JULY 25, 2024 – (Cont.) As she hobbled from the convent to the school building a hundred feet away, the good sister pointed out the exact spot where a few weeks back she’d stumbled, fallen and broken her hip. There she’d lain, wailing in agony until the associate pastor discovered her and called for an ambulance. After a long surgery and rehabilitation, she returned to her post, undaunted by the apparent sign from above that she had long before paid her dues in full: St. Francis Solanus Mission had been her life’s work since 1960. The outpost of Catholic outreach was now down to the mostly elderly membership of the century-old stone church and a kindergarten through eighth grade student body of just 10. I thought I misheard the number until I the sister repeated it.
She let us into the school building and led us down the main hallway to the “souvenir shop.” When she turned on the lights the old spacious schoolroom sprang to life with the products of creativity and personal industry. Despite the well-known problems facing modern reservation life—drugs, alcohol, and related ills—some of its people had found rewarding outlets. The sister was especially proud of the quilt inventory[1]—at bargain basement prices.
While the others in our party trolled the aisles separating tables laden with handmade merchandise, I engaged the sister in conversation about the mission, the school, and her tenure there. Over the decades she’d developed close ties with the community. I asked her about trends, and she offered that in more recent years people had been turning more to “their culture.” Though the quotation marks in her tone were unmistakable, I didn’t detect condescension so much as a hint of exasperation.
“I tell them that culture won’t get you closer to God,” she said. “Only your religion can do that.” I supposed she had a point, at least from her perspective as an agent of her religion. Her decades of dedication were impressive, and however she felt about the superiority of religion over culture, I was quite willing to concede that on balance she had exerted positive influences over her charges. In the hallway I’d noticed framed collections of school-related photos, and what I saw were cheerful kids actively engaged. Those pictures, I figured, were a testament to the sister’s dedication and humanity.
The sister acknowledged, however, the mission’s failures; the students of the school who fell away from what they’d learned, or rather, from what they’d been taught—the connection between a job and self-esteem; the need to be self-reliant and the rewards of initiative. She had every right to be tired, even discouraged. After a lifetime of effort, the school was down to a staff of four—herself, one other sister, and two lay teachers. “Culture,” apparently, had won out over religion. Yet, she still had her faith. That had to count for something.
I would like to have talked longer with her; gotten more of her story and her worldview. But she had been abundantly gracious in hobbling out to let us into the building and allow us to browse through all the handicrafts. I didn’t want to burden her with any further questions than I’d already posed, so I joined Beth, Russ and Kerri in their survey of handmade earrings, birchbark baskets, and other locally produced merchandise.
In time the other sister joined the party, as it were, though she didn’t look like the party type. Nearly as old as the first sister, she looked equally stern and impossible to fool.
To the growing pile of our intended acquisitions I added a copy of a limited edition “book” assembled by the Lac Courte Oreilles Lake Association. Just before our visit I’d described for Russ and Kerri a project I have in mind—a kind of source book that visitors to the Red Cabin could peruse to learn about the geologic history of our environs; the story of the indigenous people, the appearance of French explorers and missionaries, the Scandinavian sawyers who followed and how our own forebears—Russ and mine—wound up in this neck of the woods. Except for our family history, the book there at the St. Francis Solanus Mission souvenir shop was exactly what I’d contemplated. For the modest price of $24 the thoroughly researched and curated compendium of writings and photographs was a treasure trove.
Unfortunately, the approved payment methods were cash and check. Collectively, we had insufficient cash, and none of us carries checks anymore. Somewhat embarrassed, we bought what we could and placed the rest of our desired goods on a “layaway plan.” This gave us a ready excuse to re-visit the mission soon.
As we followed the first sister out of the souvenir shop and the second sister locked things up behind us, the associate pastor appeared. Young and outgoing, he greeted us warmly and invited conversation. His presence at this tiny lakeside mission on an Indian reservation in the woods of northwest Wisconsin was most improbable. His name: Karunakar Madanu. Ironically, he is Indian—as in Asian Indian—originally from Hyderabad in the very hottest part of the Subcontinent. Highly educated, Father Madanu holds a degree in philosophy as well as religion, but his intellect is matched by his easy-going nature and genuine interest in people. I was astonished to learn that prior to “coming south” to northern Wisconsin, Father Madanu had spent over a year in the Northwest Territories of Canada. When I expressed surprise, he laughed and said, “I found out how cold 50 below zero is.”
I was flabbergasted by his geographic journey, as well as by his curiosity and adventuresome spirit. I would like to have sat down over a cup of chai and listened to his story—then sit down again periodically for updates. I asked him if he kept a diary, and when he answered “No,” I encouraged him to start one; that in time he’d be glad he had.
Since we were in the sisters’ domain—the school building—we followed their lead down the hallway toward the exit. We’d provided them with enough excitement for a warm summer day, and anyway, lunchtime was approaching. We thanked the sisters for their kindness and bade them farewell.
Before leaving the mission grounds, however, we stepped through an opening in a thicket below the rectory. There we walked onto a gentle slope that yielded to the shimmering lake. An attractive bench at the top of the slope and the tree-framed view it provided invited meditation. Had I been alone I would’ve sat down for a while and pondered my exchanges with the sister and the pastor and contemplated their unusual lives and faith and circumstances. Instead, I walked out on the simple dock that allowed a broader view of the wild shoreline.
We then returned to the car and drove away as inconspicuously as we had arrived. I felt humbled by the dedication of the people we had encountered. If I didn’t share their faith, nevertheless I respected, even admired it, quite apart from the larger, powerful, and scandal-ridden institution from which orders are given.
With heightened curiosity about the mission, I look forward to our return visit to retrieve our souvenirs—and the book—from the “layaway plan.” As I anticipate the trip, I wonder . . . how long for the world is the St. Francis Solanus Mission? What positive influences could replace it, and what influences would displace it?
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
