Micronesian Meandering # 1

Meanderings from Micronesia

Greetings from my little island! For those of you who were wondering what is Sheehan doing now - here you are. (If you weren’t wondering - well, then you might want to print this message out, ball it up and use it to keep the drafts from coming in under the door. >Cause from here on out, it’s pretty much about me and what I’ve been doing since leaving Nigeria, and what Kwajalein is like and why I am seriously considering asking to stay, rather than simply doing five months and moving on.)

Leaving Nigeria

Let’s close the old book first, eh?

If you know me at all, you know I collect stuff. Stuff finds its way to me. I am NOT one of those heroic saintly souls whose room resembles a cell, with a bare wall and an empty cupboard and one change of underwear. From my days of touring I have learned the value of lots of underwear, and I always like to have outfits appropriate to the events. One of the things I was known for in Lagos was dressing in Nigerian cloth, and I had some lovely outfits. Some of my Jesuit brothers gave me a hard time about my wardrobe, but the Nigerians loved my dress, and thought I was paying them a compliment. I was, but it was also comfortable, inexpensive and looked good. BUT - not knowing where I would be going, one of the first “casualties” of moving was the wardrobe. Bags and bags and bags of clothes were given away to the poor. (One guy asked if I would be sending some of the outfits to a museum - I think he said the Smithsonian.) I did keep a couple of the dressier outfits for formal occasions (and costume parties) but as the deadline for departure got closer, and I realized that when it came to packing, the old “eyes are bigger than your stomach” works exactly the other way around, more outfits made their way into the bags and more into boxes for storage. I ended up taking very few of the full Nigerian outfits with me.

Someone from Chevron had volunteered, with the full knowledge and blessing of Chevron managements toinclude my boxes with his household shipment going back to the U.S. (I suppose I should be saying Chevron-Texaco - hard to keep tracks of these mergers and corporate identity shifts. Part of my problem is probably a block since Texaco refused to continue sponsoring the opera broadcasts. It could not have been the money, since the total sponsorship was really fairly inexpensive, considering the publicity and exposure. I suspect some bright young executive felt that it was too “elitist” to be associated with opera, and we will probably see Texaco shortly sponsoring rock concerts and food kitchens. Food kitchens are good - no objection to food kitchens. But the soul has to be fed too. Anyway...)

So I had to not only pack boxes but list the contents and put together a manifest. Because of new security regulations, everything I packed would be re-packed by local movers, a fact that brought little joy to my life but is inescapable. So I packed and stacked and wrote down and packed some more. Ended up with something like 29 boxes, including a foot locker. (I found that my canes would not go into the largest of the lacking boxes. It also provided protection for the violin and the bowed psaltery.) Our pick-up truck with the enclosed section was filled right to the roof, as was the back seat, and a couple of boxes went in the Land Rover. But all got delivered and clocked in and there goes a large section of my life I won’t see again until heaven knows when. The boxes will reach Houston in the middle or toward the end of November, and I will have to worry about moving them from there at some point.

I left a lot of things behind - the piano, the crossbow, and the large photo portrait of me that a good friend gave me for my 55th birthday, complete with a very ornate gold frame. It was a GREAT picture - very large - but now really, what was I going to do with it? I also left a number of last-minute presents, including a wonderful carving that the DHL folks brought over. Unfortunately it did not come with a DHL gift certificate so I could ship it, so it too became a resident treasure at Surulere. It was a modern version of the thinker, and it was just gorgeous. But - there you are.

The last few weeks after the concert were very busy, dealing with the auditors, trying to straighten out files and records and leave things in clear order. I knew where everything was, but I had to admit that a stranger walking in might not have the same instinctive sense that I did, and so I spent a lot of time working with my assistant, showing her where things were and how different things tied together. I was not as successful as I had hoped - I had this great vision of a brilliantly organized set of handover notes. Needed another two weeks, which I did not have.

