After Confessions by John McAndrew

 

AFTER CONFESSIONS

(excerpt from a work in progress)

Afternoon confessions were finished and I walked into the rectory courtyard relieved of the mostly petty burdens of pious sinners. Confession is good for the soul, but most of what we heard on any given Saturday afternoon were the mundane dramas of household living and how relationships tear us apart and bring us together again. I honestly never remembered what people said in the confessional, so as I returned, I was relieved. I didn’t have the evening mass, and was planning to grab a bite to eat and work on Sunday’s homily. 

Entering the patio door, I noticed a movement inside and though it was probably the cat. As I stepped inside, I thought I saw a figure back in the bedroom and yelled out, “Hey!”

From the bedroom door a slightly disheveled, bespectacled man emerged clutching some of my magazines and some other papers and he started to speak to me.

 “Hi. Oh, you must be John. I was noticing…” He seemed to be trying to normalize his presence in my rectory casita bedroom by using my name (which he had obviously seen on a magazine) to ask a question about something, but this was not right…

We never know how we might respond when fear hijacks the brain and nervous system, but in that instant I knew that this situation was wrong wrong wrong. Unthinking, reacting, I started shouting at the intruder, escalating my fear with profanity and moving threateningly towards him, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”, shouting at the top of my voice, “Put my stuff down- that’s not yours. What the fuck are you doing in here?”

I was making as much noise as possible, raging, and at that moment, this guy had no idea what I might do next. As I shouted and spouted my unhinged fear, this would-be burglar actually backed into a corner as I threatened him with my voice of command. I moved towards a cordless phone handset, announcing to him that I was calling the police.

And that’s the moment that he finished sizing me up (scared, loudmouth, priest- I can take him) and I watched in slo-mo fascination and complete lack of understanding as he moved quickly out of the corner, dropped what he had in his hands, and smashed his fist into my face, sending my glasses flying and setting in slow-motion a fantasia of chaos and uproar.

(I found out later that this rectory had been burglarized before and I’d guess that this fella figured it was a pretty soft target and he’d probably find some petty cash. I had nothing of real value in my room.)

A dozen years earlier, as a newly-ordained priest, I had professed the Vow of Nonviolence and tried, with some limited success, to live nonviolently, as the life and witness of Jesus Christ attested to. I’m not a fighter- my last physical fight was in the 6^th grade and I lost quickly and ignobly. 

I know I didn’t throw a punch in this incident, just did my best to curl into defensive postures. The physical shock of the attack amped up my adrenal shouting and screaming and a choreography of chaos took over the sitting room, knocking over a lamp, shattering a light bulb, knocking over a table, plants, and books, then rolled back into the bedroom where my attacker picked up a wooden chair WWE-style and cracked it over my head and shoulder. I may have torn his pant leg in my desperate attempt at defense.

It just kept going, getting weirder and messier, and I just kept shouting and screaming, hoping that one of the other priests- or someone, anyone- would arrive to bring this insanity to an end. All the shouting and noise seemed just to enrage the thief, and as we rolled back into the sitting room, he grabbed whatever he could lay hands on to hit me with, including a non-functional monstrance which I had displayed on a shelf as an objet d’art. 

If you’re unfamiliar with Catholic eucharistic devotions, you may never have seen a monstrance (from L. monstrans- to show), a sacred vessel used to display the consecrated Host for prayer and adoration. This particular monstrance had been retired from liturgical use because of a missing door clasp. It was similar to most I had seen, a two-foot-high stock with a central round glass display window surrounded by a gold-plated corona of metal flares spiking out in a sunburst fashion from the center- a beautiful artifact. I just hadn’t ever considered it’s use as a weapon.

My burglar foe, however, saw its usefulness and cracked me over the head a couple of times until the monstrance broke. Now blood was spewing out on the walls and I felt its warmth down my face and neck. Nothing like a head-wound for a real blood-fest.

And still I kept yelling. 

