When Cuthbert Yiftheg began high school at PATS, he came across as a modest individual from a modest background. Bert, as he was then known, was not from one of the higher strata in Yap, an island where clan determines social status. He was not a stand-out student, perhaps because of his limited educational background. But, long afterwards, the young man was remembered not just for his modesty but his interest in studies. Not only did he always turn in the homework carefully and on time, but he would regularly ask for help from his teachers in the early evening. So often that a teacher might excuse himself from the dinner table a bit early with the side remark that he had to be in his room to help Yiftheg when he made his inevitable visit. It all proved effective for Bert, who graduated near the top of his class.

On Sunday morning just before the Pohnpeian mass I say each week, I stopped to greet Jefferson, the man who has regularly stood at the door to welcome any and all into the church. “You look very thin,” I told him. It had been a few weeks since I had last seen him. “Cancer,” he said, “in the head, stomach and chest.”