I had 21 different farewell parties, lunches, dinner and receptions. Most were given by Nigerians, individuals and groups, which I felt said something about my time in Africa. Exceptions were the Austrian Ambassador, the Kano chapter of the Jesuit Alumni (mostly Lebanese members, although at the big cocktail party, most of the guests were Nigerian), and a picnic hosted by the Filipino community. The bank gave me a dinner party, and a gorgeous oil painting, which they had carefully removed from the frame and presented to me with a mailing tube, so it could be more easily shipped. The staff at Surulere gave me a painting as well, and small enough so that it could fit into one of the boxes. I had a long list of presents - felt a lot like Christmas, except I didn’t give anything back.

The day finally came (I am attached copies of the reviews of my final concert, and if I can get ahold of them, the interviews with me by the two largest papers in Nigeria.) and although I stayed up all night the night before I left - mostly working in the office - I was showered and packed and ready to go to the airport. I felt a little like a refugee. I had a large suitcase, a small suitcase, and my golf clubs. These were checked in - and I carried my computer and another bag, both chock full, a small carton in my arms, and I wore my photographer’s vest with every pocked filled. I had given myself a farewell present, and booked my ticket home on Business Class. Did you know that if you travel in Business, they don’t count your golf clubs as part of your baggage? Yup, two checked bags - but the clubs don’t count. At least on British Air.

So I found myself, mildly exhausted, in the Business lounge at Murtala Mohammed airport, sipping a drink and contemplating my future. Ran into several people I knew - my chieftaincy bracelets were the topic of conversation throughout the check-in and security process - but without any great fuss or problem, I found myself sitting in a Business Class seat, upstairs in the aircraft. (There is a nice symmetry to this. When I left New York to come to Nigeria back in 1992, a friend of Fr. McFarland’s worked for KLM and got me a Business Class seat for the first part of the flight, so I left JFK in Business as well. I had also been up all the night before packing and getting things into storage - some things never change.) Two Nigerians were in the seats right in front of me - I knew the man from Rotary and his wife knew me from my concerts.

Reflection
Everyone keeps asking me how I felt leaving, what was it like? One answer is that I don’t know yet. I had lived in Lagos longer than I had lived any other single place in my whole life. I had thought I would be there a little longer than I was. I had supposed that I would stay through the transition from being a dependent Region to becoming an independent Province. That process has been approved by Father General, and is well under way. The discussions with the New York Province about the separation agreement have been going on, and most of the major points have been agreed on. One problem might be that when I left, there was no one to replace me as Treasurer - not even a serious candidate on the horizon - and it may be that Rome will not approve the move without someone in that position. (Why did they want me to move when they didn’t have anyone to replace me? Good question, but I am not the person with the answer.)

Lagos is not an easy place to live. Unless they have had the experience, it is hard for someone to understand how much energy you spend each day just coping with the basics. Even expatriates with diplomatic or oil company ties only experience part of it, since so many of their necessities are taken care of for them. Making sure there is water, diesel, dealing with phone companies, suppliers, repair people - this can easily become a full-time job. Grocery shopping is an event that takes two men the better part of a full day. Moving around this city of almost 20 million is always uncertain, and an accident or a heavy rain can turn a 20-minute trip into two or three hours. There are police checks, fraudsters, armed robbers and simple thieves. (Yes, I do mean to put the police and the criminals into the same grouping. It was intentional.)

But there are also great rewards. For all its size, Lagos is a small city, and it is possible to meet wonderful (and famous) people much more easily than would be the case in smaller but more organized or structured cities. I knew the man who is the current president before he was elected, and it was an unusual day when I did not know at least one person featured in a front page news story. When I left, the largest newspaper in this country of over 120 million people ran a review of my farewell concert on Page One, and on the day of my leaving, the second largest had a review that was also a tribute. (See the end of this missive.) I was touched and proud.

