Even leopards give thanks

Yesterday in church we listened to the story of Jesus healing the ten lepers two times. Not that he healed the lepers twice. We heard the story twice, once in Sunday school, and then again in church.

That makes sense. It’s an appropriate story for Thanksgiving week. Ten lepers healed, but only one came back to say “Thank you.” Of course we were then admonished to be that one, not only on Thanksgiving Day, but everyday. To make gratitude a habit. Good advice, healthy for the body as well as the soul.

That story has special meaning to me. Years ago, in a Sunday school, the leader was teaching on the miracles of Jesus. For such an uplifting subject, the class was remarkably boring. The teacher, a good friend, was a college professor in lecture mode, droning on and on. At one point he was reading off a list of all the miracles recorded in the Gospels. I had drifted off when, on the borders of consciousness, I heard him mention the healing of the ten leopards.

That caught my attention. Instantly my imagination went into full gear and I saw an African savannah with leopards and other wild beasts. Jesus was walking among them, having mercy on their conditions.

Then class was over and we filed into the sanctuary for the worship service. I wrote the following poem in the margins of the church bulletin:

The Cleansing

And it came about that Jesus, King, was passing
through the grass lands of Burundi and as he
entered a village ten leopards approached,

slinking between the huts, pad-padding down
the paths on great pudding feet,
ten shadow beasts brought low by mange and

malice came near and said to the King of Cats, 
O Master, Jesus, have mercy on us,
we know if you will you can make us clean,

heal our hide, sharpen our claws, restore our
terror names, and Jesus, Beast, said,
I will, be clean, and straightway the ten

leopards were healed and with leaps and holy
yowls they departed, but one, when he saw
he was healed, returned and crouching purred

his praise, a gravelly grace song, and Jesus,
Cat, twitched his tail
while all the skies of Africa sang.

While the poem was playful, it also turned out to be true. Christ is called the Lion of Judah in the Old Testament and in the book of Revelation. My slip-of-the-ear and the consequent vision presented me with a different perspective on the Gospel. A picture of a cosmic healing Christ who we’ll never be able to completely understand. And a new view of gratitude. I saw a bigger picture of grace and goodness abroad in the world. Writing poems sometimes does that to me.

As we focus on thanksgiving this week, let’s ask for a bigger vision of God and of the grace and goodness of God in our lives, no matter what is going on personally and in the world at large. Let’s be thankful.

If a leopard—or a leper—can express gratitude, so can I.

On being a medical experiment

 With the help of Google Maps, we found our way to the large medical complex in a neighboring city. Our destination—the cancer center of the medical research university that is overseeing my treatment for vestibular migraine. No, I don’t have cancer, but having to get my infusion in the cancer center impressed me with a sense of gravity.

This was the latest chapter in the medical experiments I’m undergoing to find, if not a cure, some relief from the dizziness and head pressure that have been pestering me for about ten years. That seems like a long time, but hope holds steady. Having a sympathetic doctor willing to try anything helps.

I entered the center, checked in, and a nurse led me to a long open room set up with what looked like large dental chairs. About 15 of them. She told me to pick my chair, so I chose one facing a window with a view of trees. Trees always comfort me and give me courage. This experiment would not be via pills or injections, but rather an IV infusion directly into the blood stream. 

But let me back up. Several years back when I began complaining about my dizziness, my primary care physician began putting me through a series of tests and referring me to numerous specialists. Over a period of three years, I had an MRI, CT scan, x-rays of my carotid arteries, sleep apnea test, and other tests I can’t remember. Specialists included a neurologist; ear, nose, and throat guy; audiologist, allergist; sleep doctor; and physical therapist. The physical therapist was the most helpful; she told me that although she couldn’t do anything about the dizziness, she could give me good balance strategies. It worked; I have yet to fall. But each of these tests and specialists came to the same conclusion—we find nothing wrong with you.

At the end of this period, my PCP told me, “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong and there’s nothing more I can do to help you.” She gave up. I secretly wondered if she and all the other specialists had come to the conclusion that there really was nothing wrong with me, that I was a highly imaginative hypochondriac. I began wondering that myself.

So I changed health-care plans and found a new doctor in a university research hospital, a neurologist who specializes in headaches and dizziness. (I had had no idea such a doctor existed.) Having access to all my medical records, she was able to diagnose me during our first virtual consultation. This was during the height of the pandemic; I didn’t get to meet her in person for a year. 

