Last Few Days

I’ve been sick for nine weeks with a virus of some sort. After several visits to my doctor and three courses of antibiotics, I’m feeling much better, even though I still have a slight cough. I desperately want to be 100% for my month-long trip overseas on 7th October. I’m going on a study tour to look at parishes in another country. I’m quite excited about it, but am still concerned that I’ll have this blasted cough. It will be my first decent holiday in around twelve years, and it’s my first trip to this particular country. My mother is worried that the plane will be destroyed by terrorists. That doesn’t bother me. What’s more likely to happen is that Bush will give into his bloodlust and declare war on Iraq and international travel will be restricted. Still, I wouldn’t complain about having a longer holiday—provided I still had spending money!

It’s a big week here. Last Monday night we had four children from the town where I live celebrate the First Reconciliation. Then tonight we had five children from another part of the parish celebrate theirs. I’ve been preparing the children for the past five weeks, travelling some distance each Tuesday to prepare tonight’s children. Then this Sunday we have two children celebrating their Confirmation—I’ve been preparing these children also, travelling to them each Thursday to prepare them at school during their weekly religion class. It’s a big job preparing all these children, and very taxing mentally. Dealing with their parents, who are more often that not on the fringe of the church, can be difficult as they turn their children’s celebration into nostalgia trips, remembering their own childhood—which isn’t a problem as such, except that the church has moved on since these people were kids, whereas these people are still back in their childhood as far as their religious development is concerned.

One of the priests from one of the parish in Home City came to help me with Reconciliation last Monday. After we’d celebrated the sacrament, we came to the house where I cooked us some dinner. We hadn’t long sat down to eat and chat when a call came to inform my priest-friend that his house and office had been broken into and vandalised. So he left immediately to return home and call the police.

I had a rare night at home last night. So while watching some television I wrote some letters to some people who are in prison in another country. I subscribe to a social justice journal in which is printed the names and addresses of people in prison in that country who have expressed a desire to receive mail from people outside prison. So for about twelve years I’ve been writing to various people, men and women, in various prisons in this particular country. I’d do it for people in my own country, but no such facility exists, at least not that I’m aware of.

I’m missing my dog at the moment. Because of my overseas trip soon, she’s at my sister’s place where she’ll stay until I return in early November. She’s a very quiet dog and hardly barks, so you’d rarely know she was around. Even so I miss having her here and letting her into the house at night to watch television with me when I have the time.

I may not be in the parish much longer. I’ve been told by someone who should know that our bishop has told a priest in a nearby parish that he’s too old and has to hand in his retirement letter by the end of the year. This priest is over 80, and is, to be frank, a bitter old fart who should have retired years ago. I worked with him for four years and he should never have been ordained. He’s very skilled with finances, but is certainly not priestly material. Anyway, when the parish is declared vacant I’ll be applying for it. I’ve been in this current position for nine years and it’s time I moved on. You can stay too long in a parish. There’s no guarantee I’ll get the appointment, but I know I’d be on the shortlist for it. It’d be a good parish to be in charge of as there’s much work to do, especially in the area of young families and youth.

One of my all-time favourite songs is being played on the radio as I write this: “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?” by Van Morrison. I just wish I had someone here to sing it to!

I received word this afternoon that a parishioner I got to know rather well in a former parish (the one I’ll be applying for, mentioned two parishes above) is dying of cancer and only has days to live. This fellow had two boys who were altar servers in that parish, and his wife worked at a jewellers I spent a considerable amount of money at buying presents for family and friends. While I was in this parish this fellow developed a mental illness: he heard voices from power sockets, was getting secret messages through the radio and television that the earth was about to be invaded, and the like. He was no danger to himself, his family, or anyone else, but he was spooking his family, so I arranged to have him committed. I hated doing it, as we had to trick him to be at a certain place at a certain time, which was so the police could come and assess him and take him to the mental illness ward at the local hospital. He was in hospital for months. I lost contact with this family when I moved to the parish I’m now at. That was until I was in the jewellers today and enquired after the lady of this guy and was told he only had days to live. I called his wife on the telephone and we chatted for some time. If he dies in the next few days I’ll be able to attend his funeral. However, he’ll probably die while I’m overseas, in which case I’ll contact his family upon my return.

It’s late and it’s time for bed and I’m still rattled by my experience at the supermarket—see previous entry.

Tomorrow’s another day.