I was sent to Nigeria to work in communications, in Kaduna, and only stayed there for 26 days before the Regional Superior moved all the Jesuits out. For a while, I had no job, and tried to fill in wherever I could, to make myself useful. I accepted jobs I didn’t want, and did jobs no one else wanted to do. I worked hard at learning the culture and the people, and found myself in a position where some (expatriate) Jesuits criticized me - and Nigerians in large numbers praised me, not just for my efforts but for my accomplishments. We don’t do the work for the praise - but it was nice to hear from expatriates (not Jesuits) and Nigerians how much they thought I had done, how valuable my presence was and how much I would be missed.

So there is much about being in Nigeria I will miss. Certainly I left with regret, because I felt there was more I could do. Yet there is also a certain relief in leaving any difficult situation, and a certain satisfaction in hearing from others that you have done well. Jesuits are not very good at taking care of our own, and we are not usually very good at saying goodbye to people. None of those 21 parties and receptions were given by Jesuits. That’s not unusual, several of our men have left with barely a nod of the head, after many years of service in a job or a place. Not having any sense of what might be next - and having a definite sense that my own superiors didn’t have anything in mind - made leaving more difficult, even at the elemental level of packing. What to take, what to store, what to give away.

So I certainly have mixed feelings - and a fair bit of unknown territory before I can answer the questions that began this section. Hopefully my time on Kwajalein will give me the odd moments to “process” all that has gone before (to use one of the trendy expressions for this sort of thing).

And thus endeth the reflections.

Reviewing the Situation
(With apologies to the composer of Oliver who has a wonderful song with that same title that I have sung on occasion.) The Provincial in New York said I should take a sabbatical on leaving Nigeria. A sabbatical is usually a year, but I said I wasn’t sure I would know what to do with a year. Since I didn’t have a new assignment to prepare for, the usual options of learning a language or taking some courses didn’t really apply. I was (am?) tired. I had worked hard during my time in Africa and while I was a great advocate for vacations and leave for our men, I was better at convincing others to do it than I was doing it myself. I said I thought that six months would be adequate and I put together a program for that time, a schedule that would give me both rest and exercise, and the chance to visit some friends I had not seen for years.

The first item I had proposed was to substitute for the chaplain on Kwajalein, while he went off on his vacation. I had visited Kwajalein back in 1986 or 87, just before I went to theology, and I remembered it as a lovely spot. It is an American base, and I thought it would provide a good transition between Africa and full-blown America. It is usually the case that people who have been out of the country for a while, whether religious or lay, find it more difficult to adjust to life back in the US than it was to adjust to life in the foreign country. So - an American base in the Pacific felt like a good middle step, with elements of each “world.” Then I was going to visit friends, play golf, and enjoy the Fall - football and changing leaves and chilly weather, sweaters and gloves and ice skating and all sorts of things I hadn’t experienced for twelve years.

I made this suggestion, and didn’t hear anything for a long time, and so had started to work on Plan B, which was going to visit Lebanon for a month on my way home. I have made many Lebanese friends, and their hospitality is exceeded only by their generosity. I knew I would not lose any weight, but I would have a chance to see one of the most beautiful countries in the Middle East, staying with friends who could show me the best and most intimate parts of the place. Then I got an email that the Provincial had approved this idea and I should contact the chaplain, Fr Bill Sullivan to work out the details. I did, put the Lebanon trip into the file cabinet for another life time, and made subsequent plans accordingly.

About three weeks before I was set to go, I got a note from the Provincial that Fr Sullivan had developed medical problems and had had to resign from the position, and would I be available to take his place until perhaps Thanksgiving? (Available is a particular word for a Jesuit. We are always supposed to be available, and certainly my understanding of how we are to respond is that any Jesuit should always be available.) I was not thrilled - I had plans and schedules and I really wanted to have Fall. But - as I reflected - it seemed difficult for the people on Kwajalein to first lose their chaplain and then have people popping in and out. So I suggested, and the Provincial accepted, staying through Christmas. I felt that it would be better to have one person for the whole Advent and Christmas season, and that it would be easier to find someone to take the job starting in the new year. A logical time to start a new work. So - Kwajalein until early January, and then I would start my sabbatical. About which I had a whole new idea. More on that in a little bit.

