I Resist the Muses

( There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you. )

( Any man who has the guts to sell his soul for love has the power to change the world )

( Prompt #22: write a letter to your mun )

Do you believe in an afterlife? If so, what do you expect to find when you get there?

I believe those who die in God's grace and friendship live for ever with Christ. I believe in purgatory, where the souls of those who died in a state of grace are cleansed to be fit for Heaven.

I believe God, the Creator and Redeemer of all the faithful, will grant to the souls of His servants departed full remission of all their sins. I believe that through devout prayers, they may obtain the pardon which they have always desired.

When I was a parish priest in M*A*S*H 4077th, I gave the last rites to more people in three years than most parish priests ever do in a lifetime: young men, mostly, horribly dead of wounds.

When I first started working there, I realised that no one would listen to me unless I was in the OR: that was difficult. I'm not very good with blood. It was a whole year before I could bear to eat liver. I thought at first that I would pray - offer last rites if I was asked for them, pray for the patients when they lived. (Mostly they lived.) But I found that corporeal works of mercy were needed, more than my prayers, and besides, I could pray on the run, as it were: I could fetch x-rays and bring orange juice and sandwiches, or hold a retractor or bring a pint of blood. I'm not sure how useful I was, but at least I wasn't in the way. So many of the people I knew there are dead now.

You asked about what I expect to find.

I don't know. All the torments of hell, they say, but God's grace at the end. I hope for company on the road.

I pray for it.

(Eternal rest grant to them, dear Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.)

It started snowing a few hours ago. I got up just now and went to the window: snow still falling, thickly, snow on snow.

The first real snow of winter.

I still remember how it used to snow in Korea. The army had put us in tents that were too cold in winter, stifling hot in summer: the first winter we all nearly froze.

But when the snow fell, covering the torn-up ground of our camp, the minefield, the war-torn fields around us - lethal though it often was, especially to the Koreans, who didn't have fuel to keep their homes warm - it was beautiful.

Three winters I spent there. Three Christmases in the oddest parish I'll ever have, the 4077th M*A*S*H. Three bleak midwinters.

That's what I remember, every time it snows.