Field Trip to Marshall Partie Deux

Christ is born. Glorify Him!

My first whole day in Marshall was pretty much perfect. I woke up at my leisure, watched the sun rise from over the mountains from my window as I ate oatmeal feeling completely at peace. I got a call from Clara telling me that we were going to start Slaviq at 2pm at Sasha and Nick's house down the street, so I put on my winter gear and headed out into the -50 degree weather to begin taking part in their unique custom.

Sasha and Nick were one of the happiest and cutest elderly couples I had ever met. They are the kind of couple that when you meet them, you say a little prayer begging God for a taste of such a collective love and joy should you ever marry. Sasha had on a traditional Yup'ik garments as well as a crocheted Russian hair covering pinned neatly to her silver hair. Nick was a shorter rounder man with eye brows longer than the small patch of hair he had on the top of his head. He had the greatest sense of humor. Everything seemed to make him laugh.

It had been a tradition for many years in my own family to visit the grandmother's best friends, the Egly's, on Christmas Eve. They reminded me so much of this Yup'ik couple. Their warmth, generosity, and sincere welcoming of me, brought me back to the Egly's home as I sat there quietly watching them talk about how much they love their grandchildren and greet everyone walking through the door with such excitement it was as if they hadn't seen them in months. I've missed my Christmas traditions this year and the memories of ones from years past. But sharing this experience with all of them made me not feel like I was home exactly, but more like home was with me. I felt my grandmother there. Taking a deep breath I looked down to gather myself, as I felt a tear glide down my cheek.

As I had previously mentioned in my last post, a connection with deceased ones and a fearless openness to the spiritual world is alive and present in this culture. In true traditional form, the elder Mike started talking with me and telling me stories of his life, his culture, and his Marshall. One story that truly struck me was that of the special gift of his grandfather to see these dead relatives. He said that the spirits were with them always, but extremely present during the holidays (which I had actually been told back in Bethel as well). Mike's grandfather said he wished he could see through his eyes, so that he could see the spirits too. He said his grandfather would be more likely to look into the eyes of the "namesake" or spirit rather than the alive person in front of him. His grandfather taught him to constantly feel connected to all life, this life, the next, and anything to everything in between. Mike looked at me saying, "We really believe this". I looked back at him and said, "I truly believe you". We sat there for a moment in silence, and then more people started to gather in the room.

A group of children came in and Nick invited me over to sit with them. As soon as I sat down a little girl and little boy jumped on my lap asking me dozens of questions. "What's your name? Where are you from? Do you like it here? Who do you know? Is this really your hair? Why do your eyes look like that?" Then the one girl put her head on my arm and I asked her if she wanted to sit with me. Her face lit up as she hopped over the arm chair and sat next to me. She clung tightly to my arm and called me "mommy". Then she began to play with my hair and "style" it. I love having people play with my hair and playing with kids, so I was in heaven. Until I felt a strong pull on my head and looked back at the little girl. "What did you do?" I asked. She said, "I wanted a piece of your hair". All of us laughed.

Then with a kid in my lap, to my left, leaning on my legs, and behind me clinging to me, the room fell silent as the star, spinning cone, and flag entered the house. An elder named Mike explained to me that the spinning cone with represented creation and the world before Christ, the star represented Christ's birth because it was like the star that the three wise men followed, and the flag represented Christ's resurrection and Ascension into heaven. Each had a small icon on them coinciding with their symbolism. The Slaviq had begun.

The leader of the choir motioned all fifty or so of us in this tiny room to start singing. We sang in Russian, Yup'ik and English. When I asked Mike if he spoke all of these languages he looked at me slightly befuddled and said, "of course". As a lover of languages, I was incredibly humbled. The singing lasts for about half an hour with all facing the cone, star, and flag in the front of the room. They go for about a week visiting each home in the town and every home takes turn feeding the people traditional Native foods and sweets. One of my favorite parts was towards the end of the singing where they bless the owners of the house, all in it, and all who had passed away. This was a very emotional segment, as you can imagine, especially for the Yup'ik people.

Afterwards an elder, usually from the home, gives a somewhat of a speech or lesson to all there. Each time they were entirely in Yup'ik, which was a very special sight for me. The elder woman with her head covered and a history of wisdom etched on her face stood up and began to speak to us with such passion and concern. For half an hour she spoke about how sad she was that people were loosing their Native ways and that the young people weren't being taught the importance of forgiveness by their parents. Living in an area of such brokenness and abandonment, I understood why she spoke so thoroughly on forgiveness. She told the youth to listen to the knowledge and advice given by the elders, for it was their way and it had more value than they could find anywhere else. Concluding, she emphasized the importance of going to church, whether Russian Orthodox or Catholic. The absolute necessity for God's Holy Word in our lives was pronounced by her so boldly, that I know even inspired the usual church goers. When she had finished, she sat hunched over with her face in her hands and wept bitterly. Another elder said in English, "she cries in sorrow for the souls of the youth that refuses to change".

