Gollum and the Great Secrets of the Darkness

Posted on October 16, 2024 by Mark

In The Lord of the Rings Tolkien offers a penetrating description of one of the principal lies the enemy uses to seduce us. In the second chapter of The Fellowship of Rings Gandalf explains to Frodo how Gollum came to love the darkness. Gollum, corrupted by the Rings power and by the invisibility it offered, shook his fist at the sun and retreated into the roots of the mountains where he believed “there must be great secrets buried which have not been discovered since the beginning.”

Our culture has often made a similar promise about the darkness. Modernity celebrates all that is to be discovered by shaking off the restraints of morality and bravely exploring every kind of immorality and perversion. The attraction of the darkness can be especially powerful for young people raised in Christian homes. Rebelling against the light can give a teenager a sense of identity. Discovering all the secret pleasures of evil at first seems exciting.

Pop culture and Hollywood have made money off this lie. Songs about sex, drugs, and rebellion permeated the rock and roll culture. When my college students talk about partying over the weekend, they do not mean cake and party hats. They almost always mean alcohol, drugs, and maybe recreational sex. Fun without transgression has become unimaginable.

However, the story of Gollum does not go well. Gandalf explains, “All the ‘great secrets’ under the mountains had turned out to be just empty night: there was nothing more to find out: nothing worth doing, only nasty furtive eating and resentful remembering.” This has been the story of some of my students—most of whom are just out of high school. Sadly, some have already discovered that drugs and promiscuity offered nothing.

In Oregon, which is largely unchurched, I have had some students whose parents crawled into the darkness of drug addiction and promiscuity. One student told me he was a “rebel” and the “black sheep” of his family because he was sober, married, and went to church. He wasn’t welcome at family parties.

I am old enough (seventy) to have seen both the unchurched and churched discover the bitter truth Gollum discovers: there are no exciting secrets in the darkness. Hollywood has lied. In the darkness there is only “empty night”. The light is resented because it illumines our shame and challenges the lies we have trusted.

The kindness of Frodo is the only thing in The Lord of Rings that comes close to curing Gollum and recovering his true identity as Smeagol. Tolkien has not written a Christian allegory but has written a book with Christian themes. Certainly, we can see in Frodo the spiritual truth that it is the kindness of God that leads us to repentance and out of the darkness.The Gollums in our lives do not need any self-righteous I-told you so’s. They only need love and kindness as we gently lead them to Jesus: the Light that burns away all our shame.

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Slow Dancing with Teckla

Posted on October 8, 2024 by Mark

A few nights ago, I had a strange dream that took me back to First Church of the Nazarene in Walla Walla, Washington. There, as a nine-year old boy, I answered an altar call and committed my life to following Jesus. All I remember is that the evangelist had bushy eyebrows that when pulled together pointed like a hairy arrow straight to hell. It was not, however, a fear of hell that moved me to kneel at the altar. I was wild child that needed Jesus.

Once I even preached at the Walla Walla church. I preached on the Romans seven and compared the carnal life to the whack-a-mole game at the carnival. The fondest memory I have is from August 12, 1978, when I married Teckla. She was a Walla Walla girl and this was her home church. Even as kid, Teckla was beloved, so our wedding filled the church.

Neither of our families had much money, so we had a low-budget wedding. Friends from Myrtle Point picked sword ferns from the woods. Teckla and I picked sunflowers from along the road to College Place. Teckla and her mother, Ella, made the wedding dress. It was all simple but wonderful. And Teckla, of course, was stunningly beautiful. In my vows I promised to love Teckla as Christ loves the church. I promised to give myself up for her as Christ has given himself for His bride.

In my dream I was at the church with a large crowd of people, my father being the only specific person I noticed. I had just said my vows again to Teckla and kissed her. The congregation clapped and then chanted, “Dance, dance, dance!” I took Teckla’s hand and put my other hand in the small of her back. There was no music, but we swayed back and forth and shuffled our feet. My steps were clumsy, and I stepped on her toes a few times. Like a good Nazarene, I had never learned to dance.

Each day Teckla and I live this dream. In the morning, I re-introduce myself to Teckla and tell her that we got married 46 years ago. Sometimes I remind her of her name. I repeat my promise to never leave her, to never stop loving her. We fall in love again.

