In the Footsteps of St. Herman

I left Alaska last week and am now in the Lower 48 but not home yet. Part of rounding out the sabbatical is spending some time debriefing, giving me a while to adjust before moving right up to speed in the parish once more. For that reason, this will be the only post I will be adding to the Blog during this time.

When all said and done, Fr. John will have travelled more than 27,500 miles (44,250 km) from start to finish.

Let’s just say that I am slowly wending my way back to State College. I am also slowly attempting to digest what has transpired in my life over these past four months. It is not merely a question of the places I’ve seen and the people I’ve met and the things that I’ve done. A sabbatical is not an extended vacation.

Some sabbaticals are intended for research, with books or papers or lectures expected to demonstrate the new knowledge acquired, the new conclusions reached. This one is different in that no research was expected in the strictly academic sense. And no books or papers or lectures are required.

Rather, this time has been intended for clergy spiritual, intellectual and physical renewal, giving a time for rest as well as new perspective on vocation: one that will benefit the parish upon the pastor’s return, as well. Indeed, the parish wrote the grant and has had its own requirements to fill in my absence, taking on a greater share of ministry by the laity, seeing to the meeting of pastoral needs, maintaining a full round of services and programs, and perhaps in short, learning how to get along without me for a while.

No pastor, no priest is indispensible for ministry. It can be a humbling lesson for clergy to learn. Yet, it is essential for the emotional and professional well-being, not only of the priest but of the parish, too. It is not a matter of “who needs him (or them)?” It is a matter of focusing more on the message than the messenger and taking responsibility for the work of ministry as a mutual calling for the Body of Church; not solely the province of the professional who is paid to “do one’s Christianity” for the parish body.

In my absence the parish has taken part in a church-health initiative of our Archdiocese, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of parish life, in order to begin taking steps to strengthen the strengths and address the weaknesses. An outside consultant has been engaged for the process.

My hope is that my absence enabled a frank assessment of these areas in our community’s life, far franker that had I been present. And while I will certainly be involved in the next phase of the initiative upon my return, I expect the ball to be kept in play by the ones who have been playing the first-half while I’ve been on the “bench”.

To my elders: my brothers and sisters on the Yukon, greetings in our wonderful Lord Jesus Christ!

Words cannot express my joy. It truly was joy to have lived with you, shared with you and learned from you during this past month. You welcomed me to your homes, your tables, and your lives.

As I said during my first days in Marshall, all of you on the Yukon, all of you in Alaska, are elders to us Orthodox in the Lower-48. You, the spiritual descendants of St. Yaakov and St. Herman, St. Innocent, St. Juvenaly, and St. Peter have had the blessing of Orthodox-life for almost two centuries and more years on this North American continent.

Your faith has been integrated into your life, in spite of many difficulties, the absence of clergy with a regular cycle of services chief among them. Yet, you have persevered and developed a truly Orthodox understanding of your lives and how they are to be lived in ways that those of us “down-south” can only hope or dream for our descendants.

At present you face but a temporary challenge to your faith. Deep in your soul, your hearts, your faith is well grounded. The elders taught you to love God and to love each other. On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.

Continue to love God, as St. Herman instructed all of us: From this day forth, from this hour, from this minute. Without love of God, anything else we do or say is empty, is vain. Continue to love God with attendance at services and with prayers, both as the church and in your homes. We cannot say we love God with all our hearts if we absent our selves from assembling together each Lord’s Day. That day belongs to Him.

As well, continue to love God with study of the Holy Scriptures, as John, Willie and Peter teach you. Bind God’s statutes upon your hearts and teach them daily to your children.

For your children, continue to instruct them in the ways that lead to eternal life. Work, especially, with the Youth Group to establish a youth center for them in your midst. Make sure that it is open to all the children of Marshall without any strings attached, without any pressure exerted. Give them a safe place where they are neither tempted by vice nor coerced by persecution. Be examples of the love of Christ to your children in village life in all that you do.

Someday, your children will grow to positions of leadership in the church, the village, and the tribe. Teach them all that they need to know that they may bring honor to their fathers and their mothers, their A’pas and A’mas: that their days may be long upon the land which the Lord their God has given them. God has no grandchildren: every generation must be taught anew.

Teach them what Christ taught his Apostles and what his Apostles taught our Elders, the Holy Fathers down through the centuries. Teach them especially about Alaska’s saints: St. Yakov, who sanctified the shores of your village, traveling Yukon waters as he lived and worked to bring Good News to the Yup’ik people; St. Herman, who labored a generation before him in Kodiak; St. Innocent, first bishop in our land who blessed the labor of St. Yakov; St. Juvenaly, first-martyr in America; and, especially for the youth, teach them more about St. Peter the Aleut.

St. Peter was born around the same time as St. Yakov, of the same Aleut people. He was the first native-American to lay down his life for the Orthodox faith. May his words, “I am a Christian. I will not deny my faith,” be the first lesson the children learn. And may it be the last words an elder speaks.

For those who condemn your faith as “Eskimo religion,” take this as a compliment. Take it as a blessing. “Bless, and curse not.” Those who say these things do not know the truth that they speak. You are the Real People and this is the True Faith.

I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And I will always cherish the days I spent with you, the days that you also spent sharing the life of the Real People with me.

You are ever in my thoughts and prayers and will continue to be so. Pray for me, the unworthy priest, your younger son, your younger brother, in our common faith. Quyana! Piurra!

– Fr. John

Marvin prayed for fog. That was his jest, or so I thought. But sure enough, dawn had hardly broken by 8:00. In Marshall, you wait until the plane is heard overhead, then you head to the airstrip. My flight was scheduled to depart at 9:55, but by 9:30 I had heard nothing overhead or by VHF.

Joel motored over to say goodbye.

