Apparently someone didn’t like Tibetan monks being in a Catholic church in Grand Rapids. Funny, you’d think the Catholics would be running in fear from torch-bearing Christian Reformers. Seems they have enough time to do this though:
My duplex home doesn’t afford any storage space beyond a small closet, so I have about 90% of my belongings in two rooms. It’s one of the many shortcomings of living in rented quarters that I will be glad to give up once I own my own home (if, when, where, how!?!?). I’m continually shifting things around trying to keep myself light and manageable. Staying free of clutter is nice, but I sometimes yearn for a basement or garage to accumulate junk for future archeological digs and tinkering.
Today, in true fashion, I have been going through my closet moving things around and getting rid of others to make room for more important items. During my dig, I found a green army sack filled with some random clothes and about 10 books on Buddhist teaching and meditation. I remember getting the bag from my mom and stepdad when they had delivered some of my items from home. I’m not sure why, but I never went further than opening and glancing into the bag to see a greyish blanket. It must have been my assumption that whatever it was, it was either mine or something intended for me. After my initial investigation, the bag was tucked away in my closet.
I was ready to get rid of the bag and its contents today until the discovery of the books gripped me with curiousity. The contents were obviously not mine. I thought they might have been my stepdad’s but I quickly dismissed the idea since he has never uttered a word on the subject of Buddhism Then it struck me: This was my uncle’s bag. The uncle that I had heard more of, than heard from. It fit. Eastern religion, a few clothes and a blanket seemed perfect for the lifestyle of someone who had been in and out of prison, was considered to be an outsider in a very “upright” community and had, as far as I know, traveled around the country using what he could find for food and shelter.
It seemed like a strange mistake for me to get the bag. Maybe my stepdad or mom had honestly mistaken the bag for something of mine, or maybe they had just given it to me to get rid of it. I looked through books for clues to confirm my suspicion. On the inside cover of one book Thundering Silence by Thich Nhat Hanh, I found the words “P****** 135535″ written in handwriting that matched my grandmother’s. I went to the public offender tracking system online and sure enough, those were his prison numbers.
The books aren’t going anywhere and neither are the bag and clothes. I don’t know what to do with them. I feel like the the last thing I should do is throw them out. I can’t let go of something that gives me some certainty about someone I should have known. The green army sack is a small window into the life of my uncle. I’ll have to ask my mom about why I got the bag, and I’m sure I’ll ask her about where its owner went.