My room is not very orderly. You may liken it to chaos...that is, if you're unkind. And honest. Come ! Venture in and stay awhile...

IN MY ROOM

MY ROOM is NOT very orderly.

In fact, it is a mess.

You may liken it to Chaos, or Armageddon, or Smokey Mountain.

That is, if you’re unkind. And honest.

My ROOM is NOT like the SPOTLESS rooms of my dear teachers Fr. Paul V. Finster, S.J., and Fr. Richard G. Leonard, S.J.

It is more like the CREATIVE rooms of my friends Fr. Jaime Bulatao and Fr. Mac Reyes and Fr. Rene Javellana.

WHEN YOU ENTER MY ROOM YOU ARE GREETED BY A CONFUSING JUMBLE OF ODDS AND ENDS, CARELESSLY STREWN AROUND WITH NO REGARD FOR ORDER AND AESTHETICS.

There is a pair of abaca slippers from Iloilo, three kamuyot knapsacks from Boy Alkuino in Bukidnon, a pair of cheap sneakers from Cubao, two ancient, abandoned ba-uls from the junk room, nine assorted milk cartons containing my notes after half a century of searching, two large payongs, an empty can of skyflakes, an old radio, and a noisy electric fan, courtesy of our Father Minister.

Buried under countless folders and T-shirts is what many would still call a bed. There is also a cluttered desk, with a framed picture of my inspiration, Fr. P.T., S.J., still very serious, yet looking as though he really believes I CAN do it . . . and I AM good . . . and all will be well.

SOMEWHERE in my room is an old album with disarranged pictures of my parents, NATY and ARSE, and my dead brother RENE, and my dear sisters XENIA, PAT, MILA, NATY, and SELEN, and their families, and many co-workers, former students and friends.

No, there is no computer in my room. But there is an old ADLER portable typewriter, which I bought second-hand from Alice Chan at a good discount twenty years ago. DAVID, the Guardian Angel, is absent, and is now with cancer-patient HEIDI, keeping gentle watch over her and her family.

The cheap bookshelf holds indiscriminate stacks of my main references, some extra copies of YAYEE, and seventeen Latin books, since I am teaching Latin to our Jesuit Novices this year. Finally, a small faded urn, containing some precious ashes of my young friend M, thoughtfully apportioned to me by a grieving family.

NOW AND THEN I am tempted to feel very insecure, because no matter how hard I try, I can never keep my room neat and orderly.

Often I forget that everything is supposed to have its own PROPER place.

But really — can the dynamic, infinite, divine mind of GOD be so small? Is the designated place for my chinelas really, really permanent and immutable?

I am no maverick, but I never really believed in the paralyzing, debilitating decrees of fear, slavery, and hypocrisy. I cannot blindly follow any herd.

I feel more at peace when I am what I am, and who I am.

There is an intuitive validity to what is really from God. Yes, there is an intuitive validity to what is really, really from God. Only the essential IS essential. Only the absolute IS absolute. ONLY GOD IS GOD.

And it was God who designed what I am. And who I am.

I was only eleven years old when I saw the play CYRANO DE BERGERAC. There was a line there that really stuck to my mind. And my heart:

“MY SOUL, BE CONTENT WITH FLOWERS AND WEEDS . . . WITH THORNS, EVEN. . . BUT GATHER THEM IN THE ONE GARDEN YOU MAY CALL YOUR OWN.”

“But gather them in the one garden you may call your own.” YOUR OWN.

My room is like my life, like my mind, like my heart. And amidst the unpremeditated disarray, I find MYSELF. I find HOME. I find PEACE. And GENUINENESS. And TRUTH. I find MEANING. I find GOD. And LOVE. And TRUST.

My room is my chapel, my library, my workroom, my rendezvous, my home.

IN MY ROOM I meditate in the early morning. Here I say my Rosary, I pray my prayers. In my room I can perceive and relish the presence of God. I can hear His whisper. I can be one with Him.

Here I feel His touch. Here I sing MY song, I dance MY dance, I please my God. Here I remember. And here I wait. And listen . . . and listen . . . and listen. . . .

AND IN THE SILENCE, I am gently reminded that all is love, that my life is not for myself alone, but for GOD . . . and for the POOR PEOPLE of GOD.

All this . . . all this I experience . . . in . . . my . . . room.

And why?

MAYBE because in the very center of my cluttered room there stands, invincible and transcendent and triumphant, there stands a CROSS . . . and THE CRUCIFIED.

THE CRUCIFIED . . . almost life-size, almost life-like . . . protecting me, understanding me, accepting me, healing me. Loving me.

JESUS does not really mind my little clutter. Yes, Jesus does not really mind my little clutter. He minds ME. He cherishes me. He appreciates ME. He needs ME.

I am very important to Him, although I often forget this. And He wants all my love. And He wants to be my friend. Forever.

It is because of the infinite love and the infinite grace of Jesus Christ that I can transcend the garbage and the filth of my sins and weaknesses, I can embrace the forgiveness and healing of God, I can accept myself, I can begin again. I can begin again. For I . . . I . . . AM LOVED . . . BY MY CRUCIFIED GOD!!! MY GOD . . . CRUCIFIED . . . FOR LOVE . . . OF ME.


SO THEN, my dearest friend . . . be not so sad, when YOU have no gift to bring that’s fit to give a KING. Be like THE LITTLE DRUMMER BOY. Look at Mary. Yes. Look at your Mother Mary. See her smile . . . at YOU.

THEN PLAY YOUR DRUM FOR CHRIST.

AND PLAY YOUR BEST FOR HIM.



Fr. Juni Jesena, S.J.