I was emotional. I was exhausted. I was grateful. I was officially part of Slaviq.

Field Trip to Marshall Part One

We often use words like, "awesome", "incredible", "exciting", and "amazing" so much so that at times they can loose their effect or depth. But believe me when I tell you that my past week was truly awesome, incredible, exciting, and amazing. From the 6th of January until early this morning the 13th of January I was in the rural Alaskan village of Marshall. I thought Bethel was rural and in the middles of no-where... I had no idea. Marshall is a landlocked town of only a couple hundred people, 95% Yup'ik with 2/3 of which are Russian Orthodox and the other third Catholic. With that in mind, it was the perfect time to experience Marshall as I went during the time known as Slaviq, the Russian Orthodox Christmas season. The town celebrates it together, both faiths sharing in this unique cultural experience. I'll go over the intricacies of Slaviq later, so stay tuned.

Everyday I was there I journaled on the events, the discussions, and the happenings of the day. I'd like to share my rich experiences with you here on my blog. So for each day I was in Marshall, I'll do a blog entry on it, because trust me there is a lot to be said...


In this is love:not that we have loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as expiation for our sins (1 Jn 4:10).

The above scriptural passage was part of the daily reading for the day I left for Marshall. I kept it with me as my mantra throughout the visit, meditating on the Love God has for us through all of our own flaws and failings, through good times and bad. Though I was assigned to go to Marshall to help Clara, the parish administrator, to get the new confirmation class up and running again, it seemed I had my own immersion trip and spiritual retreat. From the first day I was there I knew it was going to be an intense trip and I could see the importance of God's Love for us everywhere, in things seen and unseen.

It was only a short ride in, what apparently passes for, an airplane over the tundra, the frozen Yukon, mountains and trees that I arrived in Marshall, Alaska. I had my snow pants, parka, gloves, hat, and scarf already on, which was a good thing too because I could see my breath even while in the plane. We landed on a runway with small mountains, tundra, and trees surrounding us and no town in sight. Marshall was another two miles away.

As soon as I stepped off the plane the wind was so insistent on its strength that it blew off my hood, hat and scarf. I began to chase my things around the bottom of the plane, looking pretty ridiculous. The other native passengers stood there starring at me and probably thinking, "who is this blond girl? And what is she doing?" Then they handed me my luggage and asked me if I had a ride. Looking to the east and west, seeing nothing but wilderness, feeling nothing but freezing, and seeing no white truck that I was told would pick me up, I shouted over the loud wind "yes thank you!".

When I arrived at the Catholic Church, named Immaculate Heart of Mary, I felt much more at home. It looks like Immaculate Conception, only smaller, and with a patron to whom I have one of my greatest devotions. Perhaps it was the solitude or the quietness, but there is such a peace there. I actually could see for the first time why people find Bethel to be too big, busy, and overwhelming. For the first time in a while, I felt calmed.

After I settled into the little upstairs apartment, I called Clara. She invited me over to her house to meet her. "Go seven houses down and one back", she said. I don't know why I was anxious that I wouldn't be able to find it, but when I walked outside and saw the little rows of houses that essentially and entirely was the whole town, I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore.

I met her husband Moses, her daughter Tamlyn, and her grandson Shale. Her husband is Russian Orthodox, yet she and her children are Catholic. It was such a comfort to hear her talk about the close relationship between the two churches. After a short while, her husband went next door to take a steam (for they do not have a shower), Tamlyn went to her friend's house, and her grandson (who I noticed says "pop" not "soda", mind you) was taken home.

It was getting late and since everyone was going their own way, I figured it time to excuse myself. Then Clara said that she wanted to show me something. She took me into her short hallway and pointed to the pictures of her children. The reason why she answered, " I had five or so" when I asked her how many children she had became more clear. "This is my eldest son Matthew. He killed himself two years ago. This is my daughter Andrea. And this is Tamlyn of course. And this is my daughter Paula. She killed herself five years ago". I didn't know what to say to the woman I met only an hour ago. So for the moment I stood silent. She wept. I put my arm around her.