LONDON
The schedule meant I had to get to Kwaj pretty quickly. But not instantly, so I was able to have a week in London and a week in New York before arriving at my new spot. I arrived around 5:30 in the morning. When you fly in Business, you get to go through a special Customs line, and your baggage really does come off first. So I was on my way out into the London morning fairly easily. Of course, the UK knows all about the problems in Nigeria, and so as you leave the plane, there are about 6 Customs Officers, spot checking passports and documents. As I left, one man I knew, a Nigerian banker and very respectable, had gotten his bags before me but had been stopped by the Customs people and they were taking his luggage apart. When I walked past, all the items were out of the bags and they were checking the suitcases themselves.

I went to our Jesuit Mission house in Wimbledon, found my room and went right to sleep. Got up around noon, had a lovely long shower, chatted with the folks there and went out. Ran a few errands - got a new battery for my wristwatch, bought a train ticket, mailed a letter, bought some batteries and a disposable camera - and I had spent over sixty pounds. Yike! Things had gotten expensive! I was going down to Southsea, on the coast, to visit the daughter of a good friend of mine who is a novelist in Lagos. UK trains are so wonderful. I had to switch trains at one point - with about a three minute break. But each train was on time, and three minutes was enough. There was supposed to be a wagon service on the second train, for snacks and refreshments. As I got on, they were getting off. Fair enough. But the announcer on the train (yes, there are announcers on the train) apologized about six different times, complete with explanations as to why they had left.

Kemi (my friend’s daughter) and her husband met me at the train and took me back to their gorgeous place, complete with a great back yard garden. Not huge, but wonderful. The weather, by the way, was breath-takingly beautiful. We went down to a local pub, and then to the restaurant where they had had their wedding lunch. Wonderful menu - I had snails in garlic and butter, and fresh venison. I didn’t like the dessert menu, so they created a dessert for me. The chef came out and sat with us - when he appeared I knelt and kissed his feet. He thought this was appropriate behavior (he’s French) and we became fast friends. Had a long and wonderful conversation. There were three couples at the next table and it turned out they were celebrating a birthday - a young man was celebrating 83 years - and so, naturally, I sang a Happy Birthday to them. Home for a chat and a happy collapse into bed.
Next morning, up and off to the fresh fish shop. (We are at the seashore, remember.) Fresh shrimp, small size, that we can mix into the scrambled eggs, and a couple of lobsters for later in the day. Breakfast is eggs and shrimp and fresh coffee and juice and fresh rolls - ah, yes. Kemi went to the hairdresser (a Nigerian woman who was going to join us for dinner) and her husband went to collect a friend who had shown up at the airport unexpectedly from Florida, and I went for a walk along the seaside and through the town. After a couple of hours of just walking - saw a wedding where the bridesmaids were all in light purple dresses - and home for a drink and a sit down. Everyone re-gathered. The guy from Florida went to take a nap, and the three of us shared two lobsters. (I had opened the fridge earlier to get a cold drink and nearly had a heart attack when something moved - I had forgotten about the lobsters.) Different preparation - instead of boiling the critters, they were cut apart while alive and fried in a sauce of sherry and cream and I don’t know what else. Yummy - different texture to the meat, but delicious. After that, there a unanimous meeting of the minds - naps all around. And then dinner - peach bellini first, lots of champagne (there was wine, but when there is champagne, why confuse the taste buds?) Then a roast pork to die for, and wonderful veggies and home made rasperry sorbet. By the end of the evening, I was convinced I wasn’t going to eat until Tuesday.

Well, except for breakfast. Cause when I got up and helped Kemi clean the kitchen, we rewarded ourselves with eggs and bacon and chili-laced sausage and English muffins (what do you call English muffins in England? Why crumpets, of course.) I felt rather like an expectant mother in her 7th month. With twins. Definitely not going to eat until Tuesday.