Finally, the attacker got me down on the floor, grabbed my neck from behind, and I couldn’t shout anymore. Everything got quiet, even as I squirmed and flailed. He rearranged his dominance, tightened the chokehold, and … I couldn’t breathe.

I’d like to tell you that my thoughts turned to prayer, or that some pious awareness filled me with light and peace. Instead, I found myself with myself. “Huh. Can’t breathe. Hm- so I guess this is how it goes. This is how it ends.” Bemused consciousness. “Huh…”

Though I consider myself a spiritual seeker and trained for and lived a priestly life for many years, I’ve never had any great moments of revelation or direct spiritual experience (though I have a friend who told me that one time, he heard God cough). In this moment of extremis, however, God spoke to me. I knew it was God because I was called by name and I’m not usually in the habit of using my own name when I’m talking to myself.

Bloodied, windpipe constricted by a headlock, beaten, and without a single good idea, I heard God say, “John, quit fighting.”

I immediately recognized the wisdom of this suggestion. For many years, I’d been aware that my desire to have things my way didn’t work very well for me or the people I worked with. The idea of placing the outcome into the hands of a loving God seemed like a good idea. But I kept fighting, determined to get the outcome I desired.

Quit fighting. Yes, I understood. Stop. Surrender. Another surrender, yielding to reality again. Quit fighting- the spiritual lesson of my life.

So I stopped struggling and went limp. Instantly, the dude was up off of me, out the door, and out the back gate. I think all he really wanted at the end was for me to just shut up. 

The aftermath looked pretty dramatic to the parishioners driving in for the Saturday evening mass, as EMTs carried my bloodied body to the ambulance on a spine board with my head blocked in place. At the hospital, six staples directed into my skull stanched the blood. Though I was concussed and nicely beat up, I was able to go home that evening.

I was assigned to the 9:30 Sunday mass, and I knew I should honor that commitment though I was barely able to speak because of the trauma to my neck and windpipe. I whispered my way through the liturgy after explaining that I’d walked into a burglary and there was no serious injury.

Which was not quite true. As the swelling subsided and I was able to speak more normally, I feared that my singing voice had been permanently damaged. Though not a professional singer, music and song had always been a central part of my identity. 

Later that year I set out on a pilgrimage/ sabbatical that would take me through the southwest United States and help me find that I still had a voice, but it was changed. 

John P. McAndrew

The Flood by Don Taco

 

The Flood

  

  

For forty days and forty nights,

the waters poured down from the skies.

It was much worse than all the locusts.

It was much worse than all the flies.

It was much worse than when the waters 

in all the rivers turned to blood.

It was much worse than losing Junior.

It was the worst.  It was the flood.

The Lord looked down and spoke to Noah,

the last good man that I have found.

Son, grab your taperule and your toolbelt.

Donít waste your time on higher ground.

You see these weather patterns changing.

The skies are cloudy, grey, and dark.

Donít ride the donkey up the mountain.

Get off your ass and build an ark.

Then gather two of every creature.

Yes, even locusts, flies, and frogs.

Donít get too hoarse with all your shouting.

Itís already raining cats and dogs.

Collect some sons and wives and daughters.

Hand out some shovels, brooms, and mops.

Have a nice trip!  Donít drink the water!

And pray someday this flooding stops.

Then God said, "Can I get a witness?"

Then God said, "Noah!  Thatís your cue!"

Tell all the people God means business.

When thereís someone to tell, but you.

Go, sin no more, son, I implore you.

The punishment must fit the crime.

Thereíll be no more floods, I assure you.

But that still leaves the fire next time.

Pay no attention to the raven.

He learned that story from the crow.

Heís out there looking for a haven,

as if there was some place to go.

The dove will bless the land it comes to,

between a hard place and a stone.

And lead you from your floating home to

this brave new world youíll face alone.

For forty days and forty nights,

the waters poured down from the skies.

It was much worse than all the locusts.

It was much worse than all the flies.

It was much worse than when the waters 

in all the rivers turned to blood.

It was much worse than losing Junior.

It was the worst.  It was the flood.

