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Roland Yoder, Methacton
Yorodo@aol.com

In a few months there could be nine inches of snow on the ground, a temperature of 16 degrees and winter winds whistling against the corners of your house. That is, if one stays in Pennsylvania.

Then there’s Arizona. On the same day, a warm sunshine floods the patch of green grass surrounded by red and white petunias growing at the base of a barrel cactus. At 74 degrees, not the tiniest wisp of wind is tugging at your newspaper as you take that last sip of coffee before heading out for another day of SOOP (Service Opportunities for Older Persons) work.

When we retired in 1999 we wanted to do volunteer work. The idea of a warmer climate in winter appealed to us. But the difference between Pennsylvania’s and Arizona’s winter weather is one of the least reasons why we go to Arizona.

Once in Phoenix we were quickly caught up in the joy of serving others, having no idea that we’d return for at least nine more years. Between the months of October and April we now have the responsibility of coordinating the SOOP program in Phoenix.

Phoenix is a rapidly growing city which attracts immigrants from many cultural backgrounds. Persons coming from other countries soon learn that their opportunities for job advancement remain limited unless they learn to speak English. SOOP volunteers tutor students individually and relationships are soon formed. One can’t help loving these people who are so eager to learn.

While there is much wealth in Arizona, the state has the highest percentage of people living under the poverty level. Phoenix claims to have the first and largest food bank in the world. The food bank system collects and distributes enough food to provide 200,000 meals per week day. One of the most rewarding parts of our involvement has been working alongside people from the community. Some may be meeting requirements of assigned community service hours. Sometimes the tasks are shared with prison inmates. But we work together happily for the common cause of feeding the hungry.

Another focus of effort is with the Glencroft Retirement Center. At this Menno-nite sponsored home, volunteers assist in food services, visitation and relating to residents in many ways. For weeks ahead of the March fundraising auction, SOOPers help in getting the colorful quilts, food, flea market items and used furniture ready for the big day.

Other volunteers assist at Ten Thousand Villages or the thrift store which earns proceeds that support Goldensun Ministries and Mennonite Central Committee. Goldensun is a program which provides housing and care for adults with developmental disabilities. The Goldensun community has four houses near Trinity Mennonite Church and the SOOP house. Each Monday evening we have great fun sharing a meal with the Goldensun residents and staff.

We have seen God at work in many ways. The SOOP house where volunteers stay is a miracle in itself. It became available at the right place and time and with the right features. A dozen volunteers arrived, each at the right time, to remodel the house which is now a spacious house with seven beautiful bedrooms, three baths, a veranda and a lawn edged with flowers and citrus trees.

Living in this group setting has been very enriching. Volunteers come from across Canada and the U.S. We return from our volunteer sites by midafternoon and have time to reflect on the experiences of our day. We take turns preparing meals and tidying the house. Around the table we hear the life stories of God’s people. New and lasting friendships are readily formed.

Saturdays are set aside for exploring, which may include a hike among the stately saguaros in a nearby park or a trip to Sedona or Tucson.

Returning back to home communities, volunteers are more aware of the needs that are common in our cities. Our lives have been changed, blessed and enriched.

Sheldon Good, Salford
sheldoncg@goshen.edu

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no,” he said. The Frenchman who walked with us off-and-on that day had barely uttered a word until that point. Our group had come to the proverbial crossroad. As the path split in two and our detailed maps conveniently failed us for the first time, I took solace in the Frenchman’s nonchalance.

Curiously, most of the complicated intersections along the Camino de Santiago were the least marked. Waist-high concrete pillars with blue and yellow seashells aimlessly directed the path of the Camino, often at points that were unnecessary. The Camino de Santiago, of Way of Saint James in English, is an ancient trail in northwestern Spain that many believe the biblical St. James to have travelled some two millennia ago. For hundreds of years, the Camino has been a place of pilgrimage for wayfaring strangers seeking spiritual, personal and communal reawakening.

Likewise, six young adults from various congregations across Franconia Conference embarked on a five-day journey on the Camino. We began where many pilgrims end – in the town of Santiago de Compostela – and set our GPS for Cape Finisterre, 100 kilometers to the west. Compostela is the city where many believe the remains of St. James are buried.

