Frank is Emptiness

August 13th, 2018

“Brain Damage”

Is the universe rational? Are people rational? Am I?

Does it even matter?

Humans are thinking creatures. That is how we are hard wired. We cannot not think. In Zen we are sometimes told find to the “mind before thinking”. We might as well try to find the body before breathing. Thinking is who we are. It is an essential part of our being.

There is clearly a value in seeing the world as it is without judging it, or critiquing it, or even trying to make sense of it. There is a value in just seeing the color red, or just feeling the raindrops on the skin, or just tasting a fresh peach. There is a value in just being. 

I over-analyze almost everything. I try to figure things out. I was trained to do that from a very early age, and usually I am quite good at it. However, it is a dead end. Logic can only take me so far. Reason slams into the brick wall of chaos. Eventually, my mind can no longer find the results that I seek. In particular, I can not answer the question “why?”

Complete understanding is impossible. I will never understand the world. I will never understand other people, or even understand myself.

I might be able to love what I can’t understand.

Throughout history, there have been men and women who have loved in ways that made no sense. I am thinking of Francis of Assisi and St. Clare and Hildegard of Bingen. I am thinking of Hafiz and Rumi and Ibn Arabi. I am thinking of Maximilian Kolbe and Sophie Scholl and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. They all lived in times and places that made no sense at all. They acted in ways that seemed completely irrational. They all did the right thing.

I took our daughter’s dog outside this morning at 4:00 AM. I looked up at the sky and found the constellation Perseus. I saw a single shooting star. The burning stone in the sky had no meaning. It was only beautiful, and it was only there for a moment.

It was the only thing that mattered.

August 12th, 2018

I sat on a bench outside of St. Rita Church this morning. A woman walked up to me and said,

“You really look tired.”

I rubbed my eyes, and replied, “Yes, I am.”

Two days ago, when I was sitting with the Syrian kids and reading stories, Nizar said the same thing,

“Hey, Frank, you look tired! Are you tired?”

Earlier I had mentioned to Nizar’s mom that I was tired, in Arabic. (“Ta’abaan”)

I do feel worn out. I look into the bathroom mirror and red eyes stare back at me.

I am convinced that most of this weariness is the result of the interactions I’ve had with the girl we love, especially during the last several weeks. Since the end of June, my life has been chaotic. So has Karin’s. We have gone from one crisis to another with scarcely a pause in the action. It feels like an Indiana Jones movie. It has been nearly impossible to plan ahead, and we cringe every time the phone rings. In particular, the last week or two have been brutal. At one point we did not know if the girl was alive or dead. We have spent days talking with cops and the young woman’s probation officer. We grow weary. At least, I grow weary.

Yesterday Karin and I attempted to celebrate our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary. We were married in Karin’s home village in Germany back in 1984. A lot has changed since then. Maybe everything has changed. I am hard pressed to think of anything that has remained constant other than the fact that somehow we are still together.

Karin and I had simple plans for our anniversary. We wanted to go to Mass together in the morning, and get a blessing from our priest. Then our ways would diverge. Karin wanted to go to the State Fair grounds to look at the sheep and wool exhibits. I wanted to go to the synagogue to pray, and then to have a long-postponed kosher lunch with my friend, Ken. In the afternoon, we were thinking of going to a German restaurant for dinner. Karin had suggested the idea. Karin had also bought a bottle of Riesling for later in the evening. As background, Karin was raised in the Taubertal, a wine-making region of southern Germany. We didn’t have a Riesling at our wedding, but we drank something similar. We had numerous bottles of Markelsheimer Propstberg, a slightly-sweet, full-flavored, fruity wine. I remember it well.

Mass on a Saturday morning is a bit odd. Most churches do not even have a liturgy at that time. The only reason that it is available at St. Rita is that the parish is run by a group of Augustinian priests, and they have a school for novices on the site. Saturday morning Mass tends to be an intimate affair that draws mostly an older crowd ( a much older crowd). There are sometimes a few younger people in attendance, but they tend to have a peculiarly intense sort of Catholic religiosity that is both impressive and rather irritating. Father David, the new novice director, celebrated the Mass. He’s a thin man of fifty years who wears large, horn-rimmed glasses that give him an owlish appearance. He’s a quiet man who displays a quiet sort of compassion toward others.