Live for the rainbow, not the mud.

The Cliff by Paul Delgado

The Cliff

It was September and Monsoon season in the Philippines. 

The rain pelted the windows of my office in an incessant downpour and the wind howled as Taifun Maite, a hundred miles off the coast of the Visayas, was making its way to landfall the next morning.  I had left our mountain hillside home very early that morning and was mentally preparing for what was to be a very trying and stressful day.

Sure enough, it was only 8:00 AM and the day was already going off the rails. I had just gotten off a telecon with the boss, “Big Joe”, the CEO of our multinational company. He was based in St. Louis and for him it was a late-night call. He was not happy. After eighteen straight profitable quarters, I had to tell him that the forecast for the upcoming quarter would be challenging. In addition, we would be delaying delivery of our new product launch. 

We had been struggling with a new product line for the past few months and had experienced numerous technical and quality issues. “Big Joe” as he was affectionately called, was upset and demanded a recovery plan immediately. 

Joe was a great boss, but, was also under tremendous pressure to deliver on our customer commitments.

“Aye Aye Sir” was all I could muster. We had been given an unrealistic timetable and the new process lines needed fine tuning. In addition, we had been impacted by raw material supplier delays. I was Managing Director of SE Asia operations and that’s the way it works in the corporate world….

It was my responsibility…Make it happen!

I had a meeting with my staff planned for 10 AM to work out an aggressive recovery plan and as I mulled different options available to us, and how to organize our recovery, my admin, Arlene, peeked in and said, “You have a call from Mr. Kim, VP and director of our customer’s Asia Pacific supply chain. 

Mr. Kim was not happy at all with the forecasted delivery delay and demanded a recovery plan asap.

He “firmly” reminded me of the financial penalties that would be charged to the company for every day of delay. 

Great….It was only 9:00AM and I already had my ass chewed by two senior execs. 

Time to get things under control. 

As I walked into the conference room, my plant manager, Joel, brings me more bad news. He informs me that the main steam boiler had just broken down and that we will need to bring in a specialist crew from Manila to repair it…What!

 Ok, another hurdle, what does this mean… We will be delayed again by at least a few more days before we can get the cable production lines running again.

I told my admin to fly in the Manila maintenance crew by charter aircraft at a ridiculous cost due to the short notice and weather. 

Ok, what more could go wrong….when right then and there, my IT manager, Julius knocks on the door and says…”I have some bad news”….What!!.....

In his quiet manner he said…

“Our entire system is down…must be the weather……Hopefully it will be back up later, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

Could be a few days.

“What!!!”

I meet with my team at 10:00AM as planned and we spend the rest of the day working out a credible plan. 

It’s now 5:00 PM and another phone call from Mr. Kim which lasted almost two hours and then another status call from corporate headquarters at 8:00PM.

“Oh come on man….really!”

Finally, it is 9:00 pm and everything that could be put into action has been initiated and I leave the office.

What a day!….Looking forward to getting home and having a bowl of soup and hitting the sack.

Normally, my driver would take me home, but given the long day, I told him he could knock off a few hours earlier. I didn’t particularly like driving in Cebu, given the traffic and road conditions, but tonight I didn’t mind as my driver had to be home for his wife’s birthday.

As I got into my Ford Expedition. The rain was really coming down and the wind was already gusting up to 60 mph. This Taifun was going to be a bad one.

I made my way up the main road from the factory toward the Hillsides of Cebu where we lived. Traffic was abysmal, especially given the weather. 

The normal twenty minute drive up to the house had already taken over an hour and I had just made it to the bottom of the mountain hillside where we lived. With this weather, the drive was nerve wracking. I almost regretted letting my driver off early. 

The narrow mountain roads had few guard rails and were not illuminated. Between the blind curves and fallen rocks on the roads, it was a “white knuckle” drive to say the least. 

I called my wife on the mobile and fortunately let her know I could see the house which was situated another five hundred feet above the torturous roads carved into the sheer cliffs and would be home shortly. 

