Community: Lifting Each Other Up in Times of Need

Nearly 30 years ago, a group of men began getting together to take a fall hike, usually during Eastern Mennonite University’s fall break, and usually at some beautiful mountainous area. As the years went by, we added biking to our repertoire. For several years, we alternated between a hike and a bike ride. Then we added an extra day and biked one day and hiked on the other. Not only did we go to the mountains in several states to hike and bike, we even rode in Manhattan, NY, and Washington, DC. 

Our times together are spent in animated conversation, joke telling, reminiscing, and because at some point there were four pastors among us, our conversations often turned to theology and church politics. We all grew up Mennonite, but because there were several former believers, agnostics, and scientists among us, our discussions were often very intriguing and deep. 

This year, a group of eight of us went to northern Pennsylvania to bike along Pine

PA's Grand Canyon and Pine Creek. Rail trail below

Creek which forms the gorge of what is known as Pennsylvania’s Grand Canyon. We rode 22 miles from one point to another on a rail-to-trail path and rented an Airbnb for our overnight stay. Despite cold and off-and-on drizzle, it was one of the most beautiful bike rides I experienced in many years of biking with the group.

For our hike, we went further east in northern Pennsylvania to Ricketts Glen, a state park with a hiking trail that includes numerous waterfalls along the way. This again was incredibly beautiful, but rather challenging. There was a nearly 800 ft. descent at the beginning of the hike, then an 800 ft. ascent to get back up to where we had parked. We hiked around 3.5 miles in all. 

Several years ago, I began to develop some balance issues. My personal physician recommended that I see a neurologist to rule out my fear that there may be something serious going on in my brain. She diagnosed me with neuropathy in my feet. Interestingly, I have no pain, just issues with balance. Some of my family speculate that I might have some inner ear issues since five of my siblings have varying degrees of vertigo, and three of my uncles and aunts were born deaf. However, I’ve never experienced vertigo nor other any symptoms my siblings have had. 

In addition, I had bi-lateral knee surgery a little over 10 years ago, and my knees don’t support extreme activities like I was once able to do. With all these physical debilities, I should never have considered doing the hike. However, I didn’t have many options. I had car-pooled with three other men, and I was nearly 5 hours away from home. Did I want to sit in a cold, although beautiful park for 3 hours? Did I want to hike for a few minutes to the first waterfall and then return to the park to sit? I decided to go with the group. 

The descent was nearly vertical with lots of stone steps skillfully leading the path through and around tree roots. Light pellets of frozen rain drops melted when the sun came out made the rocks wet and slippery. About half-way down the descent, my knees were wobbling and the muscles around them weak. Even with hiking sticks, my balance issues made the descent even more treacherous. 

In the nearly 30 years that we men have been together, age has provided various physical challenges to nearly all of us. Two on this year’s hike had heart valves installed. One had survived cancer and was facing knee replacement surgery. One was dealing with eyesight issues. In fact, several years ago one of our members had died from cancer. Age was catching up with all of us, but mine was the most hampering for the hike. 

After the halfway point of the descent, one of our caring members, seeing my difficulty, offered me his arm to help me along the way. I gladly ceded my ego and supposed masculinity to take his help. We made it to the bottom of the descent and ate lunch and rested before the ascent. I was presented with another option. A trail descended another mile from where we were to reach a different trail head. The trail was designated as moderate most of the way, while the ascent was marked difficult the whole way. My caring partner would accompany me, and we would wait there until our hiking buddies could swing around the park to pick us up. 

I was glad for this option, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that more descent would continue to be devastating to the already weakened muscles around my knees. Even when I was healthy, descents have always been more difficult than ascents—at least muscle-wise. The ascent would use different muscles, and I reasoned that I could even crawl up the slope and pull myself up to the next level with my hands if need be. Plus, the gang would be together. So, I decided to go with the gang. Up, up, and away we go! 

How delusional I was! The gaps between stone steps were often much wider than my crawl would allow, or my arms could reach. Once again, the ascent was almost vertical, and there were few places where the path leveled out enough to catch one’s breath and “balance.” My caring companion helped me from the rear, but another caring soul ahead of me often reached his hand down to pull me up over gaps that were too wide for me to negotiate. I was totally humbled because he was several months older than I. When we finally reached the end of the trail, I told him that I now knew literally what the old hymn meant: “Take Thou My Hand O Father, and Lead Thou Me.” I was exhausted. 

Despite the difficulty of the hike and the humility of needing help from my companions, the hike was indescribably beautiful. I lost count of the number of waterfalls we encountered along the way. The beauty of autumn in the Pennsylvania woods never disappoints. 