At the end of the service Father David called Karin and me forward. He announced to the congregation that we were celebrating our thirty-first anniversary. Thirty-one years? Thirty-four? At this point in life, does it even make a difference? He gave us a blessing, and then he said to me,

“You may now kiss the bride!”

Karin and I kissed.

It was a nice touch.

I dropped Karin off at the fair grounds. The girl we love was supposed to have a phone interview with a local sober living house at about that time. She was calling the sober living house from jail. I had set up a pre-paid phone account in order for her to do that. I was hoping that it would all go well, and that the folks at the house would allow the girl to join them. Karin hoped the same thing. Once I stopped at the curb, Karin walked away from our car in search of sheep, and maybe cream puffs.

I drove across town to the synagogue. As I parked, I got a series of text messages from Karin. Apparently, the phone interview had not gone well. The residents of the sober living house were not entirely convinced that the girl really wanted to stay sober. In one text, Karin asked me if we should visit the young woman at the jail in the afternoon, between one and three o’clock.

I groaned. Can’t we be left alone for even one day? This meant that I couldn’t have lunch with Ken because Shacharit in the Shul goes until at least 12:30. I texted back to Karin and reluctantly told her, “Yeah”. Odds were that our girl was expecting us to visit, even if Karin had not actually promised that. There was no way to let the young woman that we were not coming, since we couldn’t call into the jail. The girl could only call out. Karin told me to pick her up at noon.

I figured that I had about an hour and a half to spend at the synagogue. I put on my black yarmulke and walked inside. (Side note: Karin had knit the yarmulke for me. She does that sort of thing.) When I got there, they were still waiting for enough Jewish men to make up a minyan. They were momentarily disappointed when I showed up. I’m not Jewish, so I literally don’t count. The guys were happy to see me, but not as happy as they would have been if I could have been a Jew for a day.

I stopped to talk with Ken. I told him that lunch was not happening. He was okay with that. I wasn’t. I was upset, partly because I had been looking forward to a meal and conversation at his house, and partly because I knew that, as an Orthodox Jew, Ken has done all the meal preparation the day before Shabbat. All his culinary efforts had gone to waste. Ken knows about the struggles that Karin and I are having. He spoke to me about how God never places too heavy a burden on to a person, but it sure feels that way sometimes. He gave me a quick hug.

A couple more congregants showed up, and they could get the service rolling. Yesterday they read the Parsha Re’eh from the Torah. I have only a minimal understanding of Hebrew, but I know enough that I can follow along with the English text in the Chumash. I can usually also keep up with the prayers in the Siddur.

In the text from yesterday, Moses said to the Hebrews, “I place before you today a blessing and a curse.” Somehow that struck me. I don’t know why.

The reading of the parscha is interrupted briefly after the first three aliyahs. At that time the rabbi prays for those people who are ill. The Jews always pray for our young woman. Every Shabbat, without fail, they pray for her healing. They don’t even know her (well, Ken does), but they say her name each and every week. Every time they pray for her, I feel like crying.

I had to leave after the reading of the Haftorah. I think it was from Isaiah. On the way to the Fair Park, I had to stop at a traffic light. There was a young man on the side, holding a sign saying that he was homeless. He was munching on blueberries. I called to the young guy. Then I pulled out some cash and handed it to him. He thanked me.

I asked the guy, “What’s your name?”

“Tim.”

“I’m Frank. So, how did you get to be homeless?”

Tim replied, “I have a drinking problem. I lost my job a year ago, and I’m trying to get my act together.”

The light turned green.

“I hear you, Man. I got to go.”

I drove off.

I got to the State Fair, and picked up Karin. I was in a foul mood. She noticed that quickly. She has known me for a while. It is an hour drive from State Fair Park to the jail in Kenosha. That gave me plenty of time to stew. As an added benefit, traffic sucked hard.

We had been to that jail many times in the past, so Karin and I knew the drill for getting to see our loved one. We filled out our paper slips with the stubby pencils provided by the Sheriff’s Department.  We slipped the papers and our ID’s to the woman behind the Plexiglas window. She had issues. She had to make a couple calls and consult with  a number of people. She finally told us,

“We can’t let you visit this woman. She is under a suicide watch.”