Had a gentle train ride home - home for the moment being Wimbledon - hated to leave, I love being near the sea. (Remember that line. This is what novelists and writing teachers call foreshadowing. Subtle, eh?) When I got back to the house there was a note from Tony Montfort, inviting me to his place that evening for a lamb dinner. Now Tony Montfort, who is the director of Jesuit missions, is a magnificent human being, one of the most generous people I know, second perhaps only to Santa Claus. He has many gifts, but one of them is an uncanny ability to select and create lamb that brings tears to your eyes. If there is lamb in heaven, this is it. His mashed potatoes are as good - and dessert is traditionally fresh raspberries and cream.

If the first three days out of Nigeria are any indication, my future is going to be great. (And I am only going to weigh three hundred pounds!) Actually, as the week went on, a whole lot of walking and paying attention kept my weight level - didn’t lose anything, but didn’t gain anything either. I called some friends, just enjoyed being in London, did some catch up work closing things out from Nigeria. I even went to a movie - The Passion of the Christ. I really wanted to see this on a big screen with the full sound. I found it neither as moving as some have reported, nor as violent or disgusting. The reality was worse, and I was disappointed in some of the historical choices that I think were simply incorrect. I thought the Aramaic was a brilliant decision, and I don’t agree with those who charge it is anti-Semitic. A good movie but in twenty years I don’t think many people will be watching it.

On Saturday I did go to the Globe Theatre. I had never been, and I was unable to get a ticket on line - they were all sold out - but I went down (after a visit to Harrod’s) and haunted the ticket office and sure enough, there was a returned ticket. It was the Feast of St Ignatius, how could I not be lucky? Information item - if you go to the Globe, get a seat in the back row. In keeping with the historical accuracy of the place, there are no seats, just benches. The back row, you can lean against the wall. If you’re not lucky, they rent seat backs.

The production was Measure for Measure, not one of my favorite Shakespeare works. The director went for laughs - not interpretations I would necessarily agree with but one I can understand. Let me rephrase that - he went for cheap laughs, and was very successful in getting them. I don’t know if he didn’t trust his actors or the audience or the script - but the tourists had a good time and it was a fun afternoon. There was a gathering of Jesuits at the local parish rectory for the feast day, with guys working in at least seven different countries and four continents. On the way home, passing the church, I was hailed by some people who were at a wedding reception in the hall next to the church, and they invited me up for a drink. Couldn’t offend them by saying no, so in I went.

One more time to pack, and the car came to take me to the airport around 7 am. I was a little early, but once I was through security - which was no problem - I was off to the Business lounge. Ah, like a purring pussycat, I settled into the lap of luxury, checking email on the free computers and munching on the free pastries and reading the free newspapers and sitting in the comfortable chairs. I could even have had a nap on the comfortable beds. Again, sitting in the front of the plane (and again, sitting upstairs) puts a whole different dimension on flying. Almost enjoyable. Watched Shrek 2 and other movies I cannot even remember. Taxi ride to the Jesuit community at 83rd Street (the cab driver was an Indian who said he now thinks of New York as home) and in for unpacking, a shower, drinks and dinner, trying to stay awake until time for bed according to the local schedule.

New York
My time in New York was mostly functional - I never even got down to see my sister, although we did talk by phone several times. On Monday I went to see the dentist - can you say root canal? Yup, the loose filling turned out to be a cracked tooth. Originally the dentist said he was going to have to pull it, but when he started taking it apart, it had a firm foundation, so he did the r/c and on Kwajalein I will get the post and crown work done. Next day I went to the doctor - who did an examination, and sent me to the xray guy, and then to a specialist. I finished with him (big cortesone shot in my shoulder - whole new areas of pain) just in time to go back to the dentist for a cleaning and a check up. At that point I felt I had earned a treat, and since I knew I couldn’t afford a Broadway show, I went to a baseball game. It had been years since I had been in Yankee stadium, so off I went to buy a ticket.