Except for theological views, our group of men is not diverse. All of us have advanced degrees and all of us are from Mennonite backgrounds. Beyond our love for nature and vigorous exercise, we are bounded by our fondness for each other. We eagerly look forward to our yearly adventures. We have formed a temporary community. Because of my experience with this group this year, this community means all the more to me. 

Our Airbnb along Pine Creek

After we returned home, I texted our community, “I bet no one has sorer or stiffer muscles than I.” One of my caring companions wrote, “Don, you are an inspiration to all of us.” Several others agreed. Although I thought that I was more of a hinderance than an inspiration, I have a better understanding of what community is: lifting each other up in times of need.

Strange, Interesting Encounters

I was standing in front of the iconic clock tower in Bern, Switzerland. I had arrived too late to see it strike 5 PM, and missed the glockenspiel. I wanted to find out what I had missed. There were a group of Asian tourists that I approached to ask what I had missed. At first they were quite skeptical of me, but then warmed up. However, none of them could speak English, so we tried to communicate with each other with hand motions. That didn't work. 

I approached a random man, and asked him if he spoke German or English, and answered me in German, so I proceded to ask him what I had missed. He told me that the major works of the clock hadn't been in play for a number of years, that I hadn't missed anything. 

During the day's events, I was wearing a cap I had received from a friend while visiting Colombia. It had the name of Colombia clearly written on the bill, so my new-found friend asked me if I speak Spanish. We preceded to communicate with each other in Spanish. Turns out that he was born in Chile of German parents, but had emigrated to Switzerland because he was married to a Swiss woman. That was the beginning of coincidences. 

When I asked him what he did in Switzerland after having worked at a language school called Inlingua. This was the same school that I had taught at in the early 80's after my marriage to Esther, my own Swiss wife. This was the second coincidence. 

Even though he started there years after I had left, he thought there might have been the same teachers there from my time at the school. He mentioned some names, none of which I recognized. I told him I remembered only personnel from England, but remembered a Spanish man in exile with whom I had struck up a friendship. He mentioned a few names of Spanish speakers, none of whom I recognized. Then he said the name Fernández, and I immediately recognized the name. I asked him if this Spaniard was a poet, and it turned out that he was. He had only taught with him for a short time before he moved on. This was the third coincidence. 

Who could have imagined that a random encounter with a stranger in a strange land, would result in so many coincidences. A simple question about a clock in Bern, surrounded by hundreds of random tourists from many lands, would turn into such an interesting encounter.

A Birthday and Memories of Honduras

Left to Right: Debra, Dean, "Jefe" and Doreen

On January 1, fifty-six years ago, I bordered a train in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to begin a two-and-a-quarter year sojourn in the country of Honduras, Central America. Little did I know how that stint in a developing-world country would change the trajectory of my life. I write about this in my memoir of those two-plus years: Coming of Age in Honduras: A Young Adult’s struggle With Faith, Poverty and Sexuality. 

On Saturday, February 17, over 60 former volunteers from the Voluntary Service (VS) program in Honduras and their spouses gathered in Pennsylvania to celebrate the 90th birthday of their “Jefe” LaMar Stauffer. LaMar and his spouse, Kass (deceased) led the VS program in Honduras from their base in La Ceiba for some ten years. They were dearly loved by the VS “boys” for all they did to make the transition to a different culture and language. They became our surrogate parents during the time of our service, but more than that, they extended friendship that continued over the many years. 

The VS team when I was there.
"Jefe," his three children and Kass, on the front row. 

During the height of the Vietnam war, some 13 volunteers, scattered throughout Honduras, came under their care. New recruits arrived to replace those who completed their assignments. Kass treated all our illnesses and other physical needs, and LaMar, aside from leading the VS program, played every sport right along with us during our monthly team meetings. His youthful mindset included playing softball in a local league and participating in many of the pranks the VSers played on each other. 

LaMar’s three children, Dean, Doreen and Debra planned and hosted the event. Hispanic food, cake and ice cream served as reminders of our time in Honduras and LaMar’s insatiable appetite for ice cream. He had a hand-cranked ice cream maker, unavailable in Honduras, imported to regale us with ice cream to enrich our team meetings. 

I was among the group of VS boys, now elderly men, who attended the festivity. I reconnected with many of my contemporaries, some of whom I hadn’t seen seen since our days together in service. Stories and memories emerged; some forgotten and new ones made. 

My wife Esther and I traveled from Harrisonburg to Pennsylvania with Ray and Vi Horst. Ray had served in Honduras nine years before me, but we both had had LaMar and Kass Stauffer as our leaders. Both of us were Spanish instructors at Eastern Mennonite University stemming from our time in Honduras. 