“Are you my ride?” I queried.

“No, but I can be,” he offers.

Willie had said that someone would come to pick me up, and I thought maybe the lot fell to Joel. As Joel and I talk, I hear A’ma on VHF asking for me. She thanks me again and bids me farewell. Willie comes on to say that Bethel is still fog bound, too. I’ll wait until I hear the plane.

Wolf! Wolf! -- A pelt (i.e., stripped off fur that once covered an animal's skin) hung up at a villager's home.

Joel heads to work and I head uptown to pick up my windbreaker from the church. It had been so wonderful outdoors yesterday, I forgot to wear it home. I had another call to make, too: I finally get to take pictures of the wolf and lynx pelts at the Hunters. (Yes, that’s their names.)

And then there is a stop-off at Marvin’s: “Thanks for the fog!” I greet him sarcastically. He laughs hard. He also keeps teasing me that he’s agnostic.

“Agnostics don’t pray, Marvin!”

He offers me strong coffee as I sit down. I asked if the brew had chicory in it: That’s when I find out that there is a Starbucks in Marshall, not a retail store, but whole bean, French Roast, Starbucks Coffee, served with a smile.

“Ah, ah!” I hardly had time to take this all in when I spy Jennifer trooping my way, ten-month-old Costa hanging in a sling around her neck and three-year-old Demetri schlepping along in his mud boots. I call out to save her the trip.

“Oh, Father! I heard about your delay on VHF. Here’s some coffee for you!” She pulls out a large insulated aluminum travel tumbler for me, filled with Greek coffee.

I’m nearly ecstatic over the prospect of Starbucks in one hand and home-delivered Greek coffee in the other, enough for me to fly to Anchorage, with or without the plane.

By now, Marvin is outside with us: “I prayed for fog!” Is this a testimony, Marv?

Blessings and goodbyes ensue. Marv and I head back in his cabin. By the way, it is a traditional log house. It serves as Marvin’s domicile, video rental service, and candy and soda store, plus strategic command post, with a view on Marshall and his poultry enterprise, as well.

Before I know it, I see A’pa Paul headed down to see me. Marvin calls out to him, and he turns back to spend some quiet, bittersweet moments of conversation with me. “Maybe, you’ll come back for Conference? Next year, it’s Russian Mission. In two years, here!”

“Piurra! Goodbye!” It’s hard each time.

Marvin and I continue to chat away the morning, speculating on Marshall’s need for a Coffee Shack. Marv wants to offer pizza as well, plus moose fried rice and sushi. I suggest that he build a duplicate of his proposed enlarged chicken coop and locate them side by side, so omelets could be on the menu, too; really fresh omelets, with no danger of salmonella.

It’s noon, no it’s “noon-thirty”. Still no noise on the airwaves or overhead. VHF is cranked up really loud just to hear when the plane might arrive.

Marvin and I keep talking, philosophizing, spending time well, not merely killing it.

Finally, the code crackles over the airwaves: 2-0. It means, “De plane! De plane!” It’s past 13:30 (1:30 p.m.). My Anchorage-bound departure is to leave Bethel at 14:00 (2 p.m.).

Marv gathers up fish strips he’s sending back with me and we head out. Olga passes by returning from the Post Office: “Father, I can see that you are getting ready to go.” She sets down her package and asks a blessing.

Marv says, “I prayed for fog!”

She is A’pa Isaac’s daughter-in-law. He might be returning to the village from Anchorage by the weekend. We chat briefly about this possibility. Then, it’s time for me to get my bags and await my ride.

As Marvin and I approach my porch, I turn to see Willie and John heading toward us on the ATV. I wonder where I’m going to fit on that thing with my luggage to boot.

Nope, again. “Father, the air agent is coming in his pickup to get you after he picks up a pregnant woman.”

Marv reminds them, “I prayed for fog!” OK, this has definitely moved from testimony to pride. Not only do agnostics not pray, they don’t brag when their prayers get answered.

I tell him one final time, “No Marvin, you are a Lutheran, but not an agnostic.”

Well, the air agent had delivered the Bibles last week, so he knew where I lived. By the time we get all four bags out the door, he’s there.

With hugs and thank yous and blessings, it’s time to get in the truck.

The mother-to-be gets out and moves to the back, to leave the front seat for me. OK. There’s got to be a limit to this deference. At the next stop — Erica’s house — I get out and ask her to reconsider. She won’t. Erica’s mom springs in the back, too. Nothing doing.

So, Bruce the air agent drives as slowly and smoothly as possible, dodging as many potholes as he can. No need to trigger premature labor. Expectant mom is eight months along and headed for Bethel, as is typical in these parts, to stay there and wait for the baby’s arrival next month.

As we drive the gravel road to the airstrip, a magnificent wedge of swans flies into view. There is a marsh between the airfield and town where the swans live. When planes come in, the swans tend to take to the skies.

Our single-prop plane holds a total of seven, plus the pilot. There are five passengers today. And I draw the front seat again, however, not out of deference for status or age. I get to sit in the co-pilot’s seat to help distribute the weight on take off. It’s the least I could do, since I weighed the most.

The youngish pilot climbs in beside me. I look at his chin. Has he started to shave, yet? I determine that he has, if barely. He seems nice enough — and even smiles — when I ask if there’s a beverage service. OK. He had started to shave, but I don’t think his voice had changed.

He takes off smoothly and up we go, crossing over the Yukon, and soon to the Kuskokwim, allowing for a true bird’s-eye view of tundra and flood plain, islands and sloughs. Eagles now fly below us, although we don’t fly extremely high. The whirls and swirls of river flow have carved and re-carved the scene below over the centuries. Seasonally shifting mega-tons of glacial silt create the marvel of a thousand bogs, ponds and lakes, islands and islets, miniscule continents and worlds taking form, providing habitat for cranes and beavers, the former clearly visible from the plane and the latter’s lodges plainly in view.