“You got to be fucking kidding me. Now what happened?” (This was thought, but not spoken.)

She gave us back our ID”s. The woman continued to speak in her clipped, bureaucratic voice,

“Next time you should call ahead before coming.”

I mumbled, “Yeah, okay…”

She kept talking, “I didn’t ask for this. Don’t be upset with me.”

I sighed deeply, “Yeah, fine…”

“Just call next time, and make sure that she is available.”

“Ooookay…”

I wanted to strangle a puppy.

Karin and I drove home. My mood was black: a rancid combination of anger, sorrow, and fatigue. I radiated Sith energy. I let Karin know that I really didn’t want to go out to eat.

We kept away from each other for a couple hours. I laid on the bed and read parts of The Healer of Shattered Hearts, a book of Jewish spirituality. Reading that often helps. Somehow, Jewish spirituality feels so real. It just does, especially with regards to suffering.

In the evening, Karin asked me,

“Do you want me to open up the bottle of Riesling? We could have a couple glasses, and eat some snacks.”

“Sure.”

So, Karin and I sat in the kitchen. We lit the wedding candle that we got from her Onkel Kurt and Tante Aga back in 1984. We light the candle every year. It might be the only thing we still have and use from the wedding. Well, the wine glasses are from then too. We filled those with the Riesling.

Karin wanted to look at old photos. Those are melancholy for me. Many of the people in those pictures are long dead. Those who remain alive are very different now. Karin and I are very different now. We only vaguely resemble the newlyweds from three decades ago.

We sat and talked, as old married couples do. We are an “Alte Ehepaar”, as the Germans would say.

I asked Karin, “You want to watch a movie?”

She brightened up a bit. “Sure, what?”

“Kung Fu Panda.”

“Oh, that’s on Netflix.”

“Good, let’s watch it. We need something like that.”

And we did.

August 10th, 2018

Earlier today, I was driving slowly south on Cesar Chavez. It was late in the afternoon. Traffic crawled. I downshifted from second to first gear. I looked up ahead, and I could that the light was still red at the intersection with Greenfield Avenue. There were about ten cars ahead of me. I probably wasn’t going to make it through the intersection when the signal finally turned green.

As I waited, I checked out the stores along the street. One of them had a flashing sign that said, “Abierto”. I tried to read some of the Spanish advertising. I know only a minimal amount of Spanish (“un poquito” ). However, I know what “panaderia” and”carniceria” mean. I like to eat, and bread and meat are of interest to me. The corner of Cesar Chavez and Greenfield is the beating heart of the Latino neighborhood in Milwaukee.

In a way it’s odd that I know this area so well, especially since the people I visit here speak Arabic. My Syrian refugee family lives only a block from the intersection. I was on my way home from a session of reading with the kids. They were glad to see me. I had been gone for a few weeks. Yasmin insisted on showing me how well she could read. Her little brother, Yusuf, sat next to her and giggled. Um Hussein brought me hot, sweet tea. Ibrahim, Nizar, and Nisrin watched TV. They didn’t want to read today. That’s okay. They will probably read the next time I come.

As I sat in traffic, I suddenly remembered a phone call I got a few weeks ago from somebody that I love. As usual, the caller was in a state of utter panic when she phoned me. It’s strange, but I am getting used to that.

The girl called me at home. After I picked up the phone, she cried out,

“I’m lost! And I have to be back at the sober living house in forty minutes, or I’ll miss curfew, and they will kick me out!”

I hate calls like that.

I tried to remain cool and collected. I asked her, “So where do you think you are?”

She yelled over the phone, “I’m somewhere in Little Mexico!”

“Okay…okay…are you outside?”

“Yeah”, she replied sobbing.

“Is there a street sign?”

“Yeah”, more sobbing.

“What does it say?”

“Hang on, let me look.” (pause) “It says ‘Scott Street’ “.

“Scott Street. I know where that is. So, Scott Street and what?”

“Huh?”

“What is the cross street?”

“Oh, let me check…”

“Okay, tell you what…call me back when you know exactly where you are.”

“NO! Don’t hang up! I’ll ask somebody!”

There was the sound of muffled voices for a minute or so. Then,

“Scott Street and Cesar Chavez.”

“Okay, you want me to get you?”