She went into the history of their depression and who they were back then and how she used to feel about it all. Clara then said that now she sees how their deaths make her more grateful for life, that though she has sorrow , she knows that she should keep going on, that she still has people to love and people who love her: "Who cares if it is raining or cold? Who needs to worry all the time when things are sad? We have each other. We have people to love. What else do you need?"

A smile came to her face when she started telling me all the wonderful things her son had done in his life. Not extraordinary things like a big time job or being top of his high school class. Nothing you could put on a resume, for they were not important. She told me how he would help elders in and out of cars and carry luggage for people and look after his sisters. "He was always always kind", she said proudly. "He was a good person". I told her that she must have been a good mother.

Clara believes in the old Native ways and beliefs, as the vast majority in the town does, particularly in the belief of spirits coming back to be connected (often times) to a specific person. One night recently, one of Matthew's friends had a dream that Matthew came to him and told him that Jesus gave him a second chance. He was coming back to stay by Andrea, his sister, to help her. She talked about her deep belief in forgiveness and Christ's love in forgiveness and her certainty of her son's eventual placement in heaven. She also advised strongly to stay away from vices, like drugs and alcohol, because that is what weakened her son to loose his way.

I told her to keep closely to the joy that she has about how much her son loved in his life and how much he was loved by her and others. She said she would and that we should all pray the Rosary and pray always. That night I prayed to the Blessed Mother for their souls and any journeys that they may be on, still connected to this world. Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Maryology 101

When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. - The Beatles

As some of you may know, it is a big week for Our Blessed Mother Mary. On Monday was the Feast of The Immaculate Conception and on Friday is the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Especially pertaining to Monday's feast, the Immaculate Conception is a Holy Day of obligation, the feast day for our nation's consecration to Her Immaculate Conception, and my parish's feast day as well.

The liturgical band that my roommates and friends are part of had extra practices for the beautiful Marian songs and I was all excited to celebrate such an important feast day with my new parish named after Her. Unfortunately I do not know if it is because it was on a Monday and people had to work or because people didn't know about it, but only about 25-30 people showed up for the noon and evening Masses combined. To bring about a deeper devotion and awareness of Our Lady, I'm doing a Youth Group night on Sunday on Mary, discussing dogmas, feast days, apparitions, and prayers to Her.

It made me meditate on my own devotion to Her and to God. Though I work at the church all day and do other ministries at night, my spiritual practices have changed. I've been overwhelmed in so many ways being here and I can't seem to find a way out of that state. Where is the quietness of my soul that used to find itself able to hear Them? I've gotten myself to be so busy and my time occupied with so many things and so many new ideas about life that I have been unable to digest them, and at times unable to make clear and rational decisions.

And then something miraculous in its simplicity happened as I was writing this blog entry. I'm not sure where I was going with this post, but it has defiantly taken a turn...

There is an elderly man who comes into the church when he is in town named Peter. He only knows a few sentences worth of English and I only know a few words of Yup'ik, so our conversations are between our eyes, smiles, and warmth towards one another. He is such a gentle soul and so tender with Our Lord. When he prays, he either sings or plays his harmonica. Witnessing him makes me feel gentler.

Then today he sat on the bench that is in our small narthex outside of my office. He started singing "O Come All Ye Faithful" in Yup'ik. For whatever reason I left my office, grabbed a hymnal, and started singing the same song in Latin. Then he started singing "Silent Night" and I sang it with him in Spanish. We didn't know what the other person was saying or singing, but we understood what each other meant through the song and how we sung it. He looked at me with his good eye, for the other is permanently closed, and as we both started to slightly tear up, we started to laugh. I said, "Quyana", which means "thank you". Then he got up, smiled, and left.

There was so much about that moment: the universality of the Church, the real language of God which is Love, etc. which were all present. But what struck me the most while we were singing was, when I looked up at the icon of Our Lady across from where we were sitting, I felt Her there. Not just like an unseen person standing in the room, but Her essence immersing itself in every space. Sitting next to Peter I thought, "brother". I felt brotherhood. For we were singing in front of Our Mother. She is always there, in front of us and in front of the cross. And now I think then, where am I?

The Pieta

Blessed was the night that Purity cried,
For it was the day that my Savior died.

Clouds rolling over, covering up the sun,
Blood weeping down His face,
With sorrow nowhere to run.

Counting down the minutes when Trust is here to stay,
She fell to her knees,
And watched Life fade away.

Her tears line His footsteps, shadowing over the past.
The immaculate grief of a mother,
Pierced through Her at last.