I don’t put much stock in dreams, but if a bunch old-time Nazarenes and your father are telling you to dance, it is probably God speaking. So, every day I ask Teckla, “May I have this dance?” Memories come and go, but we move to the music of God’s grace as we slow dance through these difficult days.

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The Fire

Posted on October 1, 2024 by Mark

Some nights while camping on the Oregon coast, Teckla and I would stay up until the fire burned low. Under a canopy of red elderberry, spruce, and Douglas fir, we would pull our chairs close to the fire as it burned down. Often, we had burned through the firewood, so we threw in twigs, splinters of firewood, and cones to keep the fire burning. The resinous fir and spruce cones sputtered and flamed, giving us a burst of light and warmth. Sparks flew up into the night sky.

Here in Kansas, we are camped in the basement of my son and his wife, Dylan and Vanessa. We have every comfort, and Dylan and Vanessa have shown us every kindness, but because we are still living mostly out of boxes, it feels like camping. We miss our home and our Oregon friends. We are unsettled.

Here the darkness that surrounds us is uncertainty. Our house in Myrtle Point has not yet sold. We have taken some steps to connect with people where we attend church, but such connections take time. Teckla’s memory loss makes the future uncertain. How do we plan?

But Teckla and I pull our chairs closer to the fire. We gather splinters of gratitude and cones of thanksgiving and feed the fire. We thank God for every grandchild’s smile and every sunflower’s bloom. With faltering and thin voices, we sing old hymns and offer desperate prayers that rise like sparks in the night.

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Stanley’s Gift

Posted on September 26, 2024 by Mark

In the late 80’s Teckla and I lived in Kansas City, a little off Red Bridge Road. My older brother Stanley came to live with use for about a year and a half. He was struggling with anxiety and some emotional distress. During this time, we hiked around most of the nearby nature preserves and trails.

Although unemployed and socially and physically awkward, Stanley had an encyclopedic knowledge of history and nature. Because he was ten years older, we had never been friends exactly, but we shared a love of nature. While living in Milton-Freewater, Oregon, Stanley occasionally took me on walks along the Walla Walla River. I still remember us seeing a black-chinned hummingbird and Lewis woodpecker along the river behind Roger’s cannery.

And while living in Myrtle Point, Stanley and I had hiked many trails. We had hiked to Hanging Rock and seen rock penstemon in bloom. We had seen the Lewisia blooming on the trail to Mount Bolivar. One of our last hikes was to the top of Iron Mountain where there is small grove of Brewer’s Spruce, a rare tree with long weeping branches. I owe to Stanley much of my knowledge of Oregon’s forests, flowers, wildlife, and all that lives in coastal dunes and tide pools.

At times Teckla and I have been overwhelmed by how much we have left behind in Oregon—the house, the good friends, the job, the yard, and all the beauty of the ocean, mountains, and rivers. At the Norway cemetery (outside Myrtle Point) are the stones of Stanley, Mom and Dad, and our son, Peter. So much of heart and so many of our family’s memories are in Oregon. Although we lived in Kansas years ago, we feel a little lost. Many places have changed, and some old friends have died. And much of our stuff, and therefore our life, is still in boxes.

Last week Teckla and I hiked some of the trail at Longview Lake where Stanley and I had hiked years ago. Along this trail, Stanley had taught me the songs of woodpeckers and how to identify the butterflies: red-spotted purples, clouded sulfurs, and glorious monarchs. In the spring Stanley showed where the bluebells bloomed near the first bridge. Once Stanley, who never moved quickly, darted off the trail and grabbed a three-foot black rat snake. He had gripped it in the middle of its body, so it was biting Stanley’s hand. With blood running down his hand, Stanley calmed the snake by rubbing its belly behind its jaws.

On this same trail Stanley and I saw a blue grosbeak—the first and only time we had seen this bird. Teckla and I saw no unusual birds on our hike, but we came upon a box turtle plodding across the trail. Its shell was scarred and cracked. It was perhaps old enough to have been seen by Stanley and me years ago.

Hiking this trail, I was surprised by Stanley’s gift. He had taught me to see the world around me, to pay attention. I looked at the ground to see what kinds of oak and hickory or butternut grew on each side of the trail. I looked at the gliding flight patterns of mockingbirds and the dance of blue azure butterflies.