“Can you get me to Riverwest by 6:00 PM?”

“Hmmmmm, I get you close.”

More sobbing. “Okay.”

I told her, “Just wait there, I’ll leave home right now and pick you up.”

More sobbing. “Okay.”

I was pretty stressed at this point. I told Karin that I was on a mission. I got in the car and headed toward Milwaukee. Two minutes later, my cell rings. It was the lost girl.

I answered, “What?!”

She spoke calmly, “I got a ride.”

“So, now you don’t need me?”

“No, but thanks anyway.”

I turned around and went home.

Now, whenever I am near Cesar Chavez and Scott, and I cannot help but recall that conversation. It’s burned into my memory.

August 9th, 2018

I sat in the temple. I like sitting in the temple. I don’t know why. It just feels right.

The Sikh Temple of Wisconsin is in Oak Creek, just a couple miles from our house. Every couple weeks I go there just to sit on the floor in their sanctuary. They don’t have hardly any chairs, so almost everybody sits on the floor. Maybe I pray, or maybe I meditate, or maybe I just slump back against the wall and try to rest. When I am overwhelmed by life I go there. I’ve been going to the temple for years. I am that stray white guy who shows up every now and then.

The Sikhs are both very hospitable and very clannish. The Sikh religion claims to be universal, but it is also intensely tribal. Usually, everyone in the temple is from the Punjab, except for me. I don’t mind. Neither do they.

I don’t understand much about the Sikh religion. I don’t need to. I do know some of the basics. Years ago, I cornered a Sikh and asked him for the abbreviated version of their practice. He told me this about their beliefs and customs:

1. “God is all-powerful and He is good.”
2. “We always share our food.”
3. “Everybody should have a job.”

These three ideas permeate the practice of the Sikh religion. The Sikhs are monotheistic. Although they are almost exclusively from India, they do not share the polytheistic  views of the Hindus.

They do share their food. An essential part of every Sikh temple is a kitchen. The temple always smells like an Indian restaurant.  Going to the temple is like going to Grandma’s house: you will not leave without eating something. Part of the ritual upon entering the sanctuary is to take some prashad, which is kind of like Punjabi cookie dough. Prashad consists of flour, butter, and sugar. It is sweet and very oily. A person coming to the temple is expected to eat it. Often I fail to take any of the prashad out of the bowl near the altar. An older priest, Gur Tan Singh, without fail, will scoop up some of the dough and bring it to me. Also, the Sikhs always have curry and rice simmering in the kitchen. They are adamant that a visitor, like me, go into the kitchen and eat some of it. They usually have tea and milk available too. A visitor will share a meal. That’s all there is to it.

I heard that the original Sikh guru, in his travels through India, observed the practices of many other faiths. He saw numerous wandering mendicants, holy men and women who begged for their daily meals. The guru didn’t like that. He thought that people should work for their food. So, the Sikhs that I have met all have an almost Puritan sort of work ethic. Everybody hustles. The model for the Sikhs is the householder who works hard, raises a family, and supports his or her community. Everybody has a job.

The temple is a sacred space. It has that feel. The altar is decorated with colorful cloth coverings and a canopy. The holy book of the Sikhs sits on the altar. The sanctuary is quiet and welcoming. The priests greet me when I come, but they don’t evangelize. They are like the Jews in that way. It’s not like when I went to Elmbrook once and the Baptists there couldn’t wait to get me on their mailing list.  The Sikhs never turn anyone away, but they respect the privacy of a visitor. They will urge a person to eat, but not to convert.

I generally do not stay very long at the temple. I pray and sit and think. Then I go.

I went out to the foyer when I was done sitting. I was putting on my shoes when a young priest spoke to me. He was tall and dark, with deep, penetrating eyes. He asked quietly,

“Are you doing well?”

In a burst of honesty, I replied, “No.”

The priest looked confused for a moment and asked, “No?”

“No.”

“Is something the matter?”

“Somebody I love is in jail.”

“Oh”, he replied.

“She tried to kill herself last week.”

The priest nodded. Then he said,

“Do not worry. We will pray for her.”

“Okay”, and I shrugged.

He said firmly, “We will pray. It will be okay. It is not to worry.”

I asked his name.