Taking Him in Her arms, She felt the breaking in Her chest,
Knowing it had only just begun,
The never-ending test.

Wrapping Him up with memories, She placed Him in the tomb,
As She does with all Her children,
To save them from their doom.

So always I call out to Her, begging for graces upon the morrow,
Because She is more than the Mother,

She is the Night of Sorrow.

(I wrote this poem for Her June 2007)

Driver's Ed 102

Greetings my avid and dedicated readers! My sincerest apologies for the long hiatus. An extremely busy schedule, waves of an unpleasant disposition, many failed attempts at uploading my Moose Movie (which did upload on facebook), and being overwhelmed by the many things I've been wanting to write has caused this awful pause. Hopefully that won't happen again. So I figured today I'd get back into the swing of things with a little jingle for you.

As many of you may know, the Jesuit Volunteers do not own a vehicle. However, because I work at the Church I drive Fr. Chuck's Church truck to do the ministerial errands and so forth. I'd like to make something clear. I hate this automobile. I hate it with a fiery un-comical passion. The souls of heaven are needed to watch over me every time I set foot in it because I could very well leave this world in that red beat-up Ford with no working 4 wheel drive.

But today, I've decided to take those proverbial lemons and make lemonade by making fun of the truck I disdain so much. For those of you not living in Bethel, the Birthday Line mentioned in the song is the most famous radio show on Bethel's single radio station and the PO is the abbreviation for Post Office, which I have to go to everyday...which also has a parking lot made of a sheet of ice. Please sing my little jingle along to the tune of "Jingle Bells" and enjoy reading my driving experience.

"Evil Truck"

Skidding on the ice

In a 1990's truck

O'er the tundra we go

Screaming all the way.

Fan belt breaks and snaps.

I feel I'm going to die.

What fun it is to laugh and sing

With the Birthday Line tonight!

Oh, Evil Truck, Evil Truck

You're evil everyday.

Oh what fun it'll be to drive

Without you in PA.

Driving to the PO

The anger brews inside.

I can't control the wheel.

St. Chris be by my side!

I get stuck in a ditch.

Broken key is just my luck.

It makes me want to yell a word

That rhymes with Father Chuck!

Oh! Evil Truck, Evil Truck
You're evil everyday.
Oh what fun it'll be to drive
Without you in PA.

Hey! Evil Truck, Evil Truck

You're evil everyday.

Oh what fun it'll be to drive

Without you in PA.

Peg Tooooomb!

Shout out!

Driver's Ed.

Let's waste time

Chasing cars

Around our heads.

- Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol

As some of you might know, Bethel is not accessible by road from the outside. It makes me think of Pleasantville sometimes when Reese Witherspoon's character asks, "Outside of Pleasantville? Like, what's at the end of Main Street?" and her teacher replies, "Mary Sue. You should know the answer to that! The end of Main Street is just the beginning again". Most of the roads within the town are winding bumpy silt roads that weave you around the residential areas. There are two "stoplights" (and by stoplight I mean yellow blinking lights) on the one "highway" (and by highway I mean a paved single lane road where going 40mph feels like you're Marty McFly driving the Delorean it's so fast). With this in mind, this is one of the reasons why people don't normally lock their cars. Because if someone stole it, seriously where are you going to go? Despite this, we had heard that recently there was a "high speed" car chase around town that only ended with one of the guys running out of gas or something. I would love to know what brought such an endeavor on and how they thought it was going to end.

When I have access to Fr. Chuck's church truck when he's gone I usually drive some of my roommates to work in the morning. Now many of you from home that have seen me drive can sympathize with Michael's comment to me this morning where he said as I was waiting to turn back onto the highway, "You know, this is the scariest part of my day". See the problem is, is that I can't always tell how far away a car is or judge how fast it's going. So I have this constant interior monologue of, "Oh here comes a car... should I go... now? No it's too close... crap no it wasn't I should have gone... Should I now? Uhhh no too close too close. Oh it's clear... crap, no it's not, but I'm in the middle of the road anyway... go go go!!!" After Michael had said this my response was, "well I've never actually killed anyone so that's good". Oh if the DMV only knew.

All of this discussion about driving got me thinking about that proverbial driver's wheel in my life. Then lyrics from a favorite Incubus song draw my mind's attention: Sometimes, I feel the fear of uncertainty stinging clear/And I can't help but ask myself how much I let the fear/Take the wheel and steer. Do I drive my life the way I drive a car, where I'm either too cautious or too head on? Do I like knowing the rules and guidelines while simultaneously not being able to see when to use them? Or am I like those men chasing each other around a town that has no exit? Why is there no road map in life or to God's Divine Will? Or is there and we are too distracted to notice?