It felt wonderful to have a doctor who believed me and took my symptoms seriously. And it felt wonderful to finally have a name for this thing—vestibular migraine. (I had had no idea that such a condition existed.) She told me that there was as of yet no known cure for this type of migraine, but that researchers and drug companies were working on it. Would I like to become part of the experimentation? My treatments and their results would be entered into a research database and, hopefully, we would find something that would help me. Yes! I absolutely would like to participate. I was tired of being passive. And maybe I could help other people.

So began my new life as a medical experiment. That was three years ago and I’m still contributing to that database. The first treatment was several months of vitamin and mineral therapy; I really wanted that one to work, but I perceived no improvement. That has been followed by 11 different drug experiments, each one taking several months. The second drug, Lamotrigine, actually helped reduce the intensity of the symptoms and I continue taking a small dose every morning. But it’s not enough, so the experiments continue. The actual drug list is impressive and (to me) funny. Here it is (please free to skim this sentence): Rizatriptan, Lamotrigine, Verapamil, Amigriptyline, Gabepentin, Memantine, Cyproheptadine, Meclizine, Emgality, Amiovig, and Eptinezamab. Are you as impressed as I am? Most of these are not primarily aimed at migraines but are sometimes found helpful. For example, the Lamotrigine I’m still on is used mainly for epilepsy and bi-polar syndrome. 

The last three drugs are relatively new and used exclusively for migraine sufferers. This last year I have been on extensive experiments with Emgality and Aimovig. I’m proud of myself as they both required that I give myself a monthly injection in the stomach, something I never thought I’d be able to do. But I learned to do it without trauma. 

The good news is that none of these scary sounding drugs had any adverse effects. The bad new is that they had no good effects either. After each experiment, I had to say that I felt no change for the better. In fact, my condition seems to be getting more intense with time.

So now, there I was in the cancer hospital, sitting in the huge chair, looking out at the trees, and wondering if this next experiment was going to be the ONE. The IV infusion took half an hour, then I sat there another hour to make sure there were no adverse reactions. And then Hal and I drove home. That was two weeks ago. This infusion will last for three months, and then I am to repeat it. So far—no reactions. But no change either. The nurse said that it might take time to see if this would prove to be helpful. (Where have I heard that before?)

In my last office visit I asked my beloved doctor what advances the research was making. Such an honest woman, she responded that because my condition is relatively rare, it has a low priority ranking. Most investigation is focused on diseases like cancer or Alzheimer’s. That makes sense, although it’s not personally encouraging. No advances have been made, she told me.

Still, I’m glad she wants to experiment. We will find something that helps you, she says. She gives me hope.

But my hope is becoming more tempered by realism. After so many experiments, I’m not so expectant that with this new infusion my life will turn around and I’ll be able to skip into old age without getting dizzy. I don’t think I’m becoming cynical. Realistic might be a better word. But it may be that one day I’ll just decide to stop the experiments.

And, of course, I take note of all the good people, with chronic conditions much worse than mine, who carry them until they die. 

So I’ve decided to just keep saying thank you. Not for my migraines. Not for the drugs that don’t work. I not thankful for any of that. But just thank you. Just thank you.

Thank you thank you thank you. Over and over. Yes yes yes to whatever you permit. Repeat  repeat repeat.

I’m no kind of holy experiment to God. God doesn’t need research to discover what’s best for me. I’m his beloved daughter.

We’ll see what happens in the next few months. I wouldn’t mind putting all this dizzy stuff behind me.

But in the meantime, I have more than enough to be thankful for.

Thank you thank you thank you.

I speak to my body

 Many years ago, when I lived in Bolivia, I developed a sore on the bottom of my left foot—a nasty place in case one wants to walk. And I did. The doctor decided I needed an operation to remove the growth. (Now I know that there are less drastic solutions for this condition.) So, he operated. Then he sent me home with instructions to rest, with my foot elevated.

It was the middle of a school term, but I complied. (Now I know that today a doctor would have me up and walking an hour after the operation.) 

Actually, I was glad for a little time off to lay around and read novels. Except for the pain.

My foot hurt. So, I wrote it a letter. Here’s my letter:

Letter To My Left Foot 

Oh appendage, end of leg, end of body, connection to the world,

Why do you protest?
Have I not treated you well?
Have I ignored you?
Well, I'm not ignoring you now!
You are constantly on my mind these days, left foot.
I lay here with you high in the air, and I think of you.
I get up to go to the bathroom and all my focus dips down to where you meet the floor.
Eating, sleeping, reading my novel, you are on my mind.
I hope you can find satisfaction in this.
I hope this cools your heat, calms your ire, stifles your screams.