“It is Rajinder…Singh”. (Among the Sikhs almost everyone is named “Singh”).

“I’m Frank.”

We shook hands.

I left the temple believing him. It will be okay.

August 5th, 2018

This is confusing, very confusing.

I have been slowly working on the take home exam from the class I took about immigration law. The questions all require short, but detailed answers. I really wonder if I will pass this test. It’s open book, but that fact is not much comfort. Finding the rules for a particular immigration issue is like entering a labyrinth. There are plenty of twists and turns, and many dead ends. It is easy to get lost and choose the wrong path. In a real life situation, the wrong answer could ruin somebody’s life. The Minotaur lurks in the details, hides among the statutes and regulations, and waits to pounce on the person who does not venture deep enough into the text.  This is a scary place.

It is frightening for a number of reasons. First and foremost, this is scary because so much is riding on it. People who walk into a non-profit, like Voces de la Frontera, with an immigration problem are usually worried. They don’t often come to visit just because they feel like saying hi. They come in because I.C.E. is breathing down their necks, and they don’t know what to do. They are hoping that somebody at Voces does know what they should do. At this point, I am not that somebody. I don’t know what they should do, and I cannot legally give them any advice. I don’t even know what questions to ask.

I ask myself how deep I want to get into to this maze. How much responsibility do I want? At my age, how much can I learn and utilize? Most of the thirty-eight people in the immigration law class were relatively young. They all have some experience in this area already, and they are eager to work as immigration layers or para-legals. I’m not young and I’m not going to be a lawyer. As I told the main instructor, “I’m retired. I’ve already had a career.”

The situation seems weird because I never requested to go to this class. I was asked by somebody else to join it. I said yes. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, and I still don’t. All I know is that it feels like I got on to a roller coaster, and now I can’t get off until the ride comes to a complete stop. Something beyond my control is now in motion. I find that disconcerting, and a bit exciting.

Is this a path I should follow? I have no idea. All I know is that I need to finish this take home exam. If I pass it, then I have more decisions to make. If I don’t, well, then immigration law is not my path.

I don’t know.

August 5th, 2018

Fuck.

She’s back in jail.

Actually, it is a relief to know that she is behind bars. The other options were much more frightening. She could have been on the run, or in the ER, …or dead. Karin and I have spent the last two days seriously considering the possibility of this young woman being dead. The young woman did call Karin very early on Thursday morning to tell her that she thought she had alcohol poisoning. She had that once before and came very, very close to dying. I was with her once in an ER when her kidneys were failing. I was with her in another ER where the nurse told me that this young woman had come into the hospital with a blood alcohol level of .398%. That is as close to dead as a person can be without crossing over to the other side.

The girl was released from jail in the last part of June. She was out and about for almost six weeks, and she was doing well. She really was. She had a place to stay in a local sober living house. She wasn’t necessarily happy there, but none of us had any better ideas with regards to housing for her. She had health insurance. She had a therapist. She had food stamps. She aced a job interview. It is true that the young woman had some serious obstacles to overcome, but none of these seemed insurmountable. Karin and I tried to provide whatever help we could muster. And yet, it all unraveled. It apparently ended in a hotel room with this girl cuddling a bottle of hard liquor for comfort and solace.

Why?

She sent me a four word text on Wednesday evening. It was the last thing I heard from her up until yesterday. It was cryptic, but I understood her right away. It’s hard to explain, but she pointed out poor choices I have made, or that she thinks that I have made. She often, in times of crisis, goes back to picking at old wounds. I do that too. It is not an uncommon way of dealing with issues. The past is dead, but not quite. For some reason we can never start fresh. We can’t let go, so we can’t move forward. The cycle repeats.

I am convinced that people seldom hurt others out of spite or malice. We hurt others because of weakness or ignorance or fear. We desperately want to do the right thing, but we often do the thing that causes the most harm. Perhaps I should not say “we”. I know that I operate that way. I suspect that others do the same thing.

I cannot repair the damage that I have done. Neither can she. There are things that we simply can not fix. Maybe we can forgive. Maybe.

She called us from jail yesterday afternoon. She asked us to help get her stuff from the police station. She apologized for what had happened. I had been upset with her. Now I’m not. I cannot maintain a feeling of outrage. It’s not because I am compassionate and forgiving. I just don’t have the stamina to stay angry.

