Vocation Crises
Started journal on 4/13. Title: One perspective of a history of an idea.
This is, without a doubt, the closest I’ve ever been to leaving the society. I can’t believe I’m still here actually. It all started when I went to visit a Tea House to use the Internet. At the teahouse, I was impressed with the business model: non-alcoholic, modernly stylish, technologically exciting, good service, etc. I started bullshitting with the kids behind the counter. The idea that I would try to use the computers way longer than the suggested 10 min and the fact that I needed some extra time to hunt down the cheapest thing on the menu both added to the motivation behind the stall tactic. This guy behind the counter did not own the place, but talked about it extensively. I was surprised he knew the economics as well as he did. He gave me his email on a pamphlet advertising “business concept licensing.” He’s selling something, I just can’t figure out what. I was intrigued that much more. I think he probably makes his money somewhere in the startup costs, perhaps commission on the machines or powdered drink mix.
I let the idea ferment in my head a little. I’d heard some of the BS^2 talk about wanting to open a business, as well as knowing that Steve and Cherri may need a business boost to keep up with Rosenburg’s rent increase. Of course, there’s always the lunch table group from SLUH always talking, too.
Talking with Dad, however, is what spring boarded the notion of leaving the Society into the frontal lobe. He has progressed into the next step of cancer and towards death. His cancer-o-meter has entered its final climb at a parabolic rate. Basically it’s doubling and doing so quickly. He’s finally decided to retire, which, when he had decided earlier, it was a difficult step for me. Now, this second phase of the retirement idea is another.
Since he’s serious this time about retiring, he’s taking vacations and road-trips. He’s going tomorrow through Nashville, Tennessee to Savanna, Georgia. He’s marching in a funeral for our fallen compatriots from a Confederate submarine that is just now being raised. How exciting is that! They are playing history, too. They have to wear EXACT chronologically correct clothes, etc. There will be so much there to learn and to see. What an experience! The next trip he’ll make will be a float trip with Monsignor Telethorst and Jim Faughn. I went on a similar trip with Jim and Dad. One of the best times of my life. To add the wisdom of Msgn. Telthorst on said trip would be spectacular.
As I type this my eyes well up, thinking that it’ll be one of his last. Am I really going to miss that? Will I regret this my whole life?
Speaking of that trip reminds me of a previous summer with Dad. At my graduation from Loyola, May 2001, my Dad told me about his cancer. Jenn McGlothlin, whose name haunts me as a unique and highly desirable opportunity past and lost, was there for me to cry with. Our second summer together was to follow, and unlike the summer before, she had procured the means to be in New Orleans, with me. I chose to go to St. Louis to be with my Dad. I had a sense that my relationship with him was more valuable, that my time with him would be more worthwhile. As usual, I didn’t know what to do. How do you choose something like that? I could have predicted how the summer would go, I would have chosen differently. Dad had not matured like I’d hoped and I hadn’t the patience myself. Jenn and I set the course to break up before Thanksgiving.
So I begin a difficult week with this thought lingering like a bad fart: should I split to go spend time with Dad? I have never felt like I walked in the shoes of Jesus like I did as I prayed on Holy Thursday for Yahweh to let this cup pass. The first half of that prayer is oddly easier to mutter than the second, “But thy Will be done, not mine.” Friday, Saturday, and Easter were difficult.
Besides being bombarded with dissonance of expectation, and too many sing-songy liturgies, I chose to fast. This may work against a Jesuit vocation in that I felt bad. It may work towards said vocation as it helped me maintain an appropriate distance from whatever my protein-starved brain produced, which was mostly a bunch of fuss. It could be said that this patience, tolerance, or distance of my thoughts is what keeps me here.
Sunday night, I went to Strake, learned that Michael Kellaher had done worker hall five days a week. Circumstance somehow seems a more important factor in a vocational calling than before. Seeing Chris Hernandez and Mark Thibideaux’s question about whether I was looking forward to Grand Coteau helped me have some hope. Mark’s comments about his cushiness reminded me of Passionate Uncertainty’s sound byte criticism that the Society is little more than a professional association if anything, another recurring thought that decreases the faith, love, and hope.
That night I drank too much to have any patience with Abel (dude in wheelchair with broken arms from sleeping in dumpster). He came in drunk, faught with an ayudante, and broke the television, thus proving that God can and does work through our faults, our sins and dumkoffs: Moses, Peter, and now Abel. The next day the drama would entertain the house with better quality and similar style than a telenovela, a spanish soap opera. End result of the first three episodes: Abel is AWOL. His wheelchair has found its way back to us, though.
I dreamt the best in recent memory. Basically, it was a lucid dream and included an amazing sense of and maybe even conversation with God. I worked the food bank fatigued. I went to take a nap and started praying over leaving and started feeling less attracted to the idea. All the weekend, I spoke with Dad several times. I was failing to grasp the meaning behind his silence, the only feedback about the particular question of leaving. I did, nonetheless, get the sense that somehow this trip would be a typical road-trip more than a pilgrimage. I fell asleep before advancing the discernment too much. Upon awaking however, my location (perhaps my entire vocation) was put to the test.