Because of Stanley I am less alone in Kansas. The burr oaks and ironweed are old friends. I am delighted by the shagbark hickories and the checkered bark of persimmon trees. The explosion of sunflowers in September brings me joy.

Stanley taught me that attention to nature is worship. Like God after creation, we look carefully at all that He has made, and say, “It is good, it is very good.” Stanley sang hymns beautifully, but I think his love and attention to creation was how he loved God best.

One of Stanley’s favorite hymns was “This is My Father’s World.” Teckla and I sang this hymn together this morning. The second verse says, “This is my Father’s world, the birds their carols raise/ the morning light, the lily white declare their Maker’s praise/This is my Father’s world, He shines in all that ‘s fair/In the rustling grass I hear Him pass, He speaks to me everywhere.”  Because of Stanley, I am better at hearing God everywhere—even in Kansas.

I miss Oregon and how the roar of the ocean made my heart soar. However, I am grateful that Stanley taught me hear God pass in the prairie’s flowers and grass. I am thankful that in all our loss, my heart can dance with the monarchs which are now nectaring furiously before the winter.

Stanley once explained to me that sunflowers are heliotropic, turning their faces toward the sun throughout the day. Now that I live in Kansas, the sunflower state, I pray that Teckla and I will also be heliotropic—turning our faces toward the Sun of Righteousness who rises with healing in its wings.

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The Problem of Pain and Dementia

Posted on September 11, 2024 by Mark

In his book The Problem of Pain C. S. Lewis tries to reconcile human suffering with the existence of a good, loving, and omnipotent God. Lewis addresses what causes suffering and how God uses suffering. Lewis argues that pain is God’s “megaphone to a deaf world.” For the believer, Lewis argues, pain is God’s way of calling us to self-surrender so that the likeness of Jesus can be formed in us. In our suffering, we are invited by God to daily choose God’s love and God’s way. By our choices and God’s grace, we change from glory to glory, becoming more like Jesus who suffered for us. We are prepared for His presence and His service.

I read Lewis hoping for a better theology of dementia. Teckla and I have both gone through a battle (successful it seems) with cancer and have been crushed by the death of our son, Peter. In the midst of all this, Teckla was diagnosed with dementia. She struggles daily with disorientation and memory loss.

At first glance, Lewis’s book is of little help. Dementia, after all, is painless. There is no ennobling resistance to pain by choosing daily to rejoice in God despite the nausea or aching bones and muscles. More seriously, dementia dissolves the human personality and sense of self. The very thing that suffering is meant to improve, our Christian character, slowly disappears. It is hard to see how dementia makes anyone more like Jesus, especially in the later stages.

Dementia is also hard to reconcile with all the Scripture that exhorts us to have the mind of Christ, to set our mind on things above, and to be transformed by the renewing of our minds. If God is so concerned about our minds, why would He allow a believer to sink into the mental confusion of dementia? What can possibly be redemptive about dementia?

First, all those loving a person with dementia are called to be a community of remembrance. As the memories central to their identity fade, we can intercede with our memories of who they are and what they have done. Those in loving community around the person with dementia must not see just who the person is now. Our words and actions must reflect who they have been and who God has destined them to be eternally.

More importantly we, the body of Christ, are asked to testify by word and deed that those with dementia are more than their body, more than their brain cells. They are living souls redeemed by God: children of God destined for glory. We are invited to see them “no longer after the flesh” but as God sees them. As they courageously entrust their identity to God, they remind us that our true selves are safely hidden in Christ beyond the reach of every ailment and affliction.

Although dementia usually doesn’t result in more peace and patience, it does offer a believer an opportunity to make the ultimate surrender of self to God. As memories disappear, the person with dementia must trust God to keep safe their identity. They are, perhaps, invited to do something harder and nobler than conforming their mind to Christ. They are invited to surrender their very personhood into God’s care. Believers with dementia are invited that declare that Christ is all and in all; and that in Him nothing is lost.

Dementia should make real and more precious the hope that when we see Jesus we will be made like Him. In His glory we are given back everything of eternal value. Nothing is forgotten, every act of kindness and love is remembered in Christ. All is restored and all is glory. If what God can give to us in reward and glory is a reflection to how much we have emptied ourselves in this life, then few will have a greater glory than those with dementia who continually give themselves to God.

