, and as such, an iPod didn’t seem wise.  Still, I couldn’t let go of the idea that I would go a month without my library of delicious mix of pop punk, singer-songwriter groove, country, hip-hop, and of course, $1.29 top 40 iTunes purchases (my current favorite is “Call Me Maybe,” which everyone at the novitiate loves). So, against my better judgment and the wishes of my directors, I tucked it away for use on my trip.

It was a saving grace for me—on long walks in the middle of the night as I arrived in new cities, it provided a soundtrack to match my feelings of anxiousness.  When I stayed in a place without fans (which I sleep with every night possible), it blocked out the perpetual ringing in my ears that so annoyingly keeps me awake.  More importantly, it provided a chance to share a passion of mine with those I met, and it even became a tool in ministry for me, never more so than on the Greyhound bus.  Three interactions come to mind.

On my way out to Boise, I stopped for a 2-hour layover in Omaha. After a wonderful meal with some close friends, I re-boarded the Greyhound bus for a long leg to Denver and, ultimately, a transfer on to Salt Lake City and Boise.  As with any Greyhound, the folks boarding with me were a true cast of characters.  None on this bus matched the uniqueness and energy of Rosie, who happened to sit right in front of me.  She was, without being to direct, on something; what it was, I can’t be sure.  As a result of her activity prior to boarding, she came onto the bus in a tizzy, looking wide-eyed at people as she strolled down the aisle, laughing uncontrollably, cussing a ton, calling people names, making fun of their appearance, and generally acting unruly.  As far as I can tell, she had nothing with her when she boarded.  The first thing she did when she sat down was pop up, turn to face me, and say, “You look like a high school teacher, man—with your bald head and glasses and s#@$…” Then, she sat back down and just kept talking, to no one in particular, with no concern for what was coming out.

Every bus ride begins with a few announcements from the driver, including reminders that no drugs or alcohol are to be used for the duration of the ride. Also, any unruliness or foul language will result in a warning and, if the issue persists, removal from the bus.  Before Lincoln, Rosie had her warning.  She didn’t seem fazed by it, but indicated to me in our conversation (which was out of control) that she was really desperate to get to Wyoming. “Well, Rosie,” I said, “you better lock it up, or you won’t make it 60 miles from Omaha. That wouldn’t really work out for you, huh?

“No way—I can’t get kicked off this bus, Teach.” She began calling me “Teach,” per her first remark to me.

“Well, do you like music, Rosie?” At that question, her face lit up.  She explained that she loved music, but that her MP3 player had been stolen.  I told her that if she wanted, she could sit next to me and use mine for a bit.  In less than three seconds, she was at my side. I asked her what kind of music she liked, and her response was “Notorious BIG.”  What luck! I happen to have nearly everything Biggie Smalls recorded (I don’t know all of it, but I have it for some reason).  Once she had my ear buds in place, Big Poppa thumping, she was a changed person.  Her demeanor slowed down, she stopped shouting and swearing as she spoke; she went into a bit of a trance, moving slightly as the jams and the bus rolled through.  By the time we hit Kearney, she was coming down and falling asleep.  Eventually, I had my iPod back, because Rosie had put her head on my shoulder, sleeping heavily, and there she stayed until we made it to Denver.  When we arrived, my little sister and her husband had come to have breakfast with me, and I said goodbye to another bus friend, a guy named Josh who was on his way to start a new life.  Rosie had slipped away unnoticed, and I never saw her again.

After leaving Boise, I went to Portland, then to Tacoma, Seattle, Spokane, Missoula, and eventually, to Joplin, MO.  When I boarded the Greyhound in Missoula to get to Joplin, I rode with a foursome of women heading home to Ft. Worth from a trip to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.  We were all en route to Kansas City. There was Michelle, 21, mother of Sarah, 4, and daughter of Janet, 54.  Also, there was Becca, 3, cousin of Sarah, niece of Michelle, and granddaughter of Janet.  Sarah and Becca, just little girls, were barefoot on the bus. Sarah and Michelle sat in front of me, and as with most children, Sarah was intensely curious about the man sitting behind her.  She had a temporary butterfly tattoo on her arm, so that became the starter for our conversation, and before too long, Becca took interest as well, so she crossed the aisle and sat down next to me.  Becca, it was clear, struggled with some form of physical and developmental disability (I later found out that her condition was known as Crouzon Syndrome), which made it difficult to know how to begin engaging her.  She was temperamental and incredibly fidgety, leaving me constantly worried that she would fall or slip from her seat. Her grandmother Janet called her back after a few minutes, and for the next few hours, Janet exhibited some of the most loving care I’ve ever witnessed as she worked hard to keep Becca calm and comfortable.  Sarah, Michelle, and I kept our polite banter going for a bit, but eventually, we settled into the lazy drone of hours ahead on the bus.  My iPod was going to be a great ally on this leg of the journey.