When Trent Reznor sings, “I will make you hurt”, I hear other voices too.

I hear mine, and I hear hers.

August 1st, 2018

Sleep is important. It is especially important if a person (like me) has to go to a class the next morning and learn about the arcane rules of U.S. immigration law. I had hoped to walk into my class fresh and alert. Alas, this was not to be.

I did go to bed early. However, that only matters if a person can expect to continue to sleep during the night. That was not my experience. I was in a room with three other men, most of whom were from abroad and suffering from massive jet lag. So, I was sharing a room with three guys who still thought day was night and night was day. This being the case, they tried to be polite, but they were up and awake when I was unsuccessfully trying to sleep. My roommates spoke loudly at unexpected moments, and they did not understand the idea of turning off lights when others are trying to rest.

After several fitful hours of interrupted sleep, I got up. It was 2:30 AM.

I took a shower, and then I went out of the hostel into the streets of Chicago for several hours. Now, this particular hostel (HI Chicago Hostel/the J. Ira and Nicki Harris Family Hostel), is really pretty nice. It is literally in the heart of Chicago. It’s located in the Loop, at the corner of Wabash and Congress. The hostel is inexpensive, clean, and safe. It has an excellent continental breakfast. The only problem is that it has a transient population of tourists from all over the globe, most of whom want to party hard. I understand that. I traveled abroad in my youth, and I know how it feels to want to see and do everything right now, because it is likely that the tourist will never come back to the place. I get that. Unfortunately, that knowledge did not make me sleep any better.

I carried my book bag with me as I wandered the darkened streets of pre-dawn, downtown Chicago. I had everything I owned in the bag, not just my school books. I lugged it two blocks along Wabash until I came to the 24-hour Dunkin Donuts shop. Most all-night food emporiums, including Dunkin Donuts, attract an eclectic clientele. The people there at 3:00 are either just waking up, or they have been up for way too long. In either case, those people, including myself, are not terribly coherent.

I walked up to the counter, and I spoke to the young black girl who was placing fresh doughnuts and sweet rolls on the shelves behind the glass.

“Hi”, I said in a tired voice, “How are you?”

She smiled at me and asked brightly, “I’m a little behind this morning. What can I get you?”

I peered at a small display of cookies. “I would like one of these with the macadamia nuts.”

The girl said, “If you buy buy two of them, they are only 50 cents apiece.”

I showed her two fingers.

She went on, “So, you want anything else?”

“Coffee.”

She smiled again, “Room for cream and sugar?”

“No, I like mine black and bitter like my mood.”

“Oh no!” she said, “We can’t have that! We got to lighten you up.”

“Whatever. You like third shift? I worked it for years. I always felt like I had a buzz going.”

She shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s pretty rough between three and four in the morning.”

“Oh yeah”, I replied. “I couldn’t remember anything during those hours of the night.”

She filled up a paper cup with coffee, and she gave me two cookies.

I walked over to a seat. I took a bite out of a cookie, and I sipped the coffee.

It was sweet. Cream and sugar.

Whatever.

When I finished the coffee, I walked back on to Wabash. The sky was clear and the gibbous moon filled it. There was a cool breeze blowing between the tall buildings. I could her the sound of crickets coming from somewhere. I turned to the east to walk to the lake. I could see the big, neon sign that said, “Lollapalooza” glaring in the distance. I soon found out that Grant Park was blocked off with fences. Everything was being set up for the concerts.

I did my best to navigate through the fences and the rent-a-cops in the park. One fat guy in a golf cart stopped me and asked,

“Where you going? You trying to get to work?”

“No. I just want to go to the lake. I want to see the sunrise.”

“Well, keep going down this path. You will find the barrier. There is a hole in the fence. Go through that, and you can get to the lake front.”

I didn’t find the hole. Instead, I wandered through the park, avoiding fences, tents, generators, and kiosks. I hiked up a small hill to take a closer look at a huge equestrian statue of some forgotten Civil War hero. I wound up on the edge of Lake Shore Drive, walking several blocks to the north until the fences ended. I strolled through Maggie Daley Park, and I eventually found myself back on Wabash.

I walked south on Wabash to return to the hostel for a while. I walked past a 7/11. I guy yelled at me,

“You got some money?!”