I keep thinking about that car chase. Maybe they just felt stuck, confined by the bordering tundra. Perhaps it was representative of their caged emotion, unable to get away completely yet unable to control its movement within you. That stirring seething fiery emotion that chases reason around inside of you until it just can't anymore or it explodes. Though it probably sound idiotic to say, but I admire those car chasers. Sometimes I want to just be able to through reason out the window and let it disperse as it crashes on the hot pavement. Allow emotion, spontaneity, and lunacy to drive me, rather than me driving them away as I sometimes do. I'd also love to schedule an appointed "loose my mind" time, perhaps on a bi-weekly basis...just kidding.

Maybe what I'm really getting at in this reflection is to simply say, "wake up!". Do what you need to do to realize the potential of each day, to be able to quiet our souls enough to hear God say "this way" or "that way", to remember that we're alive (hopefully without doing harm to ourselves or to others that is). We get so caught up in everything. I've even got caught up writing this post because I've been trying to multitask. Carpe diem. Seize the day and make it live.

If I lay here

If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Forget what we're told
Before we get too old

Show me a garden that's bursting into life

Let's waste time
Chasing cars

Around our heads

Lunch Break

My poverty is not complete: it lacks me. - Voces by Antonio Porchia

Last week or so, a very special and personal event happened that I will remember and cherish for forever. It was my roommate Erin's turn to make dinner. And she made it very well. The dish she made was superb. It was something of a culinary fantasy that reminds you that you have a palette, and a fine one at that. This dish that I had never had before that gave me such joy was grilled cheese. Or as Lemony Snicket's Count Olaf might say, it's the Swedish term for cheese that is grilled. I'm not entirely certain as to why I had never given grilled cheese a try before, but I am not going back to such a life of deprivation. So to Erin, I am eternally grateful.

In any case, a discussion about the price of bread and cheese ensued because of how expensive it is up here, which then got us talking about how much we work for the amount of pay we receive and the perspective that we should keep that we are volunteering. But then an unsettling realization began to cloud over me as I pondered this word that I had written about in my first reflection: volunteer. According to the Oxford English Dictionary a volunteer is defined as, "a person who freely offers to do something" and "a person who works for an organization without being paid". Especially in terms of the second definition, what am I doing here? Or even still to echo Hamlet's resounding question in its agelessness, "to be or not to be" a volunteer... to be or not to be who I thought I was going to be when I signed up for this program.

Why is my work at the Church considered my "position" rather than my job? I get paid to do it, though not much. Yet, what is much? According to Globalissues.org, half of the world accounting for three billion people lives on less than $2 a day; UNICEF reported that 26,500-30,000 children die each day due to poverty; less than one per cent of what the world spent every year on weapons was needed to put every child into school by the year 2000 and yet it didn’t happen; 20% of the population in the developed nations, consume 86% of the world’s goods; and the list goes on and on.

We hear these facts and figures time and time again. We take mission trips, immersion trips, and study the problems and solutions behind modern Gothic architecture walls and 1 1/2 inched grass that you can't walk on. But where is this poverty? Where is this concept that we want to volunteer for, however you define volunteering? Yes it is in those empty bellies, in the facts, in those idealistic papers we write, on the news, out your front door, and maybe even in your home. But I ask you where should this poverty be? In your heart. A poverty so rich in humanness, in reality, that it holds and embraces in place our restless souls just looking for the answer to that question, "to be or not to be" or "why am I here". It calms us in the depths of our heart's floundering to breathe in that breath of clarity so we look at that answer of charity. It is the poverty that is and it is the charity that does.

It is true what they say that money cannot solve poverty, that would be missing the point. I want poverty to be in my heart, and not just around me or in my thoughts. How do I find that poverty that is always hungry to give, always thirsty for truth, and always yearning for the good? Poverty that is a vow to our interconnectedness, to dependency on charity that is to be given and charity that is to be received. Can I find it by working with my education from the top down through governmental organizations or from the bottom up? Can I still have it in my heart if I make a lot of money, but donate some of it and invest in my future children's education? Must I teach them this idea of poverty through monetary poverty additionally and always? It's one thing for me, but would it be another if I ever have a family? ... I digress.

How we are called to live this out I don't know. What I do know, is that Christ told us, "blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God" (Mt 5:3). And in that sense poverty is not just a way of living, but a way of being.

Is your heart complete? What do you lack?