Former VSers were given the opportunity to share stories with an open mike about LaMar. George Zimmerman, one of the first VSers shared about how the program evolved from the time he was first recruited, to when the program was big enough to accommodate a dozen or more volunteers at a time. We sang some of LaMar’s favorite hymns and failed miserably to sing an all-time favorite hymn that we all thought we knew from heart: “Por la mañana dirijo mi alabanza.” 

Carrying the "Zurdo" around the bases on our shoulders
after he helped us win the national championship.

I connected with my first roommate Ben, with whom I lived for a year in Guanaja, one of Honduras’ Bay Islands. I met with one of my roommates, Marvin, from La Ceiba where I lived for my second year. I connected with the southpaw Glenn, (Zurdo) who taught Hondurans fast-pitch softball and ruined my career as a home run hitter. I got a laugh from him when I told him that “I would never forgive him!” 

I connected with George, the VSer who voluntarily lived in a hut and slept on a the dirt floor to better identify with those he was serving. I greatly admired him for doing something I could never have done and because of his commitment, I wrote about him and the extreme poverty he experienced in my memoir. I met the couple, Irv and Janet, who had served as the hosts for the VS house in La Ceiba when I lived there. I connected Leon, who joined us from Argentina and reminded me that I introduced LPs by Simon and Garfunkel and Peter, Paul and Mary to the VS record library that had consisted mostly of Mennonite Hour “hymns of faith.” 

I met with Wilmer, who not only helped to set up the first VS unit in Guatemala among the Q’eqchi’-Mayan people after his time in Honduras ended, but returned to farm in Honduras. Ken, who was the VSer in Tegucigalpa who had the job I was jealous of, was also there, but I see him frequently because he lives in Harrisonburg, Virginia, where I do. 

There are many other names I could mention, some of whom were there when I was, and some who served years before and years after my stint. One of the things that most impressed me, is how many of these former volunteers, myself included, forced into service by the obligatory draft during the Vietnam war, returned to do a second or third stint of service. Our love for the people, language and culture of Honduras impelled us to return, many with their spouses. In fact, the first three VSers to Honduras, Amzie Yoder, George Zimmerman and Ben Stoltzfus all returned as missionaries. Only George was able to attend the party. Ben perished tragically during an attempted robbery while serving as a missionary in Belize (formerly British Honduras). 

Me (right) mingling with some of those in attendance

A monumental birthday and loads of memories filled the afternoon. The time passed too quickly, with many lingering after supposed closing hour. My heart was filled with delight to participate in this event, as I am sure was true of most of those attending. Thanks to the LaMar Stauffer children for planning this memorable event.

Our Wounds are from God

I was enjoying a cup of coffee sitting across from a friend of mine at a local cafe. Our conversations often delve into the depths of our souls, and this conversation was no exception. 

My friend was describing how wounded he was from his childhood. Nothing he did in his mother's eyes was good enough, and his father belittled him. (Later in life, he realized they were speaking from their own woundedness, not about his shortcomings. It was their way of trying to encourage him to do better, though they did not understand the impact this had on him). My childhood was somewhat similar; I received very little affirmation from my father and seldom could do anything right in his eyes.

We agreed that personality plays a role in how we respond to our wounded selves. His affected him well into his adulthood, affecting his view of himself and his relationships with others. In contrast, I pushed my wounds aside, playing the class clown and the happy-go-lucky carefree teen. 

As I have written in many other places, this all ended for me when I spent over two years in Honduras as a young adult. I was deeply wounded by the poverty I experienced and the response by the majority of the church in North America. Added to that is the political shenanigans of the government of the United States in the region. 

As I explained my woundedness to my friend, he looked me directly in the eyes and said: “Your wounds are from God.” Tears welled up in my eyes as I let the profundity of his words sink into me. God had allowed my woundedness in order for me to grow in my spirituality and person. It took years, but like my friend, by recognizing and working on our woundedness, we are both at a better place today. My friend talks with his mom regularly (his father has died), and at the end of each conversation, he tells his mom that he loves her; she says the same back to him as tears well up in her eyes. 

Many of my writings affirm that we are “created in the image and likeness of God” (Gen. 1:26 and 27) and “Your are beloved of God.” These are positive aspects that have been received graciously by my readers and audiences of my seminars in the USA, Canada, Switzerland and Colombia. I instruct my students to look into the eyes of others as well as in the mirror and say, “You are beloved of God.” My friend’s comment on woundedness made me turn my thinking in a different direction.