In our increasingly interconnected and competitive world, the Camino has become a bit institutionalized during its 2,000 years of operation. Albergues (lodges) – nothing more than concrete buildings with basic plumbing – have been erected to serve as safe havens of rest. The albergues are placed at estimated resting points. While conveniently placed, this also means bedding in these first-come-first-serve shelters has become competitive and unforgiving.

“There’s no more room,” we were told as we approached our first albergue. The stern innkeeper didn’t seem interested in negotiating. As we tiredly attempted to communicate in broken Spanish that we were students from the US who didn’t have much money, I felt uncomfortable. While the innkeeper rambled off strings of sentences clouded in an accent I couldn’t understand, a group of Europeans who had already staked out their beds mocked us for our ignorance of trail expectations and my stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten in hours, I began to eerily feel like Joseph might have on the eve of Jesus’ birth.

The innkeeper eventually allowed us to sleep in the backyard and charged us ten euro. It was the first of many exhausting attempts at communicating in a second language, trying to fall asleep at 10 pm in broad daylight and meeting strangers who offered us tokens of relief including a mattress, walnuts, a pen, blister aid and, on this day, tent lodging for two of us.

The fourth and final day of our pilgrimage was a pleasant hike along the coast of what was once considered the end of the world. There our we reunited with our team-leader, Steve Kriss, whose arrival in Spain had been unexpectedly delayed. He greeted us with chocolate “Smarties” and, having removed our shoes, we loaded our rented Dodge Voyager for our trek to southern Spain.

After a week of city-hopping, we arrived at what reminded me of southern California. The serene beaches of Tarifa provided space for us to reflect on our pilgrimage and prepare for the over-stimulating environment of northern Africa. I found comfort in Tarifa’s coastal breeze and mint tea.

A day later Northern Africa greeted me with unabashed shock and awe: a barrage of overzealous taxi drivers and car-honking, white garments illuminating dark skin, smells of saffron and mint. I felt out of place, and I’m sure I looked it, clamoring down the main thoroughfare in our group of seven white folk with Lonely Planet as our guide. I began to notice the same stares I felt while in Cambodia on cross-cultural.

Cultural immersion took the place of that initial culture shock over the next week. The mosques, minarets, mellahs and medinas of the imperial cities of Rabat and Fez at times felt over-saturating. These cities were so old, so rich with history. I was unaccustomed to thinking about history in terms of thousands of years.

The sixth day brought a visit to the Hassan II Mosque. A careful work of art with grandiose physical and figurative implications, the mosque boasts the world’s tallest minaret at almost 700 feet. Inspired by a verse from the Koran that reads, “the throne of God was built on water,” half of the structure hovers over the Atlantic Ocean. The mosque provocatively proclaims an ethos of authority, grace, peace, stability and faith to the world. It reminded me of the National Stadium built in Beijing for the 2008 Olympic Games. I recently read an article in the New York Times that described the stadium as I would the mosque, “rather than offering us a reflection of China’s contemporary zeitgeist, [the architects] set out to create a sphere of resistance, and to gently redirect society’s course.”

Though the alluring minaret of Casablanca provokes a challenging religious and political message, the souks (markets) of Marrakech are even more confrontational. Djemaa el Fna, the city’s main square and marketplace, is cordially used by both tourists and locals. During the day, one can aimlessly browse around the square and into the surrounding souks, become comfortably lost, enjoy fresh orange juice, bump into snake charmers and develop deep dehydration. As day matures into evening, story-tellers, musicians, magicians and Tarot-readers emerge.

Exploring this marketplace is best done alone. I explored its back alleys and attempted to distinguish tourist-trap from local treasure. Unexpectedly, I found a mixture of the two. At one point, as I came around a corner, a burly man greeted me. He lowered his large frame directly into my chest cavity. I stumbled back, then made eye contact. I continued on, no words exchanged. His shove was clearly no love tap.

Like Beijing’s National Stadium and Casablanca’s Hassan II mosque, he communicated a clear, deliberate and distinct message of authority. But might this man’s authoritative message had an air of welcoming grace disguised in it? Perhaps yes, perhaps no.