Every priest has heard “Thy will be done” from sterling men and women.  The words came from your lips, too, when you were being tested.  Remember the word “tested”.  Not destroyed or punished or crushed, but just being examined or tested for worth.  I knew a man like you. It happened in about 1947.

Around me, and the congregation, our church had burned.  It had burned and fell sinking to a smoking pile.  It was winter, a Sunday, deep in the snow in the Big Bush on the Turtle Mountain Reservation, far from phones and Fire Fighters. The church was St. Benedict’s, a beautiful, cozy church that fit into an alcove in the trees.

For months after the fire we used a big class room of the Great Walker School as our church on Sunday.  In the spring Father Hildebrand visited with the people from St. Benedict’s. “What do you think?  Let’s build in the same style, but this time not out of logs or of any wood at all.  Let’s build it, so it will not burn again.”

It was built, and beautifully.  You should see it, decorated season by season by the women.   But I miss those older rustic walls, and the tower swaying a bit at the ringing of the bell.

On the day of dedication two choirs, one from St. Ann, the other from St. Anthony, joined the singers at St. Benedict.  The day was perfect.  A huge meal was ready, but after Mass Eli Marion with his family came to say, “Father, we were glad to be here, but the day is so good that the little ones want to go home right now and go fishing.  I think we should leave.”

I stayed, till all the work was done.

When I arrived at the priest’s house, Father Hildebrand was waiting.  “They just called from the hospital.  There was a wreck.”

Eli with his son and the children had arrived home.  They ate a bite and made their fishing poles ready.  In those days our roads were carved through the trees.  At an intersection another car came rushing.  Neither could see the other’s approach.  In the crash everyone was thrown out.

A call went to the Doctor.  He would not come!!  He was paid, he said, for forty hours a week, and “You should know it’s Sunday.”  Nor would he allow the van to be used to pick up the injured.  (Strange!!  Yes, but that’s the way it was.)   Someone got a gun.  In short order the Doctor agreed to send the van and agreed, too, to be at the hospital. 

Eli lay in the grass at the crash site, waiting and fearful.  His oldest son, Francis, had died in a truck accident.  Hauling hay for a neighbor, Francis had tipped and with the truck fell into a deep slough at the road side.   Now, close by in another road side lay Eli’s only other son, Max.  And they had to wait.

This boy, married and gifted with five daughters, had been trained as a grocer.  He had bought The Big Store, with the Post Office attached.  Like his family he had taken up a life of service.  He had come to St. Benedict’s to share his, and his father’s, gifts of music.

I came through the back door of the hospital.  A nurse met me.  “You had better go to this room first.”   Here I found Max.  I blessed him and anointed him.  He was cold.  He was not breathing.  I knew. 

In the next room lay Eli, watching.  I came to the door.  I couldn’t say it, but Eli knew it.  Two sons taken from him, both while helping their neighbors. Neither would carry Eli’s name further.  I bent my head.  From deep in his chest came a moan, “No! Lord.  Not again.”

His fingers fumbled for the sheet and pulled it tight over his head.  From under the sheet came  words made sacred by Jesus and by others like him, “Thy will be done!”

His spirit was tested, and found strong.  It lives on.  One of the many Heroes and Heroines that I know.

                                                08/11/04
                                                fr. stan
                                               Turtle Mountain Times

No!  Not again, Lord.  Thy will be done.”

Francis first casualty, Max the second.