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Inside the antique brick front coffee shop, I am sitting, contemplating during the post-war

parade. Drinking my black coffee bean steamed to delicious nectar of bitter resentment and critical

awareness of where we have been. Touching the doll white porcelain mug to my lips, I sip some of the

hot coffee before setting the mug down on the worn wooden table.

I am secular, you know, a soft voice says to me. I look first to the inside of the shop to see if

anyone was addressing me or if there is a familiar face that has joined the patrons.

I m here, invites the voice growing more innocent to avoid being beckoning. I turn my head

now so that my nose is only inches away from the large picture window that makes up a third of the

shop front.

Confusion is setting in as I peer out into the street. The shop sits on Main Street, which is lined

with the gitty, euphorically celebrating the return of their mercenaries and murderers. They call themthe 212th infantry core division; and they line the street, men, women, and children alike. Few knowing

the start, none knowing the true end.

Among the faithful patriots and fervent supporters is a little girl. She has on a blue sundress with

a white bow holding her hair back in a ponytail. In her right hand rests her father s hand and in her left

hand is her doll with its red yarn hair. She turns to look into the coffee shop, in through the picture

window with my portrait making up a part of its composite now. She looks at me, and smiles.

Could the voice be coming from the girl? I think to myself, even as my puzzlement grows.

No, the answer comes as the voice shifts to coming in front of me. You probably picture me

more like this.

A strange old man is now sitting across the small, square coffee shop table. He is hunching over

with his white hair, grey eyes, bristly beard, and dry lips. I look down his tattered sleeves to find him

clasping his rhythmic shaking hands. Accompanying the near repulsive image of the old man is a feeling

of familiarity that you would not expect from a complete stranger, openness. The common restraints of

first encounters, especially with oddities, are ones that lead to clamming up and shipping out, but there

is something all too familiar about this old man.

Excuse me in a low grumble like whisper as to not interrupt or disturb the neighboring

patrons. What do you mean, you are secular?

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There was a pause in all the conversations as the powder ignited and shot the duds into the sky.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! And twenty-four more times to salute the number of village burners and baby

killers lost during the war. My question still hangs in the air as whispers again grow into soft intellectual

back and forths stammering about the coffee shop. For a moment, the old man seems to be at a loss for

words, and then a grin breaks the linear shape his cracked lips make.

I mean all the creeds and traditions are flattering, but I m really not that conceded, he said

almost with a chuckle.

So, you are saying that

Yes, there is no difference to me whether you are a Jew or a Buddhist; I hear the concerns of

Christians and Taoists; I see the sins of Muslims and Hindi people alike; and I even watch the good deeds

of those that don t know or don t believe that I exist, he explained. The grin on his face grows into asmile and the cracks in his lips disappear. I know you have been wondering this for a long time.

Yeah, I reply mystified by what is going on now as the confusion subsides.

You want to know how a war as devastating as the one just past can be fought in the name of

God when everyone has the same, or similar, fundamental beliefs in good morals and ethics, he

hauntingly tells me just the way I am thinking it. When the last hiss of the s dissipates fully into the air

around us he unclasps his hands to reveal his shaky red palms. Looking down, as both our eyes gaze

upon his palms, he slowly re-clasps them as they become increasingly shameful and shaky.

So God does have blood on his hands, I mutter in a whisper, unable to stop the statement

from its escape into the atmosphere. The air is a little heavier now and the confetti outside the window

is falling less like through the air and more like through steamy clouds of angst. The moments add up as I

think about the ramifications of what I just said. The old man s smile sits back into its potential form

again, linear. I start. Then stop. Then start again.

How does this happen? I thought God is supposed to be all these omni s all rolled into one.

You see that is the problem. The old man s eyes glimmer in a flash. In a flash, they are the blue

depths of the sea. I cannot look away; I am momentarily captivated by the depth of what I see before

only seeing my own fair skinned reflection. The serene surrendering seas swirl through my thoughts as

the old man repeats, You see this is the problem.

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A momentary glimpse into knowing everything shakes me to my soul, and it is going to take me

several minutes to center myself as I set my face down into my palms that are atop the pillars that are

my forearms and elbows on the table. I saw flowers bloom, animals nurse, lovers meet, children play,

and everything that I can ever imagine to bring me joy. At the same time, each image is slashed through

by a budding flower trampled by a bulldozer, an animal separated from its pack, nasty divorce

proceedings, children being beaten and neglected, and everything more hideous that I can ever let

myself think of. My palms are getting damp from my eyes either watering or me crying, I cannot tell

which. When I lift my head from its perch in my hands, I see the old my grinning and nodding towards

my coffee. I take a drink.

Is that a trick of some kind? To show me how you see the world when you look, I say as I take

a drink and clear my throat.

No, no parlor tricks here. That s what it looks like forever and eternity. I can t turn it off, he

said in a surprisingly proud tone. He is still grinning when an air horn of an idling fire truck crawled past

the coffee shop breaks the silence. He sits up straight and says, You are still wondering why I have

blood on my hands and ultimately why bad things happen in the world, aren t you?

All I could do is nod yes, as I gulped down the last of the bitter coffee. The old man, with his

more plush lips and blue eyes is now sitting at the same height as me. The sleeves that leads down to his

hands are not as ragged and even his face seems to be smoother. I finally squeak out, Tell me why, if

you are infallible, you have blood on your hands.

Freewill, I gave mankind the freewill to do what they desire, which is well documented.

However he says unclasping his hands. I, myself have freewill, and I willingly take this blood upon my

hands. With that, he claps his hands together gently and lays them flat on the table palm up to reveal

them as fair and clean skinned. I am the only that can clean stains of this kind.

I look up from his hands to see a young man. The man sitting across from me had brown hair

that fell over his forehead slightly. His blue eyes were gently piercing, as the old man s when they

revealed the world to me. There is a smile across his face and his strong hands have reached out to

grasp mine. I was looking across the table at myself.

The parade is about to wrap up as four F-14 fighter jets scream overhead. They really spared no

expense on welcoming home their soldiers, their heroes. I look out the window to my left to catch a

glimpse of the awesome machines overhead, but as I start to look back to the shop feel the grasp on my

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hands loosen and disappear. I am alone at the table by the window. I look out to watch the people

disperse back to their homes and I see the little girl.

By the way greatest band of all times is Pearl Jam, a soft innocent voice says.

I respond, looking the little girl in the eye, Bullshit. I smile and get up to get another cup of

coffee before I write my sermon for Sunday s mass.