Bobby showed up and The signs started flowing… 1) Bobby showed up. 2) I’d had my fill of this place. 3) there was room in Bobby’s car. 4) Dad was leaving soon for the road trip. 5) When I went to go to Mass, Amanda needed to use the restroom, so I rode with Bobby instead of in the car with the others. 6) Bobby does not know Houston, it would have been easier to just get on I-10 east. 7) In the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the killing compound is called the Huete Ranch (same name as our Novice Master). 
We started seeing Miatas on the road. 9) St. Anne’s is right by the teahouse, 10)which I had discussed with Brad Weber recently.
So Bobby dropped me off and said I could call to turn him around. Perhaps God would enlighten me at Mass. Then, 11) the priest didn’t show up to Mass. On the way back to CJD, I saw several more Miatas. I pondered the whole way home if there was a message from God.
Shane called me later that night and I dumped the above story out on him. I still was feeling it, too. I told him it wouldn’t be too much a surprise if I discerned that leaving were what God wanted me to do. Shane listened like a pro. His responses tapped our idyllic charism and consoled.
At the Mass I finally made it to, “sliding doors” a movie I’ve never seen popped into my head. It follows the protagonist through two possible consequences of an occurrence. That night (tues, 4/13) I stayed up late discussing the situation with Jon and Sean. That night was very soothing, I don’t know how introverts do it.
Wednesday, I slept through the ONE chore I’m responsible for, setting up for mass. I’m too familiar with feeling incapable. Arthur didn’t show up, and after the Mass, I saw the note that he’d called to cancel. I had planned to go see “Big Fish” with him. Our fathers, with their medical problems, are common topics for our best conversations.
Thursday was annoying as usual. I had worker hall. I scheduled moving work for Serena at 11am. At 9:30, The truck came by and picked me up to go to food bank for Casa Maria. We transported 10,000 pounds of food, finishing around 1pm. I took Jorge, Juan, and Jose to help move Serena’s things. I was proud of myself for remembering her child’s name, Charles. (St. Charles Borromeo is the patron saint of Seminarians.) Backing out of the alley in that huge truck was worth remembering here: “The secret is to go slow,” my dad always said. I went to Mass at 7pm at St. Esteban’s, therefore I was late to the ayudante meeting. It seemed like they were just discussing whatever issues were on the mind, such as the rumor of La Migra picking guys up. I would have loved to have asked a million questions about worker hall, but felt that I had missed too much of the meeting to show up late carrying a topic so big with me. After it all, Mark asked me briefly if I was okay. I knew it was a lead-in to some correction, since he’s never asked such a question. I apologized for missing morning prayer, because I tend to forget when I’m at worker hall. I didn’t go on to explain that I may tend to forget that I could leave worker hall. Such a fact would contradict the logic of having to go to worker hall, which is so uncomfortable that any logic pointing in the direction away from us having to go to worker hall, is easily embraced as truth. The other thought I had was that I was going to get fussed at for coming late to the meeting. I prepped a Mass defense. Actually, I was fussed at for missing our noon discussion. I hadn’t thought to apologize for that considering the following. a) My presence at said meeting does not convey to me the feeling of accomplishment in any regard. b) I had checked with the veteran volunteers, who said that they’d only made 20 min of the discussion and that, as usual, nothing important was discussed. I am sad that I missed whatever Jonathan said. He was offended by being accused of saying that all religions are equal. I realized that I should have asked Serena for more time. I didn’t since I was already 3 hours late.
That night might be our last night of basketball considering Tristan declared his retirement. He charged in and bloodied Sean’s nose. The blood flowed intensely. It was an emotionally moving sight.
Friday. I set out to feel productive and I did. I got gas for the weed-wackers, dragged Mullet out of bed to the hospital, and discovered a park in Houston with a garden, the zoo, and the science museum. Jonathan invited me to lunch, the best meal I’ve had since I can remember: Shrimp po-boy with bread as fresh as the restaurant’s atmosphere.
Saturday Mass at St. Anne’s. Dan Justin from Wisconsin Province arrived. I got lost in Houston, twice. Met with Louise and Mark for a meeting: Talked about Dad and then Metaphysical philosophy. Tristan went to talk with them for the meeting, which, until two minutes before, we thouth was for BOTH of us. So, I went afterwards. We went to St. Teresa’s to pray, but there was a wedding. Always a bridemaid and never a bride, sigh. We went to St. Anne’s instead. Good prayer session: felt God’s presence and loving support. I bought a 3 dollar sport coat for the fundraiser which was super fun. I enjoyed it, mainly because it gave me some hope.
Random Notes:
Upcoming Activities for Kurt
May 7th return to Grand Coteau,
mentally process for one week,
8day retreat,
two weeks vacation at Perdido Key.
Also at Grand Coteau:
study spanish,
intense sexuality/celebacy discussions,
apostolic work and regular ordo.
Thought to remember:
Today I saw in a bulletin about Sin that there two angles to view it. One was the typical and obvious legalistic view “what did I do?” The other was “who am I, how does this decision influence who I am or who I want to be?”
What I should have spent my prayer time on:
I intend to actually venture into the CG5SMMMD, Coach Gerwitz 5-step moral decision making process. I promise, I really do. No, For real. Quick making that face.