Oh foot, left foot, please accept my profound apologies for having ignored you, belittled you, stuffed you into shoes, exposed you to dirt and grime, and--more times than I can calculate--stepped on you.

And now--hear my confession--I must tell you in all honesty that I probably will continue to do all of the above, once you stop screaming.

In spite of that, please consider being nice to me again.

Whatever you decide, we're stuck with each other, connected for life.
A treaty, left foot?
Let's try harder to get along, OK?

With warm regards,
The rest of your body.

I was just thinking this morning that at this time of life I could write letters to lots of body parts. I’m not sure they would read my letters. It probably wouldn’t make any difference.

Take my hands, for example. My hands used to be so soft and well-formed. Not only that, they could open tough lids without outside help. Strong. My hands were a source of pride. 

Now I think—how silly. 

Hal complemented me yesterday. “You have beautiful hands, Nancy,” he said. I’m afraid I made some cynical remark in reply. Bad me. Later I said, “Woops. Sorry. I accept your complement.”

Actually, my hands are much more interesting now than when I was young and vain. The lines go in so many directions. The spots are not symmetrical but I like abstract art. The nails are ridged, but the ridges are straight and orderly, in contrast to the spots. The knobby knuckles provide a geography of mountains and valleys. And the bruise marks are a lovely color of purple. 

I don’t think I’ll write a letter to my hands. Instead, I will talk to them. Here’s what I’ll say:

Thank you, hands, for almost 80 years of service. I can’t believe how many poems and stories you’ve written. You’re so creative. Years ago, you held hands with a young man as I promised to be faithful. You wore that beautiful ring for five years, until you grew skinny and it fell off in Lake Titicaca. Not your fault. We replaced it, not wanting your finger to feel naked.

You burped my babies, cooked spaghetti, washed my dishes, gripped the steering wheel as I drove to the market, buttoned my buttons, threw balls, cross-stitched flowers, and turned the pages on some wonderful books. I could go on and on.

I probably should have worn gloves when I did the dishes. I probably should have spoiled you more with exotic lotions. A manicure or two might have been nice. But you’ve been faithful anyway.

And now you’re so interesting, a map of lines and spots that tell the story of a lifetime of adventures, surprises, trials, and blessings. 

So, thank you. I promise to stop complaining about those interesting spots.

Now, which body part should I address next?

For flexible fingers and white chocolate—thanks!

 Several years ago, as a spiritual exercise, I chose seven values that I wanted to describe my character. All these traits are faith statements, something to grow toward. The first value on my list is gratitude. Some days I find it easy to be grateful. Other days I don’t. Gratitude when times are hard or I’m feeling especially tired is something good to aim for.

Today I’m both dizzy and grateful. It’s thanksgiving week. It seems ironic that we give only one day of the 365 to officially designate as a day of thanksgiving, but at least our culture does that much. I’m aiming for 365 unofficial thankful days, although without the turkey and cranberry sauce.

I made a short list this morning of some specific things I’m grateful for at this time.

I’m grateful….

--for a grandson who wants to include his grandparents in his life. Friday night we gathered with some of his friends at his house to begin our annual Lord of the Rings marathon. Last night he invited us to come with other friends to see the movie Bonhoeffer. All these young adults seemed to enjoy including us grandparents. He comes to the retirement home to eat lunch with us every week. I don’t take any of that for granted.

--for a husband with flexible fingers. Hal suffers from trigger finger (and he doesn’t even own a gun). It’s a strange and painful condition where his fingers curl in toward the palm and he has to force them to unbend. He is currently recovering from an operation in his left hand that is already correcting the condition. We believe in prayer for healing. We’re also thankful for advances in modern medicine that bring about this type of miraculous healing.

--for white chocolate and SWP coffee. I have a chronic condition called vestibular migraine and two of the food triggers that intensify the dizziness are chocolate and coffee. Can you imagine? Two of my favorite foods! But, and this is the thankful part, I’ve discovered the exceptions to the rule: white chocolate and SWP coffee! I’ve found a German white chocolate that is just as good as the real stuff. And, better yet, SWP (Swiss Water Processed) decaf coffee also tastes like the real thing, because it is real coffee. My early morning comfort drink.