Bethel looms ahead, a sun’s flash off its many metal roofs ahead indicating its proximity. New St. Sophia’s Church can be seen at town’s edge, all three golden cupolas now firmly attached to its red metal roof, the temple’s consecration set for month’s end.

It is a flawless landing. I thank our youngish pilot. Not only was I the heaviest on board, I was also the oldest. That did not escape me and it certainly colors my comments about his relative age.

On approaching the hangar, a fellow comes over to me with manifest in hand: “Are you John Reeves?” There wasn’t much of a choice in the first place, but nevertheless, I simply tell him: “Yes.”

“We’re holding the Anchorage flight for you. Come this way.”

OK. That works for me. In short order, my baggage has been transferred. Here that means that I get it from the luggage chute — no carousel here, just gravity and a stainless steel slide — and carry it over to the check-in desk. Soon, my claim checks are stapled to my boarding pass and the flight is called.

A little after 15:00 (3 p.m.) we are airborne and Anchorage-bound.

Piurra, Marshall! Quyana!

The weather has been beautiful again. We’ve the same temperature as central PA, around 65°F (18°C). The sky is blue; the water, still. It’s 19:45 (7:45 p.m.). I’ve been on the go for the last twelve hours, virtually non-stop. But I’m not tired; I don’t feel worn out. My next to the last day on the Yukon draws quickly to a close.

Liturgy was sung mainly in Yup’ik today. I didn’t request it but am so glad it was. I can hear liturgy sung in English every week of the year back home. Long before English was a liturgical language in Orthodox worship, the tonality and cadences of Yup’ik redounded along the Yukon and the Kuskokwim by St. Yakov’s spiritual children and their descendants.

Following services, a brunch was held at another parishioner’s home to say goodbye to me. I was adept enough with the VHF yesterday to catch the village-wide broadcast. Thus I knew what was being planned so it didn’t surprise me.

Our lives have become intertwined in the short while that I’ve been here. It is hard for me, it is difficult for us, to say goodbye. “Piurra” — the Yup’ik word for goodbye — is fortunately more like “hasta la vista” than “goodbye.” It does not connote finality but a temporary parting.

I go back to church to bless the children for the beginning of the Church School year before heading home. I reroute my flight for tomorrow and chat with Matushka on our weekly call. Then, it’s back for Youth Group.

Members of the St. Michael Sunday School.

The weather is so nice: the Church School is waiting on the steps for me. I had promised a going away treat. “There he is! Where are the cookies?”

They enjoy sitting and eating together.

Teen sponsors have responded to my request to keep the Youth Group ball rolling. And some teen guys show up today, too. They are outnumbered by the ladies three to one. If they are smart, they’ll keep coming around.

Then it was on to visit A’pa Andrew. He hadn’t made it to church today. A’ma had sat by me at brunch, though, and filled me in on his condition. By now, she was up to her elbows in moose meat, preparing quart jars for the canner. Much of a moose leg, plus two geese, still lay on their porch. “So much meat, Father,” she remarked, without missing a swipe with her “uluq”. (Don’t let the Real People catch you saying “ulu,” by the way.) This one was not fashioned for tourists, either. It was a serious kitchen weapon.

A’pa was feeling better. The rain, plus going hunting this week, had made his arthritis flare up. We talked a bit, how we would miss each other, their concerns for the children of the village, the damage the sectarian group had wrought in another village near Bethel, and the desperate need for a full time priest.

A'pa and A'ma.

A’ma relates the encounter she had a few weeks back from one of the proselytizers. The knock at the door was on the pretext of buying uluqs or the leather goods she is known to fashion. Soon, conversation changed to an invitation to the “other end of town” for services. A’ma was neither amused nor daunted. She pulled out her neck-cross: “I am an Orthodox Christian. Do you see this,” as she pointed to her icon corner — a focal point of every living room. “That’s where I go to church!” as she gestured to St. Michael’s through her window.

Suffice it to say, the visit was short-lived and no sales were made. Amen, A’ma!

I headed on to the school, to look at some out buildings that the school district will not need once the new school opens in a few weeks. The main building is to be torn down because of an asbestos problem. The outbuildings are not covered under the abatement plan as they contain no asbestos. My wheels start to spin about the possibilities one of them could offer the youth.

Sitting by the gym, I’m able to catch 3-bars of Internet and the sun’s rays at the same time. I also realize that I still have a bag full of fresh homemade doughnut holes, given me by a mother for Youth Group. Any child who comes within earshot is offered a treat.

An ATV comes directly at me. It is Willie with Fr. Stan. Father was to pass by Marshall this afternoon headed up river and he seemed to be on time. I fill him in on the trouble I am causing in the village, and give him a brief run down on the activities that have been instituted in the parish. He is hopeful the vacancy can be filled, too. To boot, Willie and Father gulp down a few doughnut holes, for me.

I see Jacob, Samuel talking to A’pa. By now he is out on his four-wheeler: “You want some doughnuts?” They don’t mind if they do. Then, Elizabeth stops by on her ATV, loaded with five or six grandchildren. “Doughnuts?” Indeed, they oblige me.

Supper was at Willie’s house. He, wife Rena, and I could just sit and talk over chicken soup. We reflect on the time spent together, how fast it had passed, and how much we had gotten to do. When it’s time to leave, his daughters take some more doughnuts off my hands. Thanks, girls! Take more!

Down the street, a couple of older girls from church walk by as I head home. Doughnuts? Sure. Thank you.

But I still have more doughnut holes — and cookies — left to dole out. Am I the kind of person my mother told me never to accept candy from? Nope, can’t be: I’m not a stranger, not in the village, not any more. So, it’s OK. They all know me.