We are all wounded in some form despite being created in God’s image and likeness. We carry scars from our past which gnaw at our wholeness and self-confidence. Henri Nouwen, prolific author on spirituality, has written extensively on both our woundedness and our being beloved of God. The quote in the image above is how I would like to approach this discussion.

Nouwen also states “what is most personal is most universal.” He is quoting psychologist Carl Rodgers. Perhaps we should look into each others’ eyes and let our woundedness connect with the woundedness of the other. By so doing, we create a space within which we can more deeply experience our pain and look to each other for healing. After acknowledging our brokenness, we can begin to reconstruct our wholeness through the affirmations of being loved by God and being made in God’s likeness.

The fact that I became so touched when my friend said: “Your wounds are from God,” would confirm the power of recognizing each other’s woundedness in our conversations. “In our own woundedness, we can become sources of life for others."

Thoughts? 

Mimicry and Empathy in Language Usage

Marco Tulio, my Honduran friend who taught
me much about Spanish language and culture.

I have long been a fan of the study and use of language, whether it be one’s native language or studying a foreign language. It should come as no surprise then, that I have become a fan of NPR’s program “A Way with Words.” 

In their November 11, 2023 episode, co-hosts Martha Barnette and Grant Barret spoke with a young nurse whose friends told her that her accent had changed since she started working in a hospital. She was totally unconscious of this. The hosts commented that this was a common phenomenon in which people change their manner of speech in order to show their empathy towards other people. 

I identify with this in my own experience with English, my mother tongue, Spanish, Standard German and Swiss German. It involves mimicry. I identify four areas of mimicry that I have used, sometimes consciously and sometimes unconsciously: 1) audience, 2) rate of speech, 3) vocabulary (including idioms and expressions) and 4) intonation. By mimicking others who surround us, we show our empathy toward them.

Before the advent of texting, making telephone calls with friends was more common as a way to keep in touch. My wife told me she could identify with whom I was speaking within minutes of my phone call. My speech patterns, vocabulary and intonation changed according to the person with whom I was talking. I was identifying with my audience and using specialized vocabulary and intonation that I had in common with them. In many cases I used a particular accent. I was cementing the relationship with a friend and showing them empathy. These conversations were all in my native tongue. 

While learning other languages, mimicry is crucial to be able to speak intelligibly with others. I learned Spanish first in the classroom and was influenced by the accent of my non-native teacher’s accent. Then I spent two months in a language school in Costa Rica, taking on the local accent variations. Next I lived in Honduras for two years and picked up not only a slightly different accent, but many special expressions. When I would use them with other native people from other parts of the Spanish-speaking world, they either identified me as having learned Spanish in Honduras or looked at me in total confusion. Finally, I studied and lived in Mexico for an equivalent of four years. Now other Spanish-speaking people identified some of my intonation as peculiarly Mexican. 

With each step in learning Spanish, I mimicked the particular vocabulary and intonation of the place where I was living. I would argue that this made me more emphatic and fit better into the particular place where I lived. It didn’t hurt that I am a natural-born mimic. Anyone, however, can get closer to the language they are studying if they listen intently and try to mimic the sounds. This leads to more empathy with those who surround you. I have been told by someone who studied this phenomenon, that people who retain a strong, nearly unintelligible accent when living in another language field, often feel above the people with whom they are relating. This would be the opposite of empathy. 

In one instance, when living in an English-speaking island off the north coast of Honduras, I used my mimicking ability to duplicate the pronunciation and intonations of the local English dialect. They were offended, thinking that I was making fun of them. So I had to back off and use my normal patterns of speech, although I did include the new vocabulary. I was only trying to empathize with them, but in this case, it backfired. 

Another matter of interest is the speed with which I would speak my foreign language. I often unconsciously mimicked the speed of the speaker with whom I was involved in a conversation. When I became aware of this, I had to consciously slow down to a more normal speed for myself because at an increased speed the potential for making mistakes greatly rose. I don’t usually do this with my native language.

For people in the helping professions, like the nurse I mentioned above, empathy is essential in making breakthroughs in relationships and understanding. However, one  needs to be careful not to completely lose one’s own individual identity in relating to the other. This sometimes called “going native.” A healthy balance is necessary. One also needs to back off if the person or people seem offended. 

Intercultural communication is a valuable asset in today’s diverse society, no matter whether speaking in one’s native tongue or in another language. Empathy goes a long way for intercultural understanding, and even more in regular conversation with our own kind. 

Faulty Language Selection: A Problem for Polyglots and How to Mitigate It

I was listening the program A Way with Words on NPR in the car on the way to a reunion in Pennsylvania. This show researches anything related to words, expressions and phenomena related to language. I was especially interested in a caller who talked about her learning a second and third language. 