Did you know that the top ticket price for a regular game at Yankee stadium is $95? I ended up with a $45 ticket. A game program is $7 and a yearbook is $20 - neither of which items went home with me. I did have a hot dog ($4.50 - that’s at the stand. If you get one from the guy who walks through the seats, it’s $4.75 - yes, children, there is a delivery charge.) And a beer ($8). But don’t tell me the economy is suffering. Almost every seat was filled, and certainly the people around me were porking down the food and drink like it was going to be outlawed in the morning. One chubby teenager with a doting mother chomped his way through at least $100 worth of edibles.

But the thing that really struck me was the game itself. Used to be (I know, I am not only showing my age but sounding like someone’s grandfather. Sorry, but at moments like these I feel like somebody’s grandfather.) you went to a ball game to see the ball game. The night I was at Yankee Stadium, there was not any space of silence lasting more than perhaps ten seconds, with the exception of the 7th inning stretch, when we had a moment of silence for the men and women who had lost their lives defending the country. But every other moment was filled with music, commentary, games with audience participation, advertising - even the guys who came out after the 5th inning to sweep the infield were choreographed, with music and a “cute” routine. Spare me. One almost felt the game itself was a distraction from the entertainment. Baseball for people who don’t like baseball.

And the Yankees lost 13 to 4.

I stayed until the very end and took a good long look at the stadium, since I doubt I will ever be inside again. Gentle ride home. The remaining days were spent shopping, getting ready for the next step. I did go down to Princeton for a quick overnight visit, and had dinner with friends on two different nights. But it was a quick time, and before I knew it, I was off to the airport, for a 10-hour flight to Honolulu. Steerage all the way. But the seats on Continental were a little better than others and although I was in the last seat in the rear, and the seats to my right were sleep seats for the crew, which meant that the trip was rather like flying in a flight simulator for instrument flight testing. They at least served light meals rather than the usual heavy fare, and I arrived in Honolulu feeling pretty good. Called the hotel - they sent a bus and I found I was staying about a five minute ride away. Checked in - had a lovely dinner of prime rib - and collapsed in bed.

Honolulu - I rode downtown on a bus, and spent the day just walking around, everything from shopping malls and beaches, a long chat with a charter fishing boat captain, and some time wandering around in Chinatown. Seems I am destined to be in places where I am in a minority. Went back to the hotel for an afternoon swim, dinner by the pool, a quiet smoke on the pipe and an early bed. Because I had to be on the 4:30 am shuttle to the airport.

News item to file away for future reference - the Honolulu airport at 5 in the morning is a quiet place. But you can pretty well assume that everyone in the queue is going where you are, and I got to start meeting people.

Another news item - the coffee shops don’t open until 6. Although some smart person, seeing a plane load of hungry people standing around, opened early. Coffee and a Danish. Yum. On the plane - and again, I was seated almost at the very rear of the aircraft. On this plane, the rest rooms were in the rear, so I got to see, if not actually meet, pretty much everyone on the plane, at least in the steerage section. It’s a 6 1/2 hour ride from Honolulu to Kwajalein, with a stop in Majuro (get out your map) and crossing the international date line, so we left on Wednesday morning and arrived on Thursday morning. In Majuro half the plane had to get off with their carry-on luggage, so inspectors could check the plane. I was on the getting off half.

But eventually we were all back on the plane, the queue to the rest room formed immediately, and life aboard the Continental flight settled back to normal. Fortunately it is a short hope from Maj to Kwaj and before you could say Yukwe Yuk (I’ll explain that in a bit) there we were, being greeted by sniffer dogs and the American military. Fill out the forms, and wait to be called. Good sign - my name badge was ready, so they took my picture, and I was admitted to Kwajalein.

(If you’ve run out of popcorn, this is a natural place for an intermission. Go visit the rest room - hopefully there will be no queue - refill your drink and your snack bowl. We are about to explore a South Pacific atoll.)

Kwajalein

Kwaj is an atoll, a small bit of land 3 1/2 miles long and perhaps a mile wide at its broadest spot. About 2,000 people live on Kwaj and a bunch of Marshallese come over from Ebeye to work. Ebeye is smaller than Kway, and yet has something over 20,000 people living there. About 90% of the income on Ebeye comes from Kwajalein. And it is a very poor place. The Jesuits have a parish and run the only high school on the island, although the government is going to open another school.