I see kids playing the mud. For two, their hands are too muddy to let near the doughnut bag or hold a doughnut. OK: Open your mouths. Pop! One for you. Pop! One for you. In goes a doughnut-hole to each.

“Hey? What about me?” I thought I had given her one already.

“I gave it to him,” pointing to her little brother, who has just able to toddle.

“OK. Sure. Here you go.” I’m humbled by her sharing without being told.

Not far away, Brandon and his buddy are hanging around across from Rudy’s coop. Guys? Doughnuts? Sure thing. Thanks, they call out.

As I near home turf, the local girl-pack, for those aged eight and under from this end of town, rolls down the street. Somehow, Erica, their ringleader, reminds me of Angelica on Rug-rats, but nicer. They are eager to see the pictures shot of them at Church School earlier and more than willing to take the last of the goodies off my hands.

“Can we visit?” Sorry, not today girls. I’ve got to pack. They are persistent but ultimately unsuccessful. A present of fresh mud pies and grass soup is left on the front steps for me to enjoy in the morning.

None of this is spectacular on one hand. On the other, it is tremendously so. Living as village priest for the last three-plus weeks has brought an experience of priesthood to me little known to most, I dare say, in the lower-48, at the least.

Life forms an integrated whole here. It is neither segmented nor regimented as life can be “outside,” where work, school, family, (and church if there’s time), form separate, competing spheres of influence. On the Yukon, life, simply, is being: church, school, playground, moose hunt, seal chase, berries in the tundra, swans and geese in flight, the river’s own ebb and flow. Cycles of the year determine what one does and where one goes, not schedules and itineraries. Goals and objectives seem rarities, superfluous.

The word “parish” came from the name of a geo-political subdivision of the Roman Empire. We still have a derivation of the concept in Louisiana, parishes instead of counties. It referred historically to a territory, not a congregation. And perhaps, that is why this experience, brief as it has been, is making such an impression on me. My ministry here has been to an entire locale and its people, sharing daily life with them. It hasn’t mattered where I’ve gone, or what I’ve done, from one end of town to another.

Elsewhere, I have felt many times that my role is primarily one of being seen on church grounds doing “church things,” officiating at les rites du passage or tending to the momentary crisis, when called to the hospital or funeral home. Afterwards, I fade back into my niche until I’m needed again for the things that religious functionaries are supposed to do.

In Marshall, it has been so different. A priest’s walk down the street — remember, there is only one official street, but unofficial ones at every turn — or a moose shared, and every thing in between, becomes a sacramental encounter. The “trivial round, the common task”, becomes a means of grace, not in terms of sacerdotal action or church ritual, but souls meeting souls in daily life, “as more of heaven in each we see.”

Never have I felt greater reward. Never have I perceived such meaning for priesthood in particular or life in general. It is more about being than doing. True, I have thought of this and read about it. It’s not a novel concept. However, Marshall has provided me the experience to perceive it in my self. All of our thoughts, the words we write, as well as those we read, count for little in the long run, until we come to this point, “to live more nearly as we pray”. Ultimately and most importantly, this is why the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

And so from Keble once more:

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be, 
As more of heaven in each we see; 
Some softening gleam of love and prayer 
Shall dawn on every cross and care.

Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love, 
Fit us for perfect rest above, 
And help us, this and every day, 
To live more nearly as we pray.

We need not bid, for cloistered cell, 
Our neighbor and our words farewell, 
Nor strive to find ourselves too high 
For sinful man beneath the sky.

The trivial round, the common task, 
Will furnish all we ought to ask; 
Room to deny ourselves, a road 
To bring us daily nearer God.

Seek we no more; content with these, 
Let present rapture, comfort, ease– 
As heaven shall bid them, come and go: 
The secret this of rest below.

Amen.

Before updating you with yesterday’s adventure, let me pause to remember today’s anniversary. There are two days that will live in infamy for Americans. The one remembered by my parents’ generation precisely as to where they were and what they were doing, was news of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, 7 December, 1941.

The one etched in my mind in the same fashion was almost sixty years later, 11 September, 2001: 9/11 as it is now styled. The twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York were savagely attacked, along with the Pentagon, by hijacked planes used as guided weapons. A fourth strike was foiled by passengers’ heroism on the flight that crashed near Shanksville, PA.

May their memory be eternal!

Now, forgive the abrupt transition…

Three Guys in a Boat

Did you hear the one about the Alaskan, the Greek, and the Texan who took an evening boat ride on the Yukon? I didn’t think so!

Friday was a beautiful day in Marshall. The gloomy pall occasioned by days of rain was lifted for the second day in a row. Any place I walked, there were smiles on people’s faces.

I sat outside of school to get some Internet service. A couple of older boys were delighted in the antics of water beetles in a puddle. A’ma and A’pa Andrew came sailing around the corner on their ATV, faces smiling upon seeing me sitting there. A’ma had her bucket. They were off to pick berries.

A stroll through the school playground brought a crowd of primary students to hug and get blessed. “Hi, Father John.” I introduced myself to their teacher, whose husband I’d met the week before.

Willie spies me walking and drives his four-wheeler to catch me. He is planning an evening boat ride with Peter and wants to know if I would care to join them. Indeed, that would be wonderful.

I walked on to “the other end of town” where the new building is being completed. A new work crew was in town, mainly from North Carolina. I’d met some of the men on Sunday in front of St. Michael’s. I promised them a visit and today the weather was perfect.

Of course, any time I can speak “southern” is a chance to relax. After a few pleasantries were exchanged, came the question: “Do you consider yourself a Southerner or a Pennsylvanian? I have a hard time liking Yankees.” Of course, a Southerner can detect the humor, or lack thereof, in such a statement.

