Brudda Bob

Seminarian is a tough word. Way too many syllables, if you ask me. The people of the parish think so too, evidenced by their fondness of calling me “Brudda Bob.” I visited one of the local primary schools recently and they too picked up on this new moniker. The second grade class swarmed me in a cloud of laughter and handshakes when they realized I would not bite them. One girl compared her skin pigment to mine, another giggled at how strange my hair felt. A third girl inquisitively stared into my soul and asked, “Brudda Bob, will you come back to us when you are Fadda Bob?”

My heart sank. My time here so far has been both blessed and trying. My endurance of body, mind, and spirit is being pushed to its limits. There are some moments where all I can think of is leaving Africa to return to my homeland and its creature comforts. And yet this girl’s question challenged me—would I come back? Even more significant, would I come back as a priest? It scared me. I gave her the kindest “We’ll see what God wants” I could muster, and looked in earnest for another child to change the subject. I’m so slick.

You may be thinking, “Bob, you’re in seminary. Obviously you’re on the track for priesthood.” Yes, loyal reader. This I know. By the grace of God, I have even somehow been accepted to the St. Vincent de Paul Major Seminary for the upcoming fall semester. Doors have long been opening with a noticeable trajectory towards priesthood. The question often falls back to my courage (or lack thereof) to walk in faith. Abram tried compromising with God and Moses made many excuses before setting forth. Like Thomas, I tend to demand certainty from the Lord, and will likely ask for such certainty up until the moment a Bishop may rest his hands on my head.

To steal a sentence from a friend, no matter how my journey to the altar turns out, this summer is proving to be the greatest test of self I will likely ever have. I am digging out past memories and old demons, and realizing just how deep into my soul this seed of priesthood may be. Perhaps I hesitated in answering my 8-year old inquisitor because I truly don’t know the answer…God’s ways are not my ways. I have been welcomed with open arms by these Sierra Leoneans and they are indeed stealing a piece of my heart. Sunday Mass has become the highlight of my week because of its centrality in the life of the people and how I, a foreigner from a strange land, am allowed to partake in such celebration (and it is a celebration. You had better dance).

Can’t thank you all enough for the thoughts and prayers. Chik-fil-A is on me when I get home.

…I’m just joking. You can all meet me there, though.

-Brudda Bob
written 06/22/11

Breaking Point

There are moments in life when we are all faced with the decision to either remain a wallflower—stubbornly standing in our bubble of self-preservation, relentlessly wondering “what if”—or we dance.

I danced. Literally, I mean. This isn’t some metaphor for our participation in the great mystery of life. This is a white man dancing to the hottest radio jam of the summer here in Sierra Leone. Fr. Francis has video evidence that I will gladly post on Facebook whence I return. This past Sunday was the pastoral visit of Bishop Biguzzi to the parish, and we had a big party after the Mass that went well into the evening. I told God that if the DJ played this one overplayed (but darn it all, catchy) song, then I would get out and make a fool of myself. My friends: do not tempt the Lord.

The catalyst was a woman named Mrs. Koruma. She is an active parishioner, possessor of a considerate smile, and a mother of three. She asked me how I was doing. I told her fine. She looked at me, gently put her hand on my arm, and restated, “how are you really doing?” Don’t get me wrong—Fr. Francis, the Bishop, everyone here has been great so far. But I realized that she was the first person to ask me that simple question and desire the genuine answer, not the stock response, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less. I told her that it’s been challenging and a bit lonely, but then she proceeded to ask about my family, my brother, and life back in America. She really wanted to know me, not, Bob the seminarian or Bob the American. Long story short, she told me at the end of our conversation, “Listen, you have adjusted well and you have one month in Sierra Leone. This land is now your second home. So be at home—you are African now.” She had never stopped letting go of my arm. It wasn’t just lip service, she really meant it. And I believed it.

I realized that, after a month of muscling through the difficulties (and being thankful for the moments of joy), I was still trying to control the ride. I was still playing the role of American observer, a journalist with a two-month stint, not allowing my roots to really sink into the Africa soil. God has allowed me to stretch and tear here, perhaps indeed close to my breaking point, but with the intention of always molding me into something greater. I knew then that if I did not dance, the people wouldn’t think any less of me, but I would miss a great opportunity to show the parishioners that I was willing to dive into their culture. I would have to lay down my ego for the greater joy and laughter of all.

The cost of discipleship is high. And sometimes, for Christ, we must dance.

-Bob
written 06/20/11

Banana Sandwich Crazy

Life in Africa isn’t all struggle and strife. I am starting to get to know the young men better, thus I am able to mess with them and joke around more. They have a TV, which I have gathered is used mainly to watch soccer when the season is going on, but I saw them watching music videos the other day…the best of 2005. It brought me back. This sparked a discussion on music because I didn’t know how much they knew of the music that is all too accessible to use back home. And this eventually led me to introduce some of them to some music that I love (including, but not limited to, Sara Bareilles). They liked it, but one of them said that this kind of music makes him sleepy. Oh well, it’s a start.