Eventually, I could see that Janet became exhausted caring for Becca, but Becca just wouldn’t calm down.  She was letting out constant whimpers and short cries that carried through the entire bus, and I knew Janet was anxious to keep Becca from disrupting the other riders.  Thinking back to Rosie, and knowing that Janet needed a break, I asked Becca if she liked music.  She vigorously nodded yes, and so I asked Janet if she wanted me to sit with Becca for a while.  By now I had proven myself trustworthy and good with kids, so Janet handed Becca to me and I put the ear buds in place.  For the next few hours as Janet slept, I played DJ Scribble for Becca, bringing her through the very depths of my music library, including Katy Perry and Carly Rae, Raffi (remember the children’s song “Baby Beluga?”), Lisa Loeb, James Taylor, Matt Nathanson, Michael Franti and Spearhead, and on and on and on.  Anything that I thought might be kid friendly was played, and Becca, just like Rosie, slowed down, looked up at me constantly with a huge smile on her face, danced and bopped around next to me in her chair, and eventually, fell into my side and drifted off to sleep.  After helping these women and girls carry their luggage off the bus, we parted ways, and Janet simply said, “Thanks for the break, bud—I needed it, and we’ve got a way to go.” And then, we went our separate ways, barefoot Becca leaving my life forever.

I transferred buses in KC, made it to Joplin, found a place to stay, and worked hard for nearly five days.  Then, I saddled up on the Greyhound for one last 14-hour jaunt back to St. Paul and the end of my journey.  The bus from Joplin transferred again in Kansas City, and re-boarding to end up in St. Paul, it was clear that the bus was going to be full.  As a side note, a full Greyhound bus is the absolute worst travel experience I have ever had—worse than a delayed flight, a flat tire on a long road trip, or construction that delays a drive for hours and hours.  I’d take any of that over a full Greyhound.  Among the standard cast of characters were a foursome of (what I assumed were) African men (two old guys and two little boys), and again, they surrounded me.  I never caught their names, but gathered that the two old men were the grandfather and great-uncle of the little boys, who couldn’t have been more than 4 years old themselves.

The older guys told me that they had literally just come to the US from the Congo, and needed to get to St. Paul.  They flew to New York, then to Kansas City, and eventually, saved some money busing to St. Paul instead of taking another flight.  The boys, they said, had slept for the entirety of both flights, but they themselves hadn’t slept a lick, as it was their first time traveling to the US, and they were nervous.  Now, it appeared that they were ready to sleep hard, but couldn’t find a comfortable situation.  After some banter with the little boys, they seemed to like me, and so I offered a solution to help.  If both boys sat next to me (they would fit just fine), then a seat would free up for one of the older men to lay down a bit and get some rest.  Halfway through, they could switch spots, and the other could sleep for a few hours.  I would look after the boys.  They agreed enthusiastically, and so, I found myself sitting in between two preschoolers from the Congo.  Out came the iPod, and with one ear bud each, the boys danced and laughed the whole way home to St. Paul. I taught them how to use it, and so, I was able to sit back, read a bit, and eventually, settle into some good contemplative thought as the miles to home ticked away.  They got off the bus at the MSP airport, which gave me just a few minutes to close my eyes before arriving at the St. Paul Greyhound station.  After debussing, I began the slow trek back to the novitiate, my iPod battery drained to the red, big grins on my mind.

I suppose I was a little disobedient in bringing my iPod on pilgrimage, and yet, I can’t help but think that it became yet another vehicle by which I could attend to others.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I “fixed” whatever issue arose near me on the bus by throwing my iPod into the mix, but I can say that in letting go of my own attachment to my iPod, if only for a while, I found immense joy seeing that others could benefit directly from what I had.  My attachment to the iPod landed it in my bag, but in reflecting on why I couldn’t let it go, I was able to let it go. For the duration of my pilgrimage, the emptying of myself became thematic and vital to the movements of my own heart—offering a listening ear, sinking into vulnerability when emotions ran high, giving away the money I had received if another asked for it, sharing the food I had been given, agreeing to do virtually anything anyone asked me to do in the spirit of service, and offering my iPod when music was a possible solution.  As a result, I am left with the imprints of hundreds of faces from my trip—Rosie, Becca, and the Congo boys included.  While I’m not certain I did everything right during my month away, I gave as much as I could, and in the moment, tried to be creative in loving the world, which I so deeply desire to do.  One thing is for certain—I plan on having my iPod for a little while longer.  The big question now: which $1.29 top 40 song will make the next cut?  And then, who can I share it with?