“Sir, I’m a Texan above all else.”

They laughed and accepted my declaration of allegiance. After more banter, we waved good-bye. I reminded them that they would be able to work all day, maybe until 22:30 (10:30 p.m.), since the weather was cooperating.

I headed across the road to the cemetery. Theresa’s grave was easiest to spot. The wreaths of plastic flowers still lay across the plastic tarp weighted down with stones. A cover would be built later.

Orthodox three-bar crosses and simpler Latin ones dot this bluff overlooking the river, each marking a grave and a person’s story. Long-lived elders lay side-by-side their shorter-lived children; small white or even blue crosses marking the tiniest graves of them all.

Cemeteries always intrigue me with their history, that which is self-contained in its precincts. Names and dates, sometimes meaningful only to a few, are nevertheless recorded for anyone who passes by to take notice.

What enthralls me, though, is more than the past to which any cemetery attests. It is the future, the hope of glory, when not one who is dead shall remain in the tombs, but all shall come forth unto the Resurrection.

There is a wonderful little cemetery on a bluff overlooking the Yukon that awaits Resurrection morning. And I am blessed to visit this “staging ground.”

By this time, I have acquired a “shadow”, Aidan who’d visited me last week. He spies me on the road, waves, runs to catch up, and off we go. I try to ascertain if his mother knows where he is. I don’t get a specific answer to the question. Hmmm. I’m headed past the new school. Everyone, including Aidan, is excited that the official opening is only around the corner. He follows me all the way to the Co-op for a candy-bar. I convinced in the healing power of Milky Way’s. Aidan takes his medicine in pill form: M&M’s.

The stroll isn’t finished until I see Marvin and the chickens: Again, tea and fish strips. He discussed his failed potato crop. I offer unsolicited advice for next year’s.

I see Wesley out working on some of the new houses down my way. I’d wanted to see inside one before I left. I’ve always had a hidden desire to be an architect. I never said talent, just a desire that will accordingly remain unrequited.

OK. Finally, the hour approaches for the boat ride, but not before Willie rushes in with a plate of food for my supper. Shortly, he returns and we head off on the ATV for the skiff where Peter is already waiting. It’s shortly before 18:00 (6 p.m.).

A view up the river from Father's craft.

My recounting of this voyage simply cannot do it justice. We meander through sloughs and the many backwaters that ultimately make up this portion of the Yukon. Yet, this still isn’t the Yukon proper. We pass by the eagle’s nest I had seen coming in from Russian Mission. A bald eagle eyes us from its perch not far away. A young eagle is learning to fly closer to its home.

We head by Willie’s parents’ current fish camp. Water levels have kept them from getting to it this year. A fish camp typically is a one-room cabin with a rack for drying fish nearby. We head up a slough and Willie points out the old fish camp where he spent the summers as a child. It’s in disrepair now.

A turn this way, another turn that way, around this bend: we never get lost. Without Willie at the helm it would have been another story. It helps having some one literally raised on these waters to navigate them.

Up one slough, we spy a moose cow and calf. I say we. It’s Willie who has the sharpest eye. Up another, Willie says: “Look there on the tundra. It’s either a moose or a bear.” I fumble with binoculars, and then give them over to the pro: “It’s a big black bear. A big one.” He emphasizes the size.

Mind you, the tundra had to be at least a half-mile away, if not more. Sure, I can see a black speck moving with my naked eye, but it’s a speck that would have gone unnoticed by me without Willie’s expertise.

We head to Gweek, which is Yup’ik for small river. A falcon takes exception that we are nearing its nest on a rocky outcropping, issues a shrill call to draw our attention, and then flies away across to the other side.

Gweek is actually a lake formed by a small river before draining into the Yukon. The English name is Engineer’s Lake, for some unknown reason. No human engineered it. That’s for sure. Gweek is the area where the postponed camping expedition is ultimately heading this next week. Peter is interested in seeing the actual locale. The site is a small island in the middle of the flow. There are few trees, mainly grass. I would suppose it offers security for the campers, as long as they don’t fall into the water. It truly is small.

Somewhere along the way — there have been so many turns and bends, I would still be out there tonight if not for our captain — Willie again says: “Look at the fox.” It was beautiful, red and big. I’d never seen one that large. It had come out of the woods for a drink at evening and just looks at us. We motor on by.

An osprey takes flight; more eagles are sighted. “Ducks and geese and loons start to scurry, when they see Willie in a hurry.” OK, I’m not Rodgers or Hammerstein. Swans are distinguishable from geese on the wing by their longer necks.

Heading home, we take a turn down another slough for Peter to see the road entrance to the old gold mine camp at Willow Creek. Willie motors right to the spot. It’s a four-mile trek to the mine. Most of the old buildings have simply collapsed with time. There still is gold in the mine, but it is not in production and now owned by the Native Corporation.

As we pull away, we (err, Willie sees them first) spot another cow and calf coming out of the trees to the water’s edge. He trolls the boat to make as little noise or motion possible. A couple of times, two pairs of incredibly big ears turn our way simultaneously, like two sets of radar honing in. They relax to sip more, then hone back, the closer we get. Mom decides to amble back into the forest while the calf follows her at a bit quicker pace.

Out and back we pass several boats with parishioners. We wave and exchange greetings as we go by. It’s nearing 22:00 (10 p.m.) when we return to Marshall, none the worse for wear, except for being a bit chilly.

It was a real delight to get to take this pleasure ride on the Yukon. I am thankful for a whole day of good weather. I am indeed grateful for the opportunity to see more of this beautiful country. I realize that each time I’m in these waters: St. Yakov has travelled here before me. Not all the bends, and watercourses, and sloughs would have remained the same. But the general course of the river with the tundra on the mountains in the background, his eyes would have seen what I have seen. It is a sobering thought.