I relaxed for a few moments and felt exhausted from the day’s events. 

I thought…”Man what a day…What more could go wrong.”

When right then and there a local jeepney comes barreling around a blind corner in my lane.

Oh man…WTF…I swerve to avoid a head on collision…but there is no shoulder or road left.

I began to plunge off an almost sheer cliff to the valley floor below.

In an instant, I knew I was going to die.

The car plunged headlong into the darkness, 

At that moment, I was out of my body and in the passenger seat and saw myself behind the wheel as a young man when I was sixteen.

Incredibly, I felt a peacefulness I have never felt before. It was as if it was OK. Everything will be fine.

All of a sudden, my SUV hits a rock and it jars me.

As the expedition hits another rock in an almost 60 degree cliffside, I am thrown out of the car. 

I always….always….wear a seat belt…but that night…maybe from sheer fatigue,

I had not buckled up…

As I hit the steep cliff hillside, I slid through the rain soaked jungle foliage and as I tumbled down, I see the expedition crash into pieces on the rocky valley floor hundreds of feet below. 

I finally make my way to the bottom of the cliff and walk past the wreckage. The Local villagers surround me and ask if I need medical help. I feel like I am in a surrealistic state. Voices are faint and there is a calmness in me I have never felt before. I was happy to be alive, yet I wanted to hang on to that incredible peacefulness.

My wife had heard the crash from the house and intuitively knew it was me. 

She drove her car to the valley floor and when she saw the expedition she broke down in tears.

At that moment, I walked toward her from behind the crowd.

I was rain soaked and covered in mud, but I lived.

I have thought about that night everyday for the past 18 years.

Actually….Death is not so bad…..It’s actually pretty peaceful…..But life is precious.

Gotta make it count.

 

 

 World record

       by rickiT

Today we are attempting a world record of skydiving.

Assembled are 246 skydivers, 6 free fall photographers and 12 aircraft.

The goal is for all 246 jumpers to join up in free fall formation.

All the grips between skydivers must be held for 3 seconds forming a planned pattern.

After one minute all participants must fly away from each other, open their parachutes and land.

The current world record is 200 people.

We began the event with 300 skydivers and have made more than 20 attempts this week.

Tragically, one of our team was killed in a mid free fall collision on one of those attempts.

We have all opted to continue the record attempts.

Today is the last day of the week long event.

The team has been paired down to 246.

It is the first jump of the day.

We meet in a field with full gear, standing in groups representing our airplanes.

On a signal we walk toward the center of the field, taking up the grips we will have in free fall.

The seven jumpers in the middle of the formation form the base.

We all build the pattern (dock) from the base to the outer most edges.

This is called a dirt dive and is practice for what we will do in the air.

The organizer gives the signal to go to our planes.

We board the planes in a predetermined order, the first to dock closest to the door of each plane.

We will exit the planes at 20,000 feet, so we breath oxygen from tubes on the way to altitude.

Looking down the aisle of the plane it looks like the oxygen ward of a hospital.

The airplanes are flying in a “V” formation with the base plane in the lead.

The airspeed of the planes is 80 miles per hour.

I am in the right trail plane, aft, near the door.

From the cockpit comes an announcement:

“3 minutes!”

I do a last minute gear check.

“Three buckles, three handles, three accessories,” I say to myself.

The bench in the airplane is lifted and stowed as we all stand up.

A light near the door shines red.

The door of the airplane is thrown open. Cool air rushes in.

We crowd toward the door.

The red light turns green and someone yells, “EXIT, EXIT, EXIT…”

I am the front floater so I climb out through the door clutching a hang bar on the outside of the airplane.

I look toward the lead aircraft.

In the lead plane the captain of the base has poised his crew on the tailgate of the Skyvan.

The super float clutches the plane behind the base with tip toes on the tailgate.

The captain yells, “READY…SET…”

The super float lets go of the plane.

I let go.

“GO…” 

The base seven jump off the tailgate.

I face the 80 mile per hour prop blast and am immediately flying.