I pulled out a $5. As I handed him the bill, I asked him, “What’s your name?”

“Morris!” He slid the money into his pocket.

Morris went on,”I ain’t got money for no breakfast. That shit in 7/11 is so damn expensive. I ain’t had no sleep.”

“I hear you. I ain’t slept much either. My name is Frank.”

He didn’t hear me. He said, “I ain’t had no sleep at all.”

I nodded. “I’ll see you.”

He nodded back to me.

I sat in the lobby of the hostel for a while, then I walked to Clark and Madison to attend the 6:15 Mass at St. Peter, a Franciscan church wedged tightly between the soaring office buildings. As I walked there, I passed another homeless guy, sitting on the pavement. I had met him the previous day. He just stared at the sidewalk.

I pulled out some cash and put into his cup. I said, “Morning, James.”

He looked up at me, and there was a flash of recognition in his bloodshot eyes..

“Oh, thanks. What was you name again?”

“I’m Frank.”

“Oh yeah, you’re Frank.” He nodded.

I went to Mass. I prayed. I prayed a lot. I prayed for Morris and James. I prayed for other people that I love.

Later, I walked east to Michigan Avenue. I sat on the steps that lead up to the Art Institute of Chicago. Two massive bronze lions guarded the entrance to the museum. They also guarded me.

I just watched the traffic, both motorized and pedestrian. There was an endless flow of people. Most of them were hooked up to something. Two thirds of the walkers seemed to be part of the Matrix. I saw many people with a smart phone in one hand and a coffee in the other. I was very impressed with the folks who juggled a coffee, a phone, and a cigarette. A few folks were talking on the phone to some unseen person, gesturing with their hands as if that individual was actually standing in front of them. I noticed very few people who seemed aware of their surroundings. Their bodies were near to me, but their minds were far, far away.

At 8:30 it was time to walk the three blocks to my classroom. I went there reluctantly. The scene on the street was much more interesting.

July 28th, 2018

Utter chaos.

That’s how it felt.

Ogilvie Transportation Center is just west of the river on Madison Street in downtown Chicago. It is a nexus for several CTA train lines, along with being the focal point for a number of Metra lines that extend out from Chicago to neighboring cities, and even to neighboring states. Ogilvie is not nearly as daunting as Port Authority in New York, but at 5:00 PM on a Friday, it is still a maelstrom of people. Everything and everybody is in motion.

There are at least a dozen tracks in the station designated just for the various Metra trains that stop there to pick up passengers, or to disgorge them. As soon as a train leaves the station, another one takes its place on the track. The trains are constantly going in and out, in and out. When a train arrives, people pour out of it on to the platform, and then other people flow back on to the train. In and out. In and out. The people generally do not interact with each other. They keep their words and thoughts to themselves. Each one of them is completely alone in a churning human sea.

The vast majority of the people in the station know exactly where they are going and where they want to be. They don’t want to be in Ogilvie Station. They want to be at home, wherever that might be. Nobody really wants to be at Ogilvie. It is never a destination. It is just a point on the way to a destination.

I rushed from my law class to catch a train to Wisconsin. I was totally focused on getting from 228 South Wabash to Ogilvie. The walk takes twenty minutes if all the traffic lights are in my favor. I had to stop a few times at a busy street corner and wait. That made me anxious. I was in a hurry, surrounded by other people who were in a hurry. I was eager to get home.

There were homeless people on the sidewalk on the way to the station. I passed one black man with wild hair and wild eyes. He was singing “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” in an off key tenor. A woman was sitting on the pavement, sobbing, “Help me. Help me.” A thin man was curled up in a ball near the corner of a building, apparently asleep. Another man was yelling in a hoarse voice, “I need to get me some dinner!” These people were not in a rush. They didn’t want to be there, but they didn’t have a destination. They had nowhere else to go. When I return to Chicago tomorrow morning, some of them will probably still be where they were on Friday. They still won’t have a destination.

As I walked by each of those people, I thought about handing them some cash. I had a little money on me. I didn’t give it to them. It wasn’t that I felt like I couldn’t spare the money. I felt like I couldn’t spare the time.