Two big news items for Marshall today: the first, the sun came out. It was still partly cloudy; well, make that mainly cloudy. But the sun fought its way through in spots. How nice it was.

The sun makes a stunning appearance late in the day.

That today began without rain was pleasant in its own way. That a sunset was visible, a light orange slice of sky still hovering over the river around 23:00 (11 p.m.) was simply a joy to bestow. But that’s only half the news.

The second item to get people’s attention was the seal in the river. Salmon are headed upriver in the ultimate stage of migration and life. Mr. Seal decided this was a gravy train for him. He had followed this appetite upriver, all the way to Marshall.

Local fishermen had noticed some of their salmon with evidence that they had escaped being an entrée: seal bites. I got the word a little after 19:00 (7 p.m.), walking home from church. At first, I didn’t think much about it. A seal had been spotted, just like a seal was spotted in the harbor on St. Herman’s day, or another, at Monk’s Lagoon, at Kodiak and Spruce Island. It was simply part of nature to enjoy watching. Not so, here; not so, yesterday.

I gazed out the window a tad later. Skiffs were out, the orange-rose of the sun reflecting back off the waters, framing men and boats in welcomed light. It took a while for me to realize the import. A knock at the door helped explain things to me: Seal hunt!

“Father, can I check the gun rack for my brother’s spear?” Joseph asked.

I hadn’t seen a spear in the back bedroom. The gun rack was empty. But we looked anyway, to no avail. Maybe it was at a friend’s house, instead.

The Outsider that I am thought in terms of seeing the seal. The Real People — by the way, that’s the Yup’ik name for themselves — thought differently. Seal? Meat. Seal? Fur.

Eight boats were dispatched. By the time I reached the river’s edge, they could be seen in the distance, where Marshall’s river channel meets the main flow of the Yukon. The skiffs were being circled in an attempt to hem the seal in.

Having a seal come this far inland, while not unheard of, is rather rare. It meant that he had passed several other villages along the way, gorging himself as he did. With all the rain and the grey skies keeping hunters at home, it’s understandable how he was able to get this far. Hunter’s minds were on moose and geese anyway. This isn’t seal territory.

Speaking of moose and geese, Willie came by and told me about the moose he killed the other day, after taking about a dozen geese and a swan. Willie is happy to have the food, not for the winter, but for his daughter’s upcoming wedding in October.

I’m really sorry that I won’t be here for that wedding. The impermanent nature of my stay is impacting me at week’s close, and folks in the village are starting to comment as well. But the sun is shining today and the weekend promises good weather, too. That lifts spirits overall, a bit.

I’ll bless homes on Saturday for those who didn’t get their homes blessed last Epiphany, and pray with the Church School as they begin instruction for the year, Sunday afternoon. I’ll get to see the Teens one more time, too. So, with packing and services, it will be busy, nevertheless.

By the way, as of last night it was Seal-1, Real People-0. If he hangs around these parts, there’s bound to be a re-match.

I stopped by to visit some of the elders yesterday. The first question A’ma asked me upon entering was, “Oh, Father, are you leaving today?”

No, but I was curious about the concern. Earlier in the day, I had received the first shipment of Bibles. They were delivered by the air agent to my place. He had gone on VHF to find out where I lived. And it all became public knowledge, after a fashion.

Actually, the import of the agent’s call was lost in transmission. That the agent was searching for me triggered an assumption that I must be flying out today. Not at all: I was just receiving home delivery on a package. The medium is the message; and for Marshall, the medium is the VHF. It is the nearest thing to the old party-line telephone, except that every one in town is on it.

(Funny, the company said it couldn’t ship to P.O. boxes. They’ve never been to Marshall: It all comes in on the same plane, eggs and canned vegetables, milk and the mail, people and UPS.)

While at the elders, I was given a present from A’pa that really stunned me: a three-bar neck cross carved from walrus tusk by another Alaskan. It will always be cherished, to be sure. I am privileged and honored. It will be blessed at liturgy Sunday before I leave on Monday.

Walking back down the street, Nick waved: “You leaving today?”

“Nope, Nick. Not so.”

“OK. That’s good.”

I should learn how to use the VHF to reassure the flock, technophobe that I am. CB was my generation, come to think of it. But then again, I suspect that that job might be completed by now.

I spent a while with Marvin in the afternoon. He has already designed a larger chicken coop for Rudy and the hens. He tells me he is planning to buy some Rhode Island Reds and expand the operation. As far as I can tell, Marvin is the lone Lutheran of Marshall, married to an Orthodox girl. Lutheran, you ask? You betcha! He’s from Wisconsin, doncha‘ know? He went to college in Anchorage, and it was enough to make an Alaskan out of him.

Of course, being from Wisconsin, Alaska winters can’t seem as daunting to Marvin. As a Texan transplanted to Pennsylvania for a decade and a half, I still dread the thought of “first snow.” After that, I adjust, sort of like my father did to modern life, grudgingly if barely.

We ate fish strips and sipped tea. From his window, you could see a bit of Marshall parade back and forth. We could tell when school was out, without needing a clock. The sun playfully teased us into thinking that it might not be cloudy or rainy, with chance of fog for later in the week. In fact, women in the village were already planning to pick berries this weekend: blacks and cranberries, the blues having just about run their course.

The break in the weather, however temporary, was good for everyone’s spirits. It certainly helped get a crowd out to church later where the Study Bibles were distributed. An early VHF announcement went out after noon; a second, about 18:00 (6 p.m.).

Some of the kids beat me there: “We having church, Father?”

“Yes, we are.”

“I like church!” You can tell they aren’t in their teens yet.