--for a quirky orchid plant that won’t give up. My son gave it to me for some occasion earlier this year, a tall plant with lovely purple orchids. It bloomed for several months, then the flowers dried up and fell off. But I continued to water it once a week and kept it in the bedroom, out of sight because it looked so strange: broad leaves low in the pot, and three long stems (12-18 inches) fastened to sticks. No blooms. But a week ago I noticed eight buds at the end of the long stems. Today two flowers bloom and six buds are about to open. I’ve put it back in the living room. Beautiful. I’m sure there’s a good moral lesson in this. Maybe I’ll think of it tomorrow.

--for the expectation of a wonderful thanksgiving dinner with eleven family members. I’m hosting it, but I don’t have to cook, and I can’t adequately express how grateful I am for that. Our retirement community puts on a marvelous thanksgiving spread and encourages us to invite family. One of the many perks of living here.

--for God’s sovereignty over history—world history, national events, and my own small story. I’m stirring up my faith to rest in the fact that God knows what’s happening in our nation at this time, and that no matter how disappointed or nervous I feel, I can trust that the Spirit of God is on the move and will watch over all his people.

In our Sunday school class this week, the convener told of an exercise that I’m going to try this year. At the end of each day, I’m to write in my journal one specific thing I’m grateful for in the last 24 hours. I will try to do this for a year (or at least until the end of this year). But the thing is, I can’t repeat anything. It has to be something new each day. That sounds challenging, which is what an exercise is supposed to be. I anticipate it will cause me to dig and find more things to be grateful for, things or experiences or people I wouldn’t normally consider as blessings. I plan to read back over my list at the end of every month. (The plan is to read the list after a year—but each month sounds like more fun.)

I’ll let you know how it turns out.

What are you grateful for? Be specific!

The "Happiness U-Curve"--Is it true?

 I’ve been reading a fascinating book entitled This Chair Rocks: A Manifesto Against Ageism by Ashton Applewhite (2016). The author defines ageism as “discrimination and stereotyping on the basis of a person’s age,” and she goes through the whole book detailing its manifestations in our culture. She expresses some of the fallacies of ageism as Wrinkles are ugly. Old people are incompetent. It’s sad to be old. Applewhite counteracts the prejudices of ageism with her very positive take on the values and joys of being an older person. She almost overdoes both ends of the sad/happy continuum, and contrasts with another fascinating book I blogged on earlier this year, Susan Jacoby’s Never Say Die: The Myth and Marketing of the New Old Age. (See my blog on January 9, 2024.)

As usual, I find questionable extremes along with much of value in both books.

Applewhite refers to what is to me a new concept—the U-curve of happiness. “People are happiest at the beginnings and the ends of their lives. If you don’t take my word for it, Google ‘U-curve of happiness.’ Even as age strips us of things we cherished—physical strength, beloved friends, toned flesh—we grow more content.”

I love that idea, but is it true? Is it true for all old people (obviously not), most old people, or a special group of really mature oldsters? Is it true mostly among white, wealthy, healthy retirees? Is it a cross-cultural reality (one study says yes)?

Applewhite cites research that “proves” that little kids and old people tend to be the happiest people in the world. (She doesn’t mention it, but I assume that refers to people not living in war zones or depressed neighborhoods.) She includes a 2008 combined Gallup poll and University of Chicago study where 340,000 Americans between the ages of 18 and 85 were surveyed, with mentally sharp old people winning the happiness trophy.

The author quotes an expert on aging (these seem to abound) who “points out that in contrast to the doubts and insecurities of youth, growing older enables us to become more self-aware and confident, less fearful of being judged, and authentically happy. Not that life gets easier, but that it becomes easier to focus on what truly matters—and that makes it better.”

I like that and I think there’s truth to it. But I’m not sure how widely it applies. I look at it as something to grow into.

Applewhite says that “age itself confers very effective coping mechanisms upon ordinary people…. savoring the small things, letting go, and practicing gratitude.” That could refer to mature people at any age.

While this list obviously does not exhaust the ways we cope with old age, it’s sweet. I want to briefly reflect on these three coping mechanisms. How am I doing?

Savoring the small things: Does that mean that, even though I couldn’t afford to go on an exotic cruise even if I wanted to, I can savor the wonders in my own back yard? I hope that’s true. As a poet I naturally gravitate to the small, concrete stuff of life: tiny blue flowers alongside the trail, the toes of small babies, my husband’s smile, comfortable shoes, no back ache this morning. Yes and hurrah to all of the above!