As I peal left I spot the base, trailed by a string of skydivers.

5 seconds elapsed.

The trails of skydivers from the other planes resolve in my view.

I am now in free fall facing a 120 mile per hour vertical wind.

10 seconds.

Pulling my arms back and sticking out my legs I increase my horizontal speed and fly across space toward the formation.

Others from the lead plane are approaching and docking on the base, clutching leg grips.

20 seconds.

I arrive near the fast building formation, stop my relative motion and pause 10’ above and 30’ away.

Scanning left and right, up and down, I see the person that I dock on pick up his grips.

30 seconds.

My legs stick out instinctually and I fly forward to my position (slot).

Stopped just inches from my slot I take a deep breath.

35 seconds.

My hands drop onto the leg grips. I am docked!

40 seconds.

Now is the time to fly my hardest.

I must stay with the fluctuating fall rate of the formation.

As more and more people dock the formation slows from 120 miles per hour to near 100 miles per hour.

45 seconds

I cannot drag it down and I must not float it up.

Tension is everywhere.

A medieval rack must feel like this.

Everyone’s focus is on the center of the formation.

I keep eye contact with my clone on the other side.

55 seconds.

The last person docks on the formation.

There is a slight pulse inward, then calm.

Pure quiet, accented with a 100 mile per hour wind.

There is a real static electric current which flows through all our hands.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Four seconds…

At 6000 feet above the ground members of the base kick their legs in a signal to break off.

Skydivers on the outer edge of the formation let go, turn and fly (track) away.

They will open their parachutes low, at 3000 feet.

The next wave of jumpers turns and tracks. They open at 3500 feet.

My wave opens at 4000 feet.

The base opens at 4500 feet.

From the ground the sound of parachutes opening is like a freight train coming.

In the quiet of my parachute ride I hear other skydivers hooting and hollering.

We all think the formation completed.

A carousel of parachutes spirals to the ground.

We all land safely.

Back in the hanger we watch the video and the judges announce:

“You all have just set a new 246 way world skydiving free fall formation record.”

We cry and we cheer.

The Jackpot Paul Delgado

 

The Jackpot

It was an overcast summer morning in 1963 and my dad and I were going to Ensenada for a fishing weekend. The weather was typical Southern California June gloom, but that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. I was “over the moon” to be driving in our Chevy pickup truck for a special weekend with just my dad. 

I was in 5^th grade and felt ten feet tall as I hopped into the truck. Our saltwater gear was loaded up and we were ready to go. Dad gave mom a kiss as she stood in her apron with my little brother and sisters. And then we waved goodbye as we pulled out of the driveway. I had on my sailor cap and was ready for adventure.

As we drove down the coast on I-5, we passed Camp Pendelton and the Power station by Carlsbad. The flower fields were in bloom and it was a spectacular drive as the marine layer had burned off and the ocean was a deep blue. Driving past San Diego, I was in awe of the Navy ships in port. Later we made it to San Ysidro and picked up some car insurance at the Mexi-Insur drive through.

When we crossed the border in Tijuana, the sights and sounds were all new. Tijuana was bustling with life and with windows down, the smell of street taco stands and open fire barbeques filled my senses. 

Negotiating our way through the busy streets of Tijuana to the coast highway, dad put on a local radio station and we listened to Norteno music. I was captivated by the experience and hooked on Mexico! I remember driving by a billboard advertising 7up…The sign read…Goce la Vida! (Enjoy Life!). Boy, was I ever enjoying this!

The new freeway from Tijuana to Ensenada hadn’t been built yet so we had to take the old Highway which wound its way along the coast through sleepy fishing towns. 

Driving in the late afternoon, we passed Rosarito, Cantamar, La Mission and finally made it to Ensenada. The rugged coastline was beautiful and the ocean sparkled like diamonds. The smell of the ocean and humid air “south of the border” was so unique. Everything was so different and new. 