What made things even nicer was that the rest of the Bibles arrived. That early morning shipment had been a small lot and in paperback. The later one was three cases in hardcover. They were sitting for me at church, in the narthex. This time, I had used the church’s new “address” I’d made up. Without the afternoon shipment, we would have run out.

Young men, young women, high schoolers, moms, dads: it was a great turn out. I explained that I wanted every family to have a copy, as they were distributed. Then I went through the format, the study aids, how to use it privately, devotionally, liturgically, even the maps at the end.

“Promise me,” I said, “that you’ll never let these get dusty.”

I was overcome when approached to sign the presentation page by Sophie. Everyone stood in line, so that I could do the same for each. I’ve talked about “unexpected joys” throughout my journey. I knew the Bibles’ arrival had been anticipated, but the looks on faces, the smiles, and the requests: “Father, I need some for my sisters; for my parents”. It went beyond joy tonight, unexpected or otherwise.

Two cases were distributed. I hope to have the third emptied on Sunday. First, Marshall, then the rest of the Yukon: that’s a commitment I cannot fail to keep.

The other day, I thought I saw a golden eagle flying low over the riverbank. The next day, I was sure. It came in right over the top of the Co-op store behind the church. Its temporary perch was the cross beam of the power line pole, a street over.

I teased the kids that they better hide.

“Can they really pick up kids, Father?”

“If the kids are small enough. More likely, it would be a puppy or small dog.”

I don’t know if this one is from the nest, up the bend in the river, which I spied a couple of weeks ago. I do know that seeing one still takes my breath away. Until this trip, I had never seen eagles except in zoos and rescue facilities. To see them out, just being eagles, in spite of man’s presence, is awe-inspiring.

Back home, where they’re reasserting themselves in migratory patterns and nesting grounds, eagles are not exactly welcomed by ranchers. For eagles, young kids (goats, not humans) and lambs are tempting, and readily available when nannies and ewes are giving birth. I understand the ranchers’ plight. Still, my dad would love to have seen this one, flying unimpeded, free.

My dad taught me much about wildlife, as well as livestock. He was a walking encyclopedia of animal knowledge and lore. He could judge where to hunt and when, by looking at the weather, whether the moon was out, how cold it was, how wet or dry it was; just as they do here. He didn’t have much use for anyone whose knowledge of animals came from books. His knowledge came from living and ranching. In that, Dad could have fit in quite well on the Yukon, apart from the frigid winters, I suspect.

One of the sorest things for me right now is to experience the beauty and the majesty of Alaska, especially here in the Yukon, or before, attempting to see Denali, or the ride up the Inside Passage at the end of July, and not be able to share this with my dad. He passed away only seven-months after my mother did, in 2008. A big chapter closed in “my book”.

Dad would have been interested in the Russian portion of my journey, especially Siberia and the towns, the mountain ranges and their firs, birches and spruce, and Lake Baikal with its own flora and fauna. The great cities? Much less so. Cities, whether Russia’s or America’s, were not for Dad. He could have lived all of his life without visiting one. He managed to avoid most.

But surely, here, America’s Last Frontier, would have fit Dad like a glove. He would have thrilled to rise every morning, before dawn. He would have been content to go to bed each evening with the chickens, all four of them, up the street. He would have walked these river shores. He would have inspected tundra for plant life and animal sign. He would have loved to listen to the elders tell their stories. And he would have associated much of it with how he learned to live, and the rest, with how he wanted to have lived.

Dad, in many ways, was born a century too late. He didn’t seem to mind that life had passed him by. He was frank: he didn’t like where life seemed to want to take him. He went along, grudgingly, if barely, if he must. Reeveses have a tradition for stubbornness to begin with. “Stubborn as a Reeves” is a family epithet. Dad refined the tradition to an art form.

Besides teaching me an appreciation for nature, my father also taught me two important lessons in life. Stand for what you believe in. And, never let anyone walk on you.

It’s funny how the sight of a golden eagle, 4,000 miles from home, can trigger a wealth of emotions, can flood one’s being with memories. I never thanked him enough, if I thanked Dad at all. But I know that appreciating seeing this eagle fly over the store was something he had prepared me for, even if I can’t call to tell him what I saw or where or how, now.

By continuing to thrill when eagles soar overhead in Alaska or sunsets shrouded in rosy haze against vast West Texas skies, I can still demonstrate my thanks, though. I wasn’t born this way. I was nurtured to be this way. I know who had a hand in that and I certainly have no intention to change.

There is nothing unique about a 40-day Memorial service in Orthodoxy. It is a continuation of the ultimate rite of passage, the funeral. It is a time for the family’s life to begin to exhibit some initial closure that is mending a bit, after the acute nature and numbness of everything that accompanies death and burial. Daughter Sofie had been busy all day long in preparation.

A bowl of sweetened grain (here, rice) is set on the table, with a lit candle standing in the center. Raisins form a pattern of the cross across its surface. Called koliva, it is a reminder of the Scriptural image of the Resurrection, “Except a grain of wheat die…” This is common throughout world Orthodoxy, either with wheat or rice. (The cross might be formed of almonds, or cake decors, instead, depending upon custom and availability.) A’ma Nastasia searched among all the foodstuffs on the tables until she spied it. “Ah!” she nodded approvingly, as if to say, “There it is!”

In that, Theresa’s 40-Day service yesterday was not atypical from what I’ve witnessed many times. Yet, here on the Yukon, a 40-Day Memorial is more. It is a time to thank everyone who helped with the funeral, as well as a time to remember the deceased. Her life will be celebrated but the reality of her death will not be avoided.

However, a Yup’ik tradition, predating “Contact” is to take tiny bits of each dish prepared and bury them at the head of the deceased’s grave. (It is sometimes burned, instead.) This is done before anyone eats.