I see glimpses of this glory as I worship with Teckla and see her lift her voice, hands, and face toward God in adoration.  Although she may now struggle to find her own words to express her heart toward God, she surrenders herself and all the heartache dementia brings. Her sacrifice of praise is surely pleases God and is the purest gold we lay at the feet of Jesus.

I am certain that as Teckla gives all she is to God, God will give all He is to her—both now and eternally.  

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The Scouring of the Soul

Posted on August 28, 2024 by Mark

Watching Teckla worship has always lifted my soul into God’s presence. Having her as my worship leader for many years was a blessing and joy. Sunday night Teckla and I went with Dylan, Ari, and Leah to a night of worship and prayer at church. It was wonderful time of refreshing and adoration of Jesus. Teckla stood next me with her arms and her face lifted to God singing, “Holy, holy, holy are you, Lord God most high”. The sweetness and luminosity of her face filled me with peace, and I surrendered to the presence and work of the Holy Spirit. As she abandoned herself to worship, I cut loose and drifted on the tides of the Spirit.

We sang several other songs that celebrated the holiness of God. A spectator might have objected to the repetitive nature of the songs that declare God is holy, holy, and also, holy. This is, however, the repetition of the four living creatures mentioned in Revelation 5:8 who day and night say, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God, the Almighty, who was and who is and who is to come.” Of course, if we see worship as merely declaring theologically accurate propositions about the character of God, once would be enough.

Each time I declared God to be holy, I felt some grime and darkness scoured from my soul. To declare God is holy, is to declare Him perfect in all His ways. Although I have not doubted His goodness, I have not always felt it. Even when we are wise enough not to doubt God’s holiness, it is easy for our spirit to sour, for our joy to die, and for our outlook to darken.

Teckla is one of the most selfless people I know. Almost all her prayers have been for others. The only prayer I have heard her ask for herself has been, “Please, God, don’t let me have dementia.” When she had the very first signs of memory loss, she would grab my hand and put on her head and ask me to pray for her not to have dementia. She prayed, I prayed, and thus far that prayer has not been answered. No other unanswered prayer has wounded me as deeply.

Yet, in the face of her disappointment and worsening memory loss, Teckla sang with abandon, “Holy, holy, holy.” With every declaration of God’s holiness we sang, I let go of more resentment over unanswered prayers. Every complaint of my heart against God slipped away. My soul was scoured of doubts about God’s faithfulness, goodness, and love. Teckla’s example led me to a place of where God’s Spirit could cleanse me.

This does not mean I no longer have questions; it only means that certainty about God’s holy character is the ground and starting place of all my questions. The declaration that God is holy kills the lie spoken by the serpent in Eden. Satan’s lie implied that God was not good and that He was withholding something good from Eve and Adam by forbidding them to eat of tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Few things are as good for us and as bad for our enemy as the heart-felt declaration that God is holy. This declaration of trust in the face of affliction, disappointments, and unanswered prayers shatters the kingdom of darkness. The scouring of soul by the holiness of God not only frustrates the schemes of our enemy, but it sets us free to fully enjoy God’s love in the face of all we do not know or understand.

Because this has been and still is a period of great loss, it is easy for me to stumble through my days numb and dazed. But the unchanging, unshakeable, and unfading holiness of God can open my eyes to the joy possible in the present moment.

A broken heart scoured by His holiness reflects His glory.

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The Wilds of Kansas

Posted on August 19, 2024 by Mark

I have moved to a suburb with looping roads and cul-de-sacs. Developments curve like waves from the main road here in Gardner. The earlier developments, like the one on Oak Street, have bigger trees that arch over the road and sidewalks. Where I live the trees shade yards but leave the streets scorched.

The houses are depressingly similar in design, so mapping your way through the neighborhood is bewildering at first. Like bushwhacking in Oregon forests, it takes keen eyes to see the differences between one house and another. And like the forests, more is happening than meets the eye. On most of our walks Teckla and I don’t see anyone. Occasionally someone scurries from the air-conditioning of their house to the air-conditioning of their car. We suspect strange and wonderful people live in these pastel thickets.

The lawns in front of the houses are smaller than the ones in the back. Most kids play in backyards or stay indoors. When it is cooler, families grill food and eat outside while the cicada trill away. Backyards are fenced and safe. All is tame in these suburbs until you get to the corner of Dogwood and Meadowbrook where I now live.

