Perhaps one of the greatest accomplishments in my altogether unaccomplished Chuukese language career would have to have been my blissfully ignorant consent and follow-through leading about 70 “serafou” (youth) on a Lenten retreat. Piis, perhaps the smallest an inhabited island can be before qualifying as a misplaced coral deposit, is located on the outer reef that protects the north face of the lagoon. After having been to and fallen in love with this haven several times over, Marcos asked me if I might accompany him to experience and share in his passion. With a little faith in God and a lot of trust in my fearless veteran, I jumped in the boat that carried us through the sunset and to a vantage point that reflected my life on Weno in a distant haze. Knowing full well that my subpar Chuukese skills were not going to get me very far, it did not take long to develop a sincere appreciation for Kathy, the bilingual native, and her efforts to merge our two languages. Inevitable frustrations furthered my insecurity – feeling the weight of the language barrier crippling my ability to reach any deeper faith connection. Idiotic or impressive, fumbling or fluid, cringing or confident, abashed or assured, Marcos and I tried our best. We prayed in Chuukese, sang in Chuukese, read from the Chuukese translated Bible and even offered impromptu speeches. In our most sincere attempts, we would write down the prayers that we wanted to share and Kathy, in her abounding patience would correct our translations. I put on my best “r” rolling, syllable slurring, authentic Chuukese accent and plowed through St. John’s version of the washing of the feet. I concentrated so hard to translate and then string words and phrases together in an unnaturally fast yet still miserably inadequate pace. In all honesty, I felt more like a retreatant than an effective leader with anything substantial to offer, but perhaps that was the weekend’s hidden purpose.
Early in the weekend, the retreatants paired up with someone to build a partnership that was used in several activities. Unfortunately, a darling teenager by the name of Antel “drew the short straw” and got stuck with the “fin Merika” who “ese sinei fossun Chuuk.” I floundered through a few activities, all along with the guilt of ruining this kid’s retreat experience weighing on my conscience. He certainly could have garnered so much more from a solid conversation with someone of a higher intellectual level than that of a 4 year old. Fortunately the reconciliation service that we did on Saturday night required little vocal communication. The activity involved taking a paper cross and a pen, and writing all of your “tipis” on the “irapenges.” Then, two at a time, each partner pair walked to the candle and the canister in the center of the room to symbolically light and burn the cross filled with sins. Though the activity seems like a retreat standard – it takes on new meaning when blessed by the fire of the Holy Spirit.
The physical properties of burning paper would ensure that a few square inches of your typical Xerox paper would burn for no more than a few seconds before the flames receded into the pile of smoldering ash. Couple by couple, the crosses were offered up to the Lord, and as would expect, the light in the can extinguished itself just as quickly as it flickered its warm glow. Antel and I were the last couple to approach the center to make our sacrifice. He bent down on his knee and I prayed over him as he placed his cross in the flame of the candle, just far enough to char the corner which proved unable to withstand the contagion of fire. After he placed his cross in the can to burn, I did just the same, left my “tipis” in the middle of the room and we both returned to our spots on the perimeter of the circle.
The pervading silence in the room drew our attention to the center canister, now leaping with flames. The light continued to blaze dim yellow and soft orange tongues of fire. Quiet murmurs indicated that Antel and myself were not the only ones who found the divine humor in the situation. At first I turned to him with a childish grin and said, “Kich, mei wor chommong tipis.” He giggled a little and we both turned our attention back to the glowing can. Minutes passed and the fire continued to light the room full of flabbergasted faces. Under normal circumstances, paper would not burn like that unless there was something else fueling it.
After our reconciliation service, the youth gathered for a closing prayer service in which the mic was open for personal reflection. Speeches are an important part of Chuukese culture. It is proper etiquette to express thanks, congratulations, apologies etc… Therefore, as someone they mistook for a leader, I was, in a way, obligated to stand before the congregation and offer my own words of broken wisdom. As people began to take the podium, I prayed their speeches would last all night, or they would talk so long we would run out of time, but of course time in Micronesian culture is practically nonexistent and thus running out is never a legitimate concern. I thought maybe they would be merciful and let me off the hook, or forget I was sitting there, but of course, good luck trying to inconspicuously blend a white girl into a crowd full of Micronesians. Among the “leaders,” Kathy got up first and spoke so eloquently about the time of preparation and the value of the weekend in making time to prepare. I was secretly hoping Marcos would be as chicken as I was feeling, but of course he jumped at the chance to address the audience, and in broken Chuukese nearly broke into tears trying to express how grateful he was to the people of Piis for giving him life, a desire to share his faith and a reason to learn their language. As he sat down, I could have closed my eyes and still heard the subtly obvious noise of a roomful of bodies turning to stare at their hopeful expectation for the next speaker. Reluctantly, I walked up - praying for assistance in getting through the next minute and a half and quite disappointed that the podium was much closer than I thought. “Tiro ami meinisin, Nepong annim. Kinisou Chapur ren letting me be here with all of you.” I thought sweeping hand gestures might have helped my cause, but I think ended up being interpreted more as a flailing cry for help. “…and for letting me share this weekend with you. Nepwinei, ewe Ngunupin mi nonnomw ikei.” I began trying to explain what I saw that night. I tried to tell them that the Holy Spirit was there that night. The Holy Spirit was present in that room. “Ami mi kuna ena ekkei….you know the fire – you saw the fire in the middle of the room? You all saw it?” Half of a nod would have sufficed, but I couldn’t turn around now, I had to finish. I tried to tell them how I turned to Antel, somewhat embarrassed because at first it looked like the both of us combined had enough sins to fuel a forest fire. “Ewin, ua takir. Nge esop tipis. Esop tipis – It wasn’t sins, it was the Holy Spirit. The Ngunupin.” I had successfully lost them, and lost myself – I didn’t know anymore words, I couldn’t further explain myself without further confusing them. Shaking, voice quivering I thanked them again, perhaps the one expression I’ve mastered, and sat down. I turned to Regina sitting next to me, and through her response to my question “Mi wewe? Did you understand?” was a mere “Ekis – a little.” Her warm smile was enough commendation for my pathetic efforts.
I gave what I could, and as is true in most situations I find myself in….sometimes words just get in the way. Some moments are better left to indescribable emotion. And even in this attempt to recount the details of that weekend in my native language, I am still convinced there is meaning lost in the weekend’s hidden purpose.
