Honesty and Telling the Truth

Being a good Catholic Boy and going to a Catholic Grade School I had to go to Confession once a week. I was really a quiet and shy kid and scared to death of the Priest. Fr. Morrin. Every week about the same time it was me trying my hardest to think of sins to confess. And, of course, he wanted to know how many times each sin was committed. So, each week I would “lie” in confession and make up sins because I didn’t want him mad at me. That must have worked because I can’t remember a time when I was yelled at in Confession after I began doing that.
When I did have the chance to go to church in Vietnam they did a general confession. One that they sort of announced and one just confessed their sins between themselves and God. I think that was the first time that I was really honest and truly confessed my sins. From that point on I always confessed my sins in church in that manner except for on one occasion.

I was living in Denver with my family and it was around November. My wife wanted all of us to go to confession so we stood in line for “Reconciliation” as it was now called. I remember that tears started running down my cheeks. I was a mess about Vietnam and this seemed to contribute to it. (It was an Anniversary date for something regarding Vietnam but at the time I did not have any understanding what that meant and the impact.) The longer we waited in line the more of a mess I became. Finally it was my turn to sit there, no longer hidden from the priest as in the confessional. I tried to speak to the priest; I wanted help and was so lost, afraid and sad. I tried to explain thinking that he would be able to help and take all this hurt away. After a couple minutes I realized that he would be unable to help me and soon my time was ended. I don’t fault the priest; it was just that I believed he could just immediately take all this hurt away from me which I now know was unrealistic.

Why do I write of this? I think it is because I started this site knowing that I’d be honest and truthful of what I am, who I am and what I have experienced. I am troubled at how truthful I should be. And if I am truthful what impact will it have to someone who knows me or someone who may view this site. Can they handle things I write about be it devastation of war or personal things about myself. And how will I handle it if it makes me feel more of an outcast than I have felt most of my life, especially since returning from Vietnam? What if that honesty makes a person who knows me or doesn’t know me think the worst of me or now dislike me?

So as I move forward I may keep some details I write about at a higher level based on what I think people who may read this can handle. And if people think the worst of me so be it. I'm just beginning to believe I’m am ok person.

Guilt

Guilt was easy growing up a good Catholic boy as it came with the territory. Now that I am older I realize a lot of the guilt I carried was not justified. I am better able to identify those things I really should feel guilty about and wish I could change the things driving that guilt. Some I can change to a positive where “It’s not too late”, like my family and kids.

However, nothing can ever compare to the guilt I continue to carry from my service in Vietnam. I have continually beaten myself up for things that happened or didn’t happen and I always want to take full responsibility for them. Some of those are:

Why wasn’t I a grunt? Seeing the wounded day after day made me feel so ashamed that I was there working in a hospital and not out in the bush. Why should they be the ones?

Why couldn’t I understand the wounded GI I was getting ready to put onto a chopper who was going to be on an air-evac to Japan. It didn’t matter that he could barely speak or get words our or that the chopper noise was deafening, it was my fault. Why couldn’t I have done better at listening and caring for him? Even today I see him lying on the litter trying to get me to understand and becoming more and more frustrated. My telling him he was going to be ok only made matters worse. Why didn’t I do better?

Why didn’t I fight with the doctors when severely wounded GI’s were only being made as comfortable as possible? Why didn’t I speak up? They talked with me about it, that he was dying and they could do nothing for him. But why didn’t I push harder, why didn’t I make them do something, take him to surgery, heal him and make him well?

Why didn’t I get them into the hospital sooner from the chopper? If I had maybe the GI would have lived. Why didn’t I work harder and longer? Why did I let myself fail?

And most of all, why wasn’t I killed? Why did so many of my brothers die and go home in a box? Any yet, I came back to the world on a plane, uninjured?

There are so many more things I feel guilty and ashamed about. The Vet Center has helped but I know in my heart that this and my experience in Vietnam is burned into my being and will always be with me my whole life. I know in my heart that I did my very best for them, but the guilt remains. Never a day goes by that I don’t remember my brothers and they are always in my prayers. You will never be forgotten.

A Good Catholic Boy

I was born into a Catholic Family, Baptized Catholic and had most of the Sacraments. I know that I will never change my Religion but have the utmost respect for all Religions but Catholic just happens to be mine. Now I'd like to believe I'm a "Good Catholic Boy", but I'm sure at the end of it all, God and I will be having it out. I have a lot of things to say to him and probably a lot in my life he wasn't too keen about that he wants to address. So, if you are up there at the same time as are waiting to find out where you'll end up, you better get in line before me because who knows long long this will take. But then again, it could be a good show.

My family was poor, but as Catholics had eight kids. (The eighth was free at St. Catherine's Hospital in Omaha.) I was second oldest and the first boy.

I'll have a lot to say on my upbringing and early life in other posts but I'll just touch on growing up Catholic a little here today. I went to St. Rose Catholic Church and School in Omaha. I started serving mass in perhaps 3rd grade or so. My speech wasn't the greatest then or now as far as I am concerned. To learn Latin was awful and I was awful at it. I remember my first mass with Fr. Moron. I was scared, he was mean and of course my mom was in the hospital giving birth again so she couldn't be there.

I did a terrible job, the priest got mad and I think I cried. Little did I know that until the eighth grade (and off and on in high school) I'd be serving mass a lot. Fr. Moron would call early many times as he was going to say mass earlier. I think he called me and I served so much as we didn't have money to give the church. My oldest sister was actually sent off to a Public School somewhere during her school years as boys were more important and had bigger shoes to fill and thought of less that women. (My opinion.)

After mass and before school me and the other Alter Boy would sometimes have a little wine and the large host (not yet consecrated) for breakfast. I think at times we even added a little jelly. Of course it was unleven bread so it didn't taste that great.

I loved serving funerals because we got to ride in a limousine (a real limousine) with the priest. And if we were lucky we would go to a cemetery clear across town and miss the whole morning of school. At the time I really knew nothing of death other than the people were sad and cried. One thing touched me was when the coffin had the American Flag on it. I can't describe how I felt or why, I just knew it was something very special.

Ok - I know the question that is burning in your head. Was I sexually abused as a young boy by the priest. No, never happened. Never close. Never?

Well, right after I got out of the service there was an incident. It could not have come at a worse time. I was a total mess and hanging on by a thread. In the near future I'll write of that incident.

Just a few more Catholic thoughts, etc.:

• I don't believe I have to go to church every Sunday. That does not mean I am a good Catholic nor is it the only place to pray. I do, however, feel very comforted when I am in church.
• I don't go to confession or reconciliation as it is now called. During mass in Vietnam there was a general confession where one confessed their sins directly to God and to me, that just made more sense and I could be more honest.
• I dislike it when the choir or parishioners sing "Let There Be Peace On Earth". I am overcome with emotions and flooded with memories. I find it very hard to try to hold my emotions and tears in and usually fail.
• For me, being in Mass in Church bring a flood of emotions at times which, at times, makes it difficult for me to keep hidden. But then - the congregation is probably looking at me as "Why is that guy crying - the priest just told a joke?"

Well, that's a little about my religion and I'm sure I'll be talking about it some more.