I am also proud to say that I have attended my first soccer game in Africa. Many of the men here are part of The Knights of St. John (similar to our Knights of Columbus back home), and there was a tournament between the cadets from a number of different parishes. The final game was on Saturday, and I must say that it was the most intense soccer game that I have ever seen. Apart from the fact that they were playing on wet sand, which seemed impressive enough, these men are skilled. They were performing moves that I’ve only seen in highlights. And to top it off, the men from the deanery won 4-0 to bring home yet another trophy to add to their collection. Actually, I take that back. To top it off, during the game guess which song rang throughout the park? That’s right, Shakira’s Waka Waka (This Time for Africa), the song I alluded to in my first blog entry. Because let’s face it, what would a soccer game in Africa be without the official 2010 FIFA World Cup theme song? And of course, they scored a goal while the song was playing.

On a completely different note, it seems that Sunday night is game night for the three missionaries here: Rachel, Jackie, and Sister Raphael. So the past two Sundays I’ve had the pleasure of going over to their house (about a 30 second walk) to play some fierce games of Bananagrams. And let me tell you, these ladies play to win. I’ve only won one game myself so far. But it is a lot of fun and a nice taste of home for me. They also provide me with some much needed sustenance (but don’t worry mom, I don’t just mooch all the time, I made dinner for everyone last night).

So luckily I am starting to get into the groove of life here. It isn’t without its spouts of homesickness, but I am enjoying my time. This week will begin to pick up and get busier, but I always have Sunday nights and Bananagrams to look forward to now.

We have to remember the worlds of St. Thomas Aquinas: "...relaxation of the mind from work consists in playful words or deeds. Therefore it becomes a wise and virtuous man to have recourse to such things at times."

-Dan
written 06/20/11

Not Made for Comfort

There’s a quote by Pope Benedict XVI that has come to mind recently that I feel applies perfectly to the situation I now find myself in. I’m not sure if I have it down exact, but it goes something like this: “The world offers you comfort, but you were not made for comfort, you were made for greatness.”

I feel that this saying rings true in so many ways. I was lying in bed feeling rather homesick recently and wishing for the comforts of home. Not only for the comfort of air conditioning (though that’s a big one), but especially for the comfort of family and friends. Even more than these physical comforts that I find myself longing for, however, it is mental and spiritual comforts as well.

A big struggle I seem to have is confidence in what I know or the gifts that I have to share, and this has been revealed from my time at seminary as well. Rather than take the lead to teach and preach, more often than not I’d rather sit back and let someone else do it. I feel more comfortable observing than putting myself out there. I guess this comes from my more introverted side.

Well, whether I like it or not, I will be forced to abandon this comfort and put my trust in the Lord once again. My assignment is becoming clearer as time goes on, and it looks like it will be a busy summer here. I will be visiting the leper colony that I went to every Thursday to observe and assist. Also, starting this week I will be going out with the catechists several nights a week to their different outposts to perform primary evangelization. So basically we’re teaching the faith to those who have never heard of Christianity before. And they want me to prepare something to contribute as well (this week on the Trinity) so that the catechists will have a little bit of a break…oh yeah, and it’ll be in another language, Gola.

Also, once Fr. Garry got wind of the fact that I studied Biology before entering the seminary, he asked me to teach/tutor a Biology class for the young men within the deanery that I am staying in. And it wasn’t asking so much as telling me that I will be teaching a class for them. And on top of that I opened my own mouth and said that I wanted to lead a Bible study for the men as well. So I will be preaching and teaching after all. With limited resources (a biology textbook that I got from the school and one Biblical commentary from Father), my own knowledge, and overwhelming trust in the Lord, maybe I can pull this off, and learn a thing or two about myself in the process...

So I beg you all for your prayers at this time while I begin forming the minds and the hearts of the people of Africa (maybe not even so much for me but for them!). The Lord sure has a sense of humor, taking the weak to lead the strong. But I have faith. And I’m continuing to let go of the comforts of the world in order to reach the greatness that I was meant for, that we all were meant for.

-Dan
written 06/19/11

Sigh No More

“You look tired.” A priest in my summer assignment last year told me this one morning before Mass. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t sleep much,” I remember responding. “No. I mean your soul,” he explained. “Your soul looks tired.”

My soul is tired. I’m tired of being starred at, tired of being hungry throughout the day, tired of having no one to have a real conversation with, tired of not being able to get in touch with anyone. There is no chapel so I haven’t been able to have a real holy hour in weeks. I feel distant from God right now. The physical discomforts pale before the constant solitude and loneliness. I stay inside my head enough as it is-—it’s just taking a toll on me. I know that this is the experience of a lifetime and I recognize the tremendous amount of graces and growth being poured out on and pulled out of me. But my soul is tired.