Trying to communicate with my
Swiss brother-in-law

She described a situation in which she tried learning Russian, but words from her first foreign language, German, kept popping into her head. She wondered if it was due to Russian being similar to German, but the creators of the show, Martha Barnette and Grant Barrett, said she was more likely experiencing “faulty language selection.” Apparently this happens frequently to polyglots learning more than one foreign language. 

I remember having a bit of this problem when I was learning German after having learned Spanish. However, my Spanish had been so well cemented in my brain that it didn’t occur too frequently. As I grow older, I have discovered that even when speaking English I sometimes remember the Spanish or German word before the English word I am hoping to use. 

What really caught my attention, was the remedy that they suggested to counter this problem. They said that when speaking each language, try to physically embody the mannerisms of the place where the language is spoken. To try to place yourself in the context of where the language is spoken. 

I totally identify with this. I’ve had people tell me I seem like a different person when I speak, Spanish, German or English. I am a natural mimic, whether in sound or mannerisms, so I’ve picked up on how people move in each culture. For example, the Swiss have a peculiar shrug of the shoulders when they express doubt about something. Spanish speakers have hand motions for all sorts of things: How to tell a waiter that you are ready for the check, how to ask someone to come over, it’s time to eat, or “what’s up?” In fact, I’ve seen whole conversations take place without the use of words. I taught many of these mannerisms in my Spanish classes over the years. 

Speaking recently with a
Honduran friend.

Not everyone is a natural mimic. Over the years of teaching Spanish, I’ve learned that people with a musical ear tend to be able to mimic sounds better; actors are more able to mimic mannerisms. Whatever your skill is, it is of utmost importance to be a keen observer; not only with your eyes, but also with your ears. 

What a privilege and a joy it has been for me to live in various places and learn various languages. Not only have I expanded my world view and brain power, I’ve been able to empathize with people coming to my own backyard trying to learn English as a second language.

What Do I Know About Fear?

Workshop at Anolaima

When my good friends Felipe Preciado and Diana Cruz invited me to Colombia to give workshops on The Spacious Heart: Room for Spiritual Awakening, a book I had co-authored with my sister Sharon, I was skeptical. I wondered how a book written for a North American audience could have any relevance in a Latin American context. They were confident that the themes were indeed universal, and not just for one culture.

While I was skeptical about the themes relating, I was not skeptical about going to Colombia, one of the few Spanish-speaking countries I hadn’t yet visited. So plans were put into place and we left for Colombia on August 19 with workshops planned for two different localities. 

Our book deals with 11 areas in our society where we are “driven by culture” rather than being “drawn by God.” Of the 11 topics they chose four for me to present in 3 one-hour sessions: driven by legalism, driven by being in control, driven by anger, and driven by fear. 

By far the most pertinent topic was the one on fear. Colombia has lived with civil war for over a century. I was told of story after story of living in fear of both sides of the conflict. Just across the valley where I gave one of my workshops, guerrillas hid, often sneaking into the village either to pillage or to ask for supplies. If government officials caught them offering food, it was aiding and abetting the enemy. They were caught between a rock and a hard place.

Woman displaying picture of her 
disappeared son. 

A peace accord between the most notorious guerrilla group FARC and the government was reached in 2016. Unfortunately, there remain many unresolved issues. Estimates of over 200,000 disappeared during the decades-long conflict. Hundreds of thousands of individuals and families were displaced with many going into exile. I personally talked to a pastor who had several contingency plans to leave Colombia. He had been threatened because of his involvement with peace and justice work. He wanted to stay in Colombia, but had to keep his ear to the ground and be ready to flee at a moment’s notice. 

With these realities, what do I know about fear? Despite living abroad for several years in some areas where there was potential conflict, as well as living under several dictatorships, my life has been rather calm and secure. My fears, as well as those of my contemporaries here in the USA are relatively minor compared to my friends in Colombia.

Group discussion Anolaima

During the question and commentary time after one of my workshops, a man from
the back of the room stood up and said that the session on fear touched him deeply. He had been a guerrilla, and lived in constant fear that someone would seek revenge on him. He carried a gun with him wherever he went, including to my workshop in a Mennonite church. He was touched by the message of love: “perfect love drives out fear” (1 John 4: 18). He vowed from then on to not let fear drive him, to trust in Jesus’ perfect love, and give up his gun. There was barely a dry eye in the audience when he sat down.

What do I know about fear? Maybe just enough to let God’s message of love reach those who need it no matter what the circumstance, culture or language. 

Our friends Felipe and Diana, organizers of our trip and workshops,
seeing us off at the airport.