Arriving in downtown Ensenada, we checked in at the venerable Bahia hotel, a small 50’s style architectural classic. The bell man took our bags and we got to our small room with twin beds. Later that evening, we walked along the main street among vendors and street stands with delicious seafood appetizers and then had dinner at a small restaurant with an open grill called El Venado. Their specialty of BBQ chicken with tortillas and frijoles and salsa was fabulous. (I think those guys were the early model for El pollo loco!) LOL!

Afterwards, we picked up a few small gifts for the family and then hit the sack as the next day would be a very early up.

5AM came around much earlier than expected and we walked down from the hotel to the wharf where the fishing boat was tied up. There were probably about twenty five anglers aboard and we found a spot along the railing and got our tack ready.

After powering out of Ensenada Bay for about an hour, the “Capitano” arrived at his first “good spot”. As he slowed down, he asked who would like to join the jackpot. The winner would be the fisherman who caught the biggest fish that day. I remember there was a big clear glass jar filled with water. The ante was five dollars each. My dad put in five for me. 

Looking at the many five dollar bills floating in the jar, I was captivated. Counting the bills floating of those who played, the jackpot for the biggest fish would be about $75.00!…A veritable treasure to me back then!

As the anchor dropped, everybody had their lines in the water and the fishing was good. Lots of Sea Bass and Bonita and Sculpin. But no big fish yet.

After a while we moved on to another spot, and the fishing was also good. I was intent on catching “the big one”  but I was worried every time someone pulled in a fish. Up to that point, no one seemed to have reeled in a true winner.

But then, right then and there, my reel starts screaming and my salt water rod is bending like crazy. I was trying mightily just to hang on. My dad and one of the deck hands helped me fight “the big one!” About fifteen minutes later. I finally pull the fish close to the boat and the deck hand skillfully gaffs it and brought it aboard. 

Wow!!…A gigantic Barracuda. All the guys on the deck cheer and clap!…Man oh man…The jackpot is in reach!!

I put my Barracuda into my burlap gunny sack and we moved on to the last fishing spot the Capitano says was really good and his very favorite. This would be the last stop before returning to port.

Feeling pretty good that my fish was going to be the champ, I was still worried somebody might catch a bigger one.

During the course of the day, I was fishing next to two other kids about my age. They were having a great time. They had caught a few fish and were excited every time they brought one aboard. Their grandpa had spent most of the morning sleeping on a bench at the rear of the boat, but, seemed pleased his grandsons were having a good time. 

Dropping our lines into the water at the last stop was nerve wracking. Every time some one caught a fish, I would run over and check its size. So far so good.

When finally, the Capitano tells everyone to reel it in as we’d be leaving shortly for port. 

Right about then, the old grandpa sits up and stretches and walks over to his grandsons and asks if he could have a try. 

“Sure Grandpa!” they reply

The Capitano had started up the engines as the old grandpa makes a beautiful cast off the rail. 

I could hear the rattling sound of the anchor coming up and the engines revving and thinking…I did it!

All of a sudden…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…..The grandpa’s reel starts screaming and he’s fighting a whopper…..Ayiieeeee!

The Capitano throttles back the engine as the old grandpa fights a very big fish!

After about ten minutes, he pulls aboard a big yellowtail.

Noooooooooooooooo!

As we get underway, and powering back to Ensenada, the contenders for the jackpot take their fish aft for the weigh off……Mine gets on the scale balance and no fish has come close…

But then the old grandpa puts his fish on the balance… 

Noooooooooooo!  

The Old Grandpa wins!

Oh man I was bummed! 

As we pulled ashore, all the fisherman, gave me a pat on the back and said “well done” but I was disappointed having come so close and lost.

Back on the wharf, we put the Barracuda and the other fish in the ice box and packed up our gear and began the drive back to La Mirada.

As we were driving north along the Baja coast, the sunset was beautiful and I remember the gentle smile on my dad’s face when he said, “I’m sorry you didn’t win the jackpot Paul” 

Years later, thinking about that weekend and remembering the love in my dad’s eyes…I thought…

”Actually, I did win the jackpot that weekend.

Thanks Dad