Letting go: This one is trickier. Some of my friends have recently had to let go of their life partners, their mobility, even their memories. Not so easy. And it’s not as though they had a say in the matter. I guess in these cases, it’s coming to a point of acceptance that matters. Will I be able to handle these kinds of losses with maturity? Probably, with God’s help. In the meantime, I learning to let go of my role in the family, my books, my ability to run along the beach, chocolate, more than one cup of coffee a day, my place in line. And maybe I’m learning to hold closer to things that matter. I keep narrowing down the list of those things. Letting go of the rest. And after the sorrow of loss, breathing a sigh of relief.

Practicing gratitude: Most self-help, how-to-be-happy books mention the importance of being thankful. Because it’s true. But it’s also hard not to be glib and fluffy about gratitude. Realism is important as we age. Loss, pain, and inevitable death are no laughing matters. So, a mixture of realism and gratitude would seem to be the way of wisdom. A sort of gritty gratitude that faces the unpleasant realities of the aging process and dares to say thank you anyway. That’s hard. And that’s why we need to practice.

So this morning I say Thank you for all my body parts that are functioning just fine—my heart (that’s a big one!), my tear glands, my kidneys, the right side of my brain, and so on. At this point in my journey, there’s more stuff that’s working well than not. Thank you for early morning sunshine, in spite of a rainy forecast. Thank you for the “leaping greenly spirits of trees,” as e.e. cummings put it. Thank you for poets. Thank you for the new glasses that let me read the poets. I could go on and on, but I won’t. I just pray that the next time I’m feeling grumpy, woeful, or old, I can still think of something to say thank you for.

Are old people, in general, happier than younger adults? I’m not sure. The studies are provocative, but not totally persuasive. I do know that as I’ve been reading my old journals, I notice that I’m currently a calmer, more peaceful person than I’ve ever been. Interesting.

Guess I’ll just keep practicing—savoring the small things, letting go, and saying thank you as often as I can.

---

Gratitude in the old growth forest

 I’m a list maker: to-do lists, wish-lists, prayer requests, priorities, and so on. I just made a (helpful, I hope) list of migraine triggers. And because this is Thanksgiving week, a gratitude list seems appropriate. (Hal helped me come up with this list.) I focus on the retirement community where we now live. This is a very particular old growth forest.

I’m thankful for….

--an environment that not only keeps me safe but encourages me to keep growing

--that my long-time husband is still my best friend and we get to share this apartment

--for the art studio in the basement that lets me (a non-artist) keep my own locker of art supplies, invites me to come down anytime to experiment with my own projects, encourages me to join classes and discover that maybe, just maybe, I am a sort of artist

--lots of new “best friends,” all of them in their 70s, 80s, and 90s. (I had thought “best friends” was a high school thing. Wrong.)

--the opportunity to listen, understand, and be present to my neighbors in good times and hard

--a library with a good selection and a flexible attitude toward late returns

--food that is almost always good and sometimes delicious

--a room with a view—trees, hills, a sky full of dancing clouds

--a cozy burgundy rocking chair that swivels to let me see the view (It’s my early morning prayer chair and my afternoon nap chair.)

--the path around the Hess Creek Canyon that feeds my need to be among trees on a regular basis and to hear water moving over the earth

--the critters that inhabit the secret spaces—deer, birds, squirrels, the occasional racoon

--the staff that works behind the scenes to make our lives comfortable: the women who clean our rooms, the man who replaced the handle on my refrigerator door when it broke off, the tech expert who solves my computer problems, the cooks and waiters/waitresses who prepare and serve our meals, the community life director who plans our outings, the gardeners who keep the place beautiful, and especially the nurses and aides who care for our most vulnerable residents.

--beautiful and sometimes intriguing works of art that decorate our lobby and all the residential halls. We live in an art gallery with free admission.

--our own lobby on the fifth floor where we congregate to have meetings, celebrate birthdays, pray together, and work (play) on puzzles

--free coffee down in the lobby

--our community garden where this year, for the first time, we had our own plot. Amazingly enough, things grew (roses, tomatoes, Inca lilies, green onions, wild flowers, and spaghetti squash, among other miracles).

--an exercise room with lots of machines and open space for courageous classes. My favorite machine (called the New Step) faces a window with a forest view. Forty-five minutes can pass without my realizing it.

--a woodshop where I (Hal) find a community of like interests and skills.

--an active residential association that lets us self-govern, plan our activities, and come up with creative ways to serve the community

--a resale shop and storage space that not only provide residents with a place to donate their furniture, clothes, and other items as they need to downsize, but offers bargain prices on really good stuff

--the security of knowing that as I continue to age and need different levels of care, this community will provide that. That’s the nature of a continuing-care retirement community. My kids and grandkids can come be with me, but they won’t have to take care of me. That gives me peace.