Suddenly the streets are alive with wildlife. Cars slow as whiffle balls roll across the street. Whoops and screams of boys and girls fill the air. Girls on roller skates speed down sidewalks. Sprinklers shoot water high in air as jumping kids beat the grass down with bare feet.

Nothing is safe. Bugs bite, the sun burns, and the asphalt bloodies knees and elbows. (A baseball blackened Ari’s eye.) Feuds erupt and friends are lost and found the same day. Occasionally, a voice cries out from one of the houses, “Play nice!” And they do—for about seven seconds.

Whatever obstacles to community (the lack of front porches) suburbs erect are swept aside as the kids abandon their backyards for the front yards, sidewalks, and streets. Ella, Maverick, Theodore, Ainsley, Jack, Ariana, Khloe, Leah, Noah, and Ari are a wild tribe of the happiest kind.

It is summer in the wilds of Kansas.

T

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How Long?

Posted on August 7, 2024 by Mark

“How long, O Lord” is all Teckla could get out before her tears made it impossible to read. She grabbed some Kleenex and started reading Psalm 13 again:

How long O Lord? Wilt Thou forget me forever? How long will Thou hide Thy face from me? How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart all the day?

Tears fell onto her Bible. I knew her soul had made David’s words her own. Her dementia has been slowly getting worse. But the question “how long” is a terrible one to ask because dementia can continue for years.

The gentle cry of her heart was so pure and untainted with self-pity or accusation that I know all of heaven heard her voice. Her prayer frightened me because only death ends dementia. I have never heard of God stopping or reversing dementia. I pray anyway, sowing my mustard seed of faith, probably with more fear than faith.

When I was a boy camping with my family at Cape Perpetua, we often spent days on the beach. Mom would lean against a rock reading a book or crocheting and my brothers and I would build a wall to protect Mom from the rising tide. We dug moats and built walls of stones, sand, and driftwood. We could never really see the tide come in. But as each wave came a little further up the beach, the walls slumped, the driftwood floated away and soon everything was erased except for a few stones.

Teckla’s memories are washing away, and I am helpless. She feels them slipping away but can’t stop them. Before going to see people, she says their names to herself over and over. It is not just memories that dissolve but the relationships built on memories of shared joy and grief. Dementia brings terrible loneliness. The whole tapestry of life built on memories and friendship unravels.

I grieve for her sadness and for my own loss. From the day of our wedding, we have always been “Mark and Teckla” working together to serve God and others. Our hearts and labors have been so united and melted together in God’s Spirit that losing Teckla is like losing myself. I don’t know who I am without her. As she fades, I fade.

Like so many of David’s raw laments, Psalm 13 has a turning point. After bringing his complaint to God, David declares:

But I have trusted in Thy lovingkindness; my heart shall rejoice in Thy salvation, I will sing to the Lord because He has dealt bountifully with me.

Teckla read these words with conviction. She quietly and heroically defied despair. The question of “how long” still hangs in the air or echoes down the streets of heaven. Teckla is much more comfortable with the tension between contradictory ideas and experiences: a God who has hidden his face and yet in every way has dealt bountifully with us. Whatever memories she has lost, she is remembered by God.  

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Clinging to the Ring

Posted on July 19, 2024 by Mark

On the way to Kansas, Teckla and I had one terrible night in a motel. We were exhausted and had driven many hot, sweaty miles without air-conditioning. The fan had gone out just as we got to Diamond Lake and began descending to the high desert around Bend and Burns. It was 103 that day.

After showers, we collapsed into bed until Teckla woke up in a panic from a bad dream. Her voice and eyes were full of fear. Trembling she asked, “Who are you?”

I gently said, “I am your husband, Mark.”

 She stared at me and said, “No, you aren’t. You are just pretending.” Tears ran down her cheeks.

Soon I was crying too. I knew Teckla’s dementia could someday come to this moment, but this hit like a hammer. I was crushed.

I gently took her hands and pointed to her wedding ring and then showed her mine. I said, “See we both wear the same rings. We are married. With this ring I promised to always love you and keep you safe.”

After I coaxed her back to bed, she sobbed, tightly holding my hand, her fingers rubbing my ring. Eventually, she fell asleep.

