On The Palms Of My Hands

It was Valentine’s Day, my last day in the logging camp of Milbuk. I rose early that morning to prepare for my departure and to spend a little time reminiscing.  There was still time for some privacy and the quiet to think, pray and meditate.  I sat at the small table in the large open area that was the living room with a cup of cocoa in my hand. This room on the second floor of the priest's house had ten connecting windows, screened and with louvered glass that faced out toward the sea. There were two other double windows, each on either side of the edge of the building. The building was situated only 40 yards from the edge of the shore. This gave me an unobstructed, panoramic view of the vastness of the Celebes Sea that lay before me. The deep waters of the sea were placid and appeared like a sheet of glass. I stared straight ahead toward the horizon as the mantle of darkness lifted. The sun was about to appear and the soft early light of day slowly illuminated the sky.  How much I loved this time of day with the sweetness of the cool breeze and the flocks of birds in the mangrove trees awakened by the sun, filling the air with their song.  All this I will sorely miss. 

            As tears welled up in my eyes, I cradled my head between my hands, as troubling thoughts raced through my mind.  “Where have the past three years gone?” I mumbled to myself.   The time in Milbuk all seemed like a series of fleeting dreams.   As in most dreams, there were pleasant scenes, visions that were rudely interrupted as when awakened from sleep, moments that enticed me to return to sleep once again to continue and hold on to the joy.  And then there were the nightmares with all their chaos and fright.  Most disturbing of all was the question these “hellish dreams” presented to me in my waking moments. “What good have I done here?”  

The beauty of the place and the love of the people seduced me from the reality of the surroundings.  I had been blinded to the cauldron of chaos that lay beneath the thin veneer of harmony and peace that was once Milbuk.   Like the inner growling of a volcano, Milbuk appeared dormant, incapable of any violence.  Yet there were the tell-tale wisps of smoke rising from the crater to which I was blind.  Rumblings could be felt, even though at times imperceptible, but present nevertheless.  It was easy to ignore the signs.  After all, why waste time in fear and anticipation?  The worst may never come.  It may take months, years or never.  However, the collective consciousness of the people knew that danger was not far away.   How could I have been so unaware?

I felt helpless in the face of those events…events that were beyond my control.  The analogy came to my mind of the ceramic artist who deftly molds the clay into the shape and figure of the idea pictured in his mind.  Precious time, energy and craftsmanship are spent upon the wheel creating an object of beauty and truth, fired in the furnace of sacrifice and love, only to break and crumble in his hands, helpless to ward off the forces that subverted his every effort to protect this precious object from destruction and harm.  What a failure I had been.  I was ready now…ready to leave this place forever. 

Let me stop here and go back twenty years to another place and time when I was filled with excitement and expectation.  It was then that I longed for the great adventure dreamed in the fantasy of youthful thoughts about foreign lands, strange people, mysterious languages, hidden secrets, magnificent landscapes, daring deeds, exotic romance. These all cascaded together as so many images manufactured by movie scenes, lives of the saints, and the brave tales of missionaries.