Letter to the Editors
Departments
Joe Nangle 8-01-1994
Spending a night together helps strengthen the bonds of community. Somehow the psychological impact of knowing that the group will stay the night and not have to "rush back," that you will rise in the morning and take those first drowsy steps together into a new day, that your initial encounters will take place over juice and coffee—these very ordinary details of life go far to build the cohesiveness that is so necessary for community. For that reason above all, successful communities include overnight retreats in their annual plans.
Of course, other considerations go into the need for regular retreats. The community needs, in Jesus’ words, to "come aside and rest awhile." Getting away as a group is good for the spirit and body of each and all. People on retreat tend to be more their true, good selves, and in that sort of climate the members renew their reasons for having come together in the first place. The common vision is brushed up; shared ideals get focused.
The setting for a retreat generally lends itself to tension-free hours. Our times have been gifted with numerous places for "active relaxation." It’s as if the killing pace of late 20th-century life has taught us the need for a refuge, sanctuary, or haven, where we can breathe deeply, sleep soundly, and interact calmly. Such locations exist in virtually every part of our country and must be counted as some of God’s choicest graces.
Retreat-goers have learned the value of free time, or better stated, time for personal solitude and reflection. There was a time when going on a retreat meant an effort to fill up every waking—and some non-waking—hour with activities. Within such a mindset the very word "retreat" becomes a misnomer. Fortunately we have moved away from that counterproductive era of frantic "retreats."
Edward A. Dougherty 8-01-1994
She folded herself
into a small package, legs and feet
under her body, words
even smaller.
She carries
a message. In a language
I don't understand,
she tells us about parents,
about their small, folded children
all burning, red-orange and pink.
Of course, somewhere in all this
there is a flag.
David A. Fagan 8-01-1994
For a man who never intended to leave Laos, Joua-Pao Yang looks content on his farm in Woodinville, Washington. At first he seems to fit the stereotype of the hard-working immigrant. He runs a farm and moonlights as a janitor because he wants to put his kids through college.
But Yang and the four Laotian families with whom he farms didn’t come here to pursue the American Dream. They wound up north of Seattle as political refugees. The Hmong and the Mien tribes of Laos and Cambodia helped the losing side during the Vietnam War. When the United States pulled out, the Viet Cong sent these soldiers to re-education camps where many died of starvation.
Fortunately, Joua-Pao Yang was a college student and then a school teacher during the war, so he avoided military service. This background served him well when his family and many other Hmong fled to Thailand. In the refugee camps, Yang taught the school children. His university degree and ability to speak six languages would seem to make him welcome in any country. But, he explained, "Thailand was too crowded. They have 40 million people. They don’t accept refugees."
In 1980, his family found permanent refuge in Seattle. Within months, he started a farm with four other Hmong and Mien families. Leasing land from the county, they grow Asian vegetables for restaurants, supermarkets, and Asian specialty stores. Each farm is a for-profit venture run by a separate family, yet they share all the work. This isn’t factory farming; they plow with tractors, but they plant and harvest mostly by hand.