After the Trisagion service, sung in English, but with local melodies, those to be served first are those who dug the grave and those who built the coffin. Second in order of serving will be the women who washed her body and prepared her for burial.

These individuals are not forgotten; and today, they are honored. Funerals homes are not involved. People hope to die at home, as many elsewhere wish, too. Here they have the advantage of a village that will prepare their bodies to await the Resurrection. The cemetery is only a short walk at the edge of town.

Everyone is thanked with a gift. In fact, everyone attending receives a present, from oldest to youngest. My gift is a pen, plus a pair of lined deerskin gloves: To keep warm, I’m told. (Does this presage further surprises for me?) Village life is one of sharing, in life and in death.

If I thought that the table was about to break at Sunday’s celebration of young Art’s first moose, it was a fast in comparison to this repast: moose ribs, salmon, goose, fried fish, baked fish, blubber, spaghetti, potato salad, macaroni salad, agudaq, blueberry pies, cherry pies, apple pies, cakes, cookies, sweet rolls, Jell-O, fried-bread: “good measure, pressed down, and overflowing” covering tables, the entire kitchen — counter tops and stove — and spilling out to the porch. I’m sure that I’ve left out much, nevertheless. Quantities were immense.

Included at this meal were “stooks“, tender shoots of spring ferns before they unroll, a favorite of Theresa’s. There was her favorite dessert, too: wafer cookies. Stooks remind me of asparagus, a fern after all. I can see why Theresa liked them. So I stand corrected about berries being the only produce naturally available here. Stooks have to be picked in early spring and frozen to keep them this long.

It still makes me uncomfortable to see the older women sitting on the benches around the edge around the room, waiting for their turn to eat. They are non-plussed: “Our turn is coming, Father.” A’ma Nastasia reassures me. I understand intellectually, but only to a point. I stifle my raising but uncomfortably. After all, they are my elders and they are ladies.

Theresa’s One-year Memorial will be next summer. She passed away on July 29. Items will be collected throughout the year to be given as gifts then, once more.

A side benefit to the feast is that I am able to bring Buddy some scraps home for his supper: “Oh, you have a dog?” “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

He came with the house, I explain. And they chuckle.

I walked home. It was still early for Marshall. For a one-rooster town, they never roll up the sidewalks early here; not that there are any sidewalks. But they wouldn’t roll them up, anyway. Supper began a little after 16:30 (4:30 p.m.), so night was a long way off.

Buddy comes on the first call to eat, answering to his new name. He was under the house, where a good dog should be.

Memory Eternal, Theresa!

I chuckled during the sermon yesterday. It’s not typical to get an “Amen” during one in an Orthodox church (it’s not totally unheard of, especially from some converts to Orthodoxy, but not typical). If one does come, it’s usually at the conclusion and hushed.

I was preaching on the traps that the scribes and Pharisees attempted to set for Jesus, and how hunters don’t set traps for friends but for prey. Using the example of setting snares for rabbits, I asked rhetorically whether the hunter was the rabbit’s friend. “No!” responded the “Amen Corner” quite audibly.

At least one of the altar boys was paying attention. I smiled broadly and kept preaching after a brief glance and pause. That one, all of ten years perhaps, was engaged was simply delightful.

It’s another rainy day here in “Gray Skies, Alaska”. The local descendants of White Fang have started their village moan. It seems that every dog in town will pick it up before they’ve finished. Then as quickly as it begins, it will be over. We don’t have sirens, but the dogs do their best to send out oscillating frequencies annoyingly enough to make the hair stand up on the back of my neck, not with alarm but mere vexation.

At least a siren comes into range and then moves on. Not so, the dogs: they stand and wail, baying and yelping at whatever suits them, until suddenly, as if by mutual consent, it’s all over until next time. Had it been stranger or danger, they would have barked or growled more deliberately. I realize that this is merely bonding, of some sort.

Through the din, Rudy the Lone Rooster of Marshall can be heard crowing, reminding the world that he really is in charge.

I get a call on my local cell phone from Augusta, who had provided me a ride home the other night. She was the mystery donor of the fresh fry bread, plus a loaf of home-baked white bread. It was waiting on my table yesterday afternoon. Today, a couple of the little girls who came to visit last week returned with more fresh bread that another mother had made this morning.

Homemade bread is a staple here. Getting fresh bread from the Co-op in town is not always possible. And this is so much better. It is an irony I ponder. Until “Contact”, there was no bread in Alaskan culture. There were no naturally growing grains to gather. It was a European introduction to diet over time. I’m told that an old translation of the Our Father contained this petition: “Give us this day our daily fish.”

The village makes sure that I have more than my daily bread, (as well as fish and moose and whatever). But I can’t keep a-pace of their generosity. I’ve dried bread in the oven so it won’t go bad. But it tastes so much better fresh.

Already, my focus is gradually shifting. There is much left for me to do this week, yet next Monday I will head down river to catch my plane at St. Mary’s for a flight back to Anchorage. My three-plus weeks on the Yukon and my eight-weeks in Alaska will have drawn to a close more quickly than I could have imagined.

The Study Bible shipment is anticipated on Tuesday. Three cases have been shipped here and I hope to distribute them on Wednesday at our weekly study meeting. This should take care of Marshall’s immediate Bible needs, but other communities on the Yukon need Study Bibles as well.

If any would like to contribute to shipments for the other villages, contributions may be made c/o Holy Trinity Orthodox Church, 119 S. Sparks St, State College, PA 16801. A case of 12-hardcover Orthodox Study Bibles, including shipping, runs a little under $200.

Any amount would be appreciated, and tax-deductible. My goal is to get one copy to every Orthodox family along the Yukon, and then to start with the churches on the Kuskokwim.