Kwaj is a military base, although there are only about 20 soldiers. The rest of the island is civilian, working for one of the three companies that support the mission of the military. Kwaj is a downrange radar tracking station, and a missile testing site. (Actually the Ronald Reagan Missile Testing Facility.) They do weather testing and a host of other missions I don’t yet completely understand.) On Kwaj there is an elementary and a secondary school. There is a supermarket and the equivalent of a 7-11, only with a much wider selection. There is a post office, a beauty shop, a travel agency, and two stores that carry clothing and electronics and hardware, sporting equipment. There is a bakery, a snack shop, a restaurant, and several clubs. There are regular movies, a gym, a bowling alley and a library, an adult swimming pool and a family pool - a boat marina where you can rent boats, a yacht club for sailing, several beaches, scuba gear, deep sea fishing, sail boarding, kayak rental and a lot of athletic stuff I normally wouldn’t pay attention to anyway. There is an air port, two commercial airlines come in regularly and military flights and helicopters.

And a chapel, shared by the Protestants and Catholics. There are two chaplains - we each have an office and share a secretary. There is also a large religious education building with classrooms, meeting rooms, a library. Only about 20% of the population is affiliated with either of the chaplaincies. 7th Day Adventists have a small group that meets at the elementary school.

I have a two-bedroom trailer, up at the north end of the island, about a ten minute bike ride from the office. Pleasant in good weather, seems very long when it rains - and it has rained six of the first seven days I’ve been here. It IS the rainy season. I have a dining area, kitchen, the two bedrooms, a bathroom (with a small washer and dryer) and an attached living room which runs about 2/3 the length of the house. It is right on the water - I sit in my front yard, at the edge of which is a sand road, and then the ocean. One of the loveliest sites on the island. It is air-conditioned. I have a bicycle, and the chaplaincy has a golf cart and a van, one of the few vehicles on the island.

The Protestants are a larger group and much better organized. The people I have met have been very welcoming, and very anxious for me to stay. I instinctively started asking people what they wanted, what we needed to do - and discovered that everyone was very surprised. Seems the previous priest was not oriented to involving other people, so without meaning to I seem to be shaking things up. School started on the 20th of August and many people were away until the last minute, so my 2nd weekend was a lot more interesting than my first. I also hope to re-start a weekly Mass on Roi Namur, which is a 20-minute plane flight away.

I have signed up for the class which is necessary to get my boat license, so I can rent boats and go out into the ocean, and I have also enrolled in a class to learn the Marshallese language. There is a fair amount of back and forth between Kwaj and Ebeye, there is an Ebeye choir that comes over once a month to sing at the Mass here, and I think it will be helpful to know at least something of the language.

So - here I am. I have been made to feel more than welcome, and there certainly seems to be a need. I’m not going to make any decisions soon, but when the Provincial asked if I could cover for the other Jesuit, he did say if I wanted to stay, that would be an option. It is an option I am surprisingly more open to than I would ever thought. You have to remember, that even though I had the Mass group in Lagos, and I did try to be available to folk, I was basically an administrator. This job means being a priest - helping people get closer to God, counseling, and certainly in an environment that is conducive to prayer. Relaxing, taking care of myself, getting enough recreation - these are not things I have been particularly good at.

So stay tuned for further developments. For the moment, I can be reached via email at

johnrsheehan@Yahoo.com.

I also have a US Army email address, but this is probably easier to remember and deal with.

Regular US mail - PO Box 1711, AP APO 96555.

Telephone - just remember the significant time difference between you and me before you start dialing. We are also a day before most of you.

Office - (805) 355- 2116
Residence (805) 355-4535
There you are - not as long as some of my previous epistles but not as much has happened. I’ll try to keep people posted as things evolve. Until then, or whenever, love and hugs and prayers all around.