I was caught up in this rapidly moving river of people. I felt like I couldn’t leave the current. It would have only taken me a minute to flip somebody a bill, but I didn’t want to throw cash at a person and just keep going. That would like paying a toll. That wouldn’t be human. Sure, the person would have some money, but they need more than that. They need my contact. They need my time.

Sometime tomorrow (I don’t know when), I will walk past a homeless person in Chicago. Tomorrow, I will stop and greet that person. I will ask their name. I will tell them mine. I will give them something, but I don’t know what. I will know that when I meet them. The encounter will probably be brief, but it will be personal, and it will be human.

July 28th, 2018

Forty years ago, when I was a cadet at the United States Military Academy (West Point), I was required to study law for a semester. In particular, my classmates and I were forced to review the contents of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). The joke at the time was that “military justice” was to “justice” what “military music” was to other forms of music. Military justice has some passing resemblance to the commonly accepted concept of justice, but no more than that.

I did fairly well in that class, but I never had enough of OCD to be a total stickler for details. I have never had the patience to split hairs. However, that is what the law is about. There were (and are) no definitive answers, because somebody could always say, “but on the other hand…”.  I found the course to be interesting, and also remarkably frustrating. I was relieved when that semester was finished.

Fast forward to July 2018.

I am in the middle of another law class. This time I am studying immigration law. I thank God that it does not last for a semester. However, even a week of learning about immigration law is enough to push me to the edge. Our study guide looks like an old version of a Manhattan phone book, and I am struggling through nightly homework assignments of over one hundred pages. American immigration law is a Byzantine collection of rules, loaded with endless numbers of exceptions, waivers, and apparent contradictions. I do not consider myself to be stupid, but I find that I cannot keep track of all the statutes and regulations. I prefer to do things that make sense, and immigration law simply does not qualify.

I am very grateful to the instructors of this class. They are making every effort to make an irrational system understandable. Despite their care and diligence, I still find that immigration law is a hideous mess. Somehow, it reminds me of the times that I have sat in the synagogue and listened to the rabbi try to interpret the halacha, the laws of the the Torah and Talmud. Even after the rabbi gave his interpretation, based on the Talmud and on the writings of the sages, I would still shake my head and (softly) say something like, “Really? You got to be kidding me.”

There is a difference between what happens in the synagogue and what happens with immigration law. A ruling on the halacha might affect how somebody cooks a meal or celebrates a wedding. An immigration ruling might decide if a person ever sees his or her children again. All laws have an effect. Some more than others.

I don’t like immigration law. I will never like it. I study it because, regardless of how screwed up it is, it profoundly affects the lives of many people, and I care about these people (at least some of them). It is a crazy, absurd set of rules that can create a new life for somebody or utterly destroy the one they already have.

It does not matter if I like it or not. It is. It is all I have to work with.

And I will work with it.

July 23rd, 2018

This essay from me was printed in the parish bulletin of St. Rita Church in Racine, Wisconsin, on July 22nd.

Ministry

“I have served as a lector for twenty-six years, so I think I am getting the hang of it. I have only proclaimed the Scriptures at St. Rita during the last year, and usually only at the 10:30 Mass. So, many people don’t know me yet. Some of the people who do know me say that I read well. I appreciate their comments, but it’s not really me who is speaking.

I pray before I go up to the ambo. I ask God to speak through me. I am only a conduit, a channel for God’s Word. When I do my job correctly, I am only a voice. Nobody should hear Frank speaking. The members of the congregation should hear Isaiah, or Jeremiah, or Paul. They should never hear me. My goal is to disappear when I proclaim the Word.

This may sound strange, but sometimes when I read, the words that come from me are not my words. I feel an intense rush of emotion, and it is not unusual that I feel drained when I sit back down in the pew. When I read from the lectionary, Scripture suddenly becomes very personal and very real. It can be a scary thing to get that close to God.

The Word can be a powerful thing. However, it is only of value if it affects people enough to change their lives once they leave the church. I am never sure how I affect the people at Mass. I don’t need to know. I do know that I am affected. My ministry as a lector changes how I live outside of St. Rita. My ministry gives me the courage to escort undocumented immigrants to court appearances. It gives me the compassion to visit veterans at the psych. ward of the VA hospital. It gives me the patience to tutor Syrian refugee kids.

My ministry makes me Catholic.”