I don’t know what part of this was dementia and what was a nightmare hard to wake from. Next day she was fine, and she has not had another terror like this. She always knows who I am.

But the lesson of the night has pierced my heart. There have been nights when I have been as lost and afraid as Teckla, nights when I have not known where God is or who I am. Like Teckla clinging to my ring, I have sobbed and fallen asleep holding the promises of God.  I am His. He is mine. He will never leave me nor forsake me. Though the night is long, the dawn is His.

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Leaving Oregon

Posted on July 1, 2024 by Mark

Teckla and I are leaving Oregon. It is not the first time. In 1980 we moved to Olathe, Kansas where I had been offered a teaching position. Although we had been living in Pullman, Washington since 1978, we still spent enough time in Myrtle Point to consider Oregon our home. We ended up living in Olathe or across the border in Kansas City, Missouri for about thirteen years. We moved back to Myrtle Point in 1993 when my father was dying of cancer.

Nothing helped me love Oregon more than my years in the Midwest. Upon my return, I delighted in Oregon’s rivers. Because you are seldom far from a river’s headwaters, many rivers here run clear and clean.  Near Myrtle Point, the north, middle, and south forks of the Coquille River meet. Myrtle trees, bigleaf maples, and red alders arch over the upper reaches of the coastal rivers. Salmon runs defy gravity and swim far up the rivers to their spawning grounds.

I also delight in the opportunity for solitude. I live in one of the least populated coastal counties of Oregon. I have sometimes walked all day on the beach south of Bandon and not seen another soul. The same solitude is possible on some of the trails in the Siskiyou Mountains south of Myrtle Point. I once hiked five hours on the Panther Ridge trail without meeting anyone. And if one goes a little off trail, though unwise perhaps, solitude is guaranteed.

I will miss the ocean—its power, majesty, and beauty. Through great sorrow and loss, it has been a comfort. Our family began camping near the ocean when I was only two. My mother often recounted that “osh” was one of my first words. For many years we camped near Cape Creek beach just below Cape Perpetua. I can still the point to the rock that was my pirate ship as the tide came in around it. Years later my own boys played on the same basalt ship. Yesterday we took Ari and Dylan’s kids (Leah, Noah, and Khloe) to Bandon where they splashed in the waves and ran wild on the beach until exhausted.

Both beach and mountains have also given me the “wild”. It is hard to explain why this is important. I hiked all over and through the nature parks and trails around Olathe and Kansas City, but it was never long before I came to a fence and some farmland or another sprawling housing development. In southern Oregon or the Cascades, you can be immersed in the wild for days before coming to even a road. You will see the scats of bears and mountain lions on the trail. Such wildness humbles me and puts me right relationship with creation—fear and delight.

More than all this, I will miss the courage and fortitude of those who live in Oregon but go to church anyway. In the Bible belt, no one blinks if you talk about going to church on Sunday. In Oregon, people, especially those I taught with at the college, were shocked. It is interesting that many of my Christian friends in Myrtle Point did not grow up going to church, becoming believers later in life. I appreciate their tenacious faith, free of religious clichés or lifeless legalism. I will profoundly miss my brothers and sisters in Christ who have loved us and helped us in our hardest times.

Oregon has been, of all places, my heart’s home. I was born in Pendleton. With great joy, I climbed the trees and waded in the creeks of Milton-Freewater. From six grade to college, I lived in Myrtle Point where I learned the beaches and forest trails of the South Coast. For many years my family and then Teckla and I camped on the central coast of Oregon. The beaches, trees, creeks, and rivers are friends.

So why move? When Teckla and I married, we vowed to seek first the kingdom of God. We have always gone where we believed God is calling us. This direction has often been a sense of God’s pleasure with a direction or decision. It has always felt more like an invitation than a command. We have sought His will over our own. My discernment of God’s will is imperfect, but going to Kansas feels like what love would do. We will be closer to my three sons and my nine grandchildren. Our move will help Ari get settled into Dylan and Vanessa’s home and give him a home, a mother, and a father. We will be moving into their basement and helping them adopt Ari.

This is not the retirement people dream about, but it feels right to end our lives as selflessly as we started them. It has never been about us. And over the years, every time I thought I was sacrificing something, God has embarrassed me with His goodness, ambushed me with His love, and surprised me with joy. Even in Kansas, perhaps especially in Kansas.

I

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