--the blessing of knowing that this community is Christ-centered and founded on values such as integrity, compassion, stewardship, community, excellence and service. I can live with that. I can grow old in this environment.

I hope this doesn’t sound like a publicity pamphlet. That’s not my intention, and that’s certainly not my favorite writing genre. And this community is far from heaven-on-earth. We have our fair share of problems, conflicts, and challenges. After all, we’re all people.

But my intention today is gratitude and the above list represents my true feelings. (Maybe I’ll write an angry list another day. Probably not.)

Thanks be to God for blessing us in this time of life. Life in this old growth forest is good.

The vacuuming prince

Keeping a retirement community of some 400 residents running requires a large staff. These are the people around us everyday, who clean our rooms, cook and serve our meals, fix our broken faucets, and tend to us when we get too old to take care of ourselves. In time they become familiar to us. We learn their names and they learn ours. Some become friends.

Some of the stated values of this particular retirement community are integrity, compassion, dignity, and service. The community tries (maybe not always with perfect success) to live out these values in board decisions, administrative policies, resident activities, and employment practices. Fair wages, adequate on-the-job training, and a recognition of the dignity of each person—these are the goal.

Most of us residents are grateful for the staff that work here. I especially enjoy the opportunity to interact with the Hispanic workers; they remind me of my home in Bolivia. And it’s refreshing to have so many young people—high school and college students—serving us meals in the dining room. (I did the same thing in this same dining room when I was in college. I loved how the residents treated me.)

According to the last report, this community employs 246 staff persons, many part-time. Most of them seem happy to be working here (they all need to work somewhere); others seem burdened. But they all have private lives. They all have stories.

Some of the ways residents express their appreciation is through a scholarship fund and bi-annual bonuses in the form of gift cards, furnished entirely by resident offerings. Perhaps even more important, is when residents respond personally to different ones, learning, not only their names, but also what we can of their unique stories. This can be a challenge as they’re all on a schedule, with timed breaks. But little by little, it’s possible.

Let me tell you John’s story. I first ran across John as he was vacuuming the carpet in our hall. I greeted him and he responded with such a warm smile, it touched me and after that I made it a point to chat with him whenever our paths crossed. Once he commented on a hanging of shells on my door, asking me where it was from. I told him it was from the island of Ponape in the South Pacific. He smiled and told me he recognized it because that’s near his homeland, the island of Yap.

Yap? Intrigued, we invited John up to our room one day after work. We had lots of question, and what we learned amazed and delighted us.

Yap is a cluster of islands about 800 miles east of the Philippines surrounded by barrier reefs, part of the Federated States of Micronesia. Beautiful beaches climb inland to forested mountains. It has a year-round temperature of about 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Population on the main island runs between 11,000-12,000 people. It’s small but it sounds like a paradise.

The religion is a form of imported Catholicism mixed with animism and ancestor worship. People are proud of their customs and language, and struggle to maintain their way of life while facing the modern world. Hard to do.

John comes from this culture, but he is not just a random member. He is royalty. His step-father was chief or king of the island, a position handed down in the royal family. As such, John was in line to become chief.

When he was in high school, a Korean student shared the Christian gospel with John and gave him a Bible. He had always been curious about that figure up on the cross and wondered if there were more to life. After much reflection and prayer, John decided to become a follower of Jesus. This did not go over well with the family who disowned him for a time.

John moved to Guam and met his wife Donna in a church. They had their first two children in Guam, then decided to migrate to the Northwest corner of the United States where both John and Donna had family. They eventually made their way to Newberg, Oregon where, after several jobs, John found himself on the maintenance staff of George Fox University. He worked there for 19 years, while raising his family of now four children. Oregon became home.

When George Fox began cutting staff positions, John decided to move over to Friendsview, again finding a position on the maintenance staff, where he continues working today.

I wrote this poem about John: 

The Prince of Yap

The man who vacuums
the carpets in the hall
is really the Prince of Yap.
His late father was the King of Yap
and he was next in line
to succeed to the throne.
But he didn’t want to be king.
He envisioned another life,
dreamed of open borders,
less ocean, more scope.
So he migrated to America.
One of his relatives is now king.
He’s happy to be here,
vacuuming rugs, secretly knowing
he still is, will always be,
the Prince of Yap. 

I suspect that other members of the staff are also secret royalty, probably not in the same sense John is, but royalty nonetheless. All people of great value with wonderful stories to tell.