I debated about whether or not to post this. I’ve learned the unfortunate lesson that I have to be careful with whom I am transparent with. And yet I feel a loyalty to you all to not sugarcoat this experience in its entirety. I know that there can be no salvation without a cross, no Christ without nails, and a dear friend reminded me through an email that if “this weren’t a challenge I wouldn’t enjoy it.” He’s unfortunately right. Smooth seas never made a strong sailor. But we all need to vent sometimes.

Tonight we’re having Mass in the evening because it was storming through the morning hours and no one could come. I plan on having it out with God and I will finish this article later tonight.

* * *

Eight hours later.
We are all given the situations of life we’re in—my uncle used to say, “It is what it is.” Cardinal Van Thuan was imprisoned by the Vietnamese government for thirteen years, nine of which were in solitary confinement. He would celebrate Mass every day with three drops of wine and a drop of water in the palm of his hand. His body became the only tabernacle he had access to. I sat in Mass today realizing that without a chapel to sit in or monstrance to reverence, I would have to become the house for the Eucharist. My holy hour had to be with myself, with Christ as physically meshed with my DNA as He could be.

And it was good. “Your grief will be turned to joy…I will see you again” (John 16:20). God’s extreme love impels us to live suffering like Him and in Him. But He is there with us in such tears. Sometimes we have to cry. Sometimes we have to simply let go.

“Love it will not betray, dismay or enslave you, it will set you free / Be more like the man you were made to be. There is a design, an alignment to cry of my heart to see / the beauty of love as it was made to be”—Mumford and Sons.

-Bob
written 06/17/11

A Monkey's Uncle

Top three things that I least suspect to interrupt my lunch: a monkey, a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and Abraham Lincoln. I can now cross off the first item of my list—I forgot that I’m in Africa. Fr. Francis had taken me to one of his favorite restaurants on the quieter side of town. Hardly any soul ventures in during the lunch hours, so it provides an excellent opportunity to get lost in your own thoughts.

While we waited for our food, I was off in some nebulous corner of my brain, peering out the window to my right when a hairy face suddenly appeared, screeched at me, and climbed right through. I thought my imagination was acting up again but no, there was definitely a monkey now sitting on my table. He had a rope tied to his waist, anchored to whatever the hostess had attached him to outside the window. He was a possessed tether ball, bouncing from table to table, struggling to free himself while trying to get a better look at us.

Fr. Francis didn’t bat an eye. Apparently these monkeys are common patrons to the local restaurant scene. He later told me that he even had a pet baboon as a child. I sat there flabbergasted—it’s a monkey! Up until today, the animals I’ve been exposed to here in Sierra Leone have been fish, goats, chickens, dogs, deer, and mosquitoes aplenty. Now I was suddenly in a Busch Gardens with no fences, a Lowry Park Zoo with no restrictions on feeding the animals. I would be happy to tell you what kind of monkey it was if I had any access to Google or my trusty Zoo Books. But I will say that he was very polite—after we fed him, he sat quietly on the edge of the table and seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, seemingly mimicking my own posture when he first barged in. I took his imitation as a compliment. I named him "Jack."

-Bob
written 06/15/11

On Poverty II: Once You Know

“If you know these things, you are blessed to do them” (John 13:17).

Some of my friends in the medical field refer to a condition they call the “burden of knowledge”—the more practitioners know, the more responsibility they bear. I remember in lifeguard training being cautioned that upon certification we could be held negligent if a person keeled over in the mall and we walked the other way. The world isn’t the same after you leave the cave (or the Matrix). Once our eyes are open to certain realities, we cannot go back.

Our planet has shrunk with the spread of global communication and the interconnectedness of peoples across the globe only further illustrates the point that the future of one country cannot be isolated from all others. My eyes have been open to a radical poverty that truly exists beyond television infomercials and UNICEF donation boxes. Fr. Francis and I spent time today at the local Missionaries of Charity post. I saw the glaucoma-glazed eyes, I smelt the urine stained trousers, and heard the cry of babies in the throes of hunger pains.

We are not all called to be missionaries, nor are we called to become Franciscans and totally empty ourselves of our material goods. The Gospel does not condemn earthly goods and riches in themselves—Christ condemns the attachment to money and goods, as if “one’s life depended on them” (Luke 12:15). Sometimes feelings of guilt over our possessions or comforts, while good-intentioned, may be arising from the spirits not truly of God, those false spirits tempting us towards the wrong mission or the wrong timing or the wrong degree of involvement. The question could be asked, who is lacking a relationship with Christ, the destitute African or the affluent American? Who is truly more impoverished? Where do my talents and the needs of the world meet? There are plenty of people in our work and neighborhood settings in need of compassion and human warmth—not everyone can or should ship off to Africa.

But those deep movements of peace and courage can also lead us take right action for our global brothers and sisters in need. Again, I am daily face the question of what will I do for this country once I return home. What can I do? Here I shall attempt to relinquish an active role and give God space to move me towards His desired end. There is a time for everything, but now is apparently the time for me to go play soccer. The kids are telling me so.

-Bob
written 06/15/11