Even though the little town of Oakes, ND was located just 16 miles from where I grew up I knew very little about it. During my childhood, I had been to Oakes a few times to have my teeth tended to by Dr. Lisko. Other than that I knew nothing about the school, the church, the pastor or the people.
I thought that I might be allowed to see my parents more often since I would be located so near to them but that was not to be. I was still permitted only one day a year to visit them. I missed my family very much. My mother had always been so close to me. Now I wonder just how painful it was to her that she was not allowed to stop for even a short visit when she came to Oakes for doctor appointments or for other needs. She had such a loving heart, I am sure it was very difficult for her.
Teaching four grades in one classroom was a new experience for me. I had about 50 students that year. Added to this, I found it very difficult to adjust my teaching methods from the high school level to grade school level. The classroom was almost too small to accommodate that number of children. I had to walk down the aisles sideways because the desks were very close to each other. I never had a problem with discipline. For the most part, the children and I got along just fine.
In this day and age, teachers and perhaps parents would rail against that number of students and classes being held in one room. It did have its drawbacks but there were some very positive factors to consider.
The older students helped the younger ones. The younger ones listened to the lessons that were being given to the older ones. Many of them forged ahead of their grade level because of this. There was also a wonderful family feeling among all the students. They looked out for one another. If someone fell on the playground, all rushed to help him or her up and to see that they were not hurt too badly. They learned to comfort and support their classmates.
There were just two other nuns teaching with me. Sister Aloys Marie taught the primary grades. Sister Germaine Marie was our Superior and taught the two upper grades. She was a compulsive worker. I learned that she had always wanted to be a nurse but was placed in teaching instead. She was not cut out for this work. She would assign unrealistic work for her students and then give out outrageous new written assignments or lengthy memorization of facts as punishment when they did not hand in their assignments. Her students were always complaining to me, hoping that I could intercede for them. She was not that approachable. After school, to avoid correcting papers and preparing her classes, she would bury herself in manual labor. She would be constantly dusting, scrubbing, washing and ironing altar linens, polishing windows and waxing floors whether they needed it or not. She suffered even more than I did from migraine headaches. After exhausting herself and us with her constant need to be cleaning, she would go to bed most weekends. It was easy to see that her life was one of frustration. Still she was well liked by many people.
Father McDonald was our pastor and he was a very good man. He prepared the Liturgy and his sermons with great care. He was years ahead of reforms that would come from Vatican II. He was the first priest who ever treated me like an adult. I remember the day when he asked what I thought about purchasing an electric water fountain for the children. I was dumbfounded. Nobody in the eight years that I had been in the convent had ever asked my opinion on anything.
Mother Provincial had told Father that I was an accomplished musician. He wanted me to start a children choir and an adult choir. So that is what I did. I worked and worked with the children.
Finally, I had developed one philosophical principal of teaching… at least in music. I always told the children that anyone who could speak could sing. (Somehow or other, they never knew that I had no natural talent for singing myself) I taught them how to listen closely to the pitch and try to match it exactly. They believed everything I told them and within a very short time, I had a children’s choir that was the talk of the town.
Tackling an adult choir was much more difficult. I didn’t know the difference between tenor, bass and alto, but I was able to bluff my way through that as well. The organist must have noticed my lack of musical skills because she would make helpful suggestions and she never made me look bad in front of anyone. At that time Mass was still in Latin and we had to learn many hymns in Latin to follow the complex liturgies that Father always prepared.
One day the organist had to leave town. There was no other organist available. Father approached me and said that I would have to play the organ on Sunday in her place. I didn’t say a word. I was paralyzed with fright at the thought of having to play the organ. I told my superior about it and she said, “Go to the church and practice.”
I practiced and practiced but I knew that even if I had a year to prepare I would never be ready. When Sunday morning arrived my head and heart were pounding. My nerves were frayed to the breaking point. The first Mass was to be sung by the children’s choir. As they gathered in the choir loft, the pressure kept building in me. It was time to start the first hymn. I got the first few notes played and then I froze. The children kept on singing and I was on the verge of fainting. They thought I was very sick and they carried on without my directions and did a beautiful job of singing a cappela. I was mighty proud of them and very disgusted with myself.
After Mass Father asked me what had happened. I broke down and told him that I was no talented musician and that I was in fact a fraud. He was outraged not at me but at my superiors for lying to him. He said, “Why in the world didn’t you just tell me you couldn’t play the organ? I never wanted to put you through a trial like this for any reason!”
He then encouraged me to always stand up for my rights. It was the first time my own misgivings about my superiors’ underhanded ways were validated. He agreed with me that the end never justifies the means. From that day on, I began to feel that all of my thinking had not been wrong. I was so thankful to this priest who was so different from so many others I had encountered in my life. He praised me for the work that I had been able to accomplish with the choirs and assured me that he would never again ask me to play the organ. I could have shouted for joy to the highest heaven.
That afternoon Father called at the convent to invite us to go for a ride in the country. He had a very nice car so we were very happy to put down our lesson plans to go for an unexpected outing. He drove around Oakes for a few minutes and then headed down Highway 1. He stopped in Verona at the parish house and we visited for a few minutes with the priest there. Thinking that our tour was ended, we were surprised when he turned toward the direction of LaMoure. I kept thinking how nice it would be if we could stop for a few minutes at my parent’s home which was just one mile down the road. Without asking for anyone’s permission, Father turned abruptly as he neared the road to my parent’s house. When the house came into view, Father said, “I need to see if your mother has any sweets on hand. I am hungry. Do you think she might put on a pot of coffee for us?”
I didn’t know what to say because this was certainly out of order. The other sisters began to get out of the car so I knew that it would be okay. Nobody would squeal on me. It was all Father’s doing. As we came into the house, mom threw her arms around me and nearly squeezed me to death. She and Dad were very happy to see us and, of course, she had cookies and it didn’t take her long to brew up a pot of coffee. Dad came up with lines he loved to say whenever they got visitors: “Now, at last, I am going to get something good to eat!”
I sat as close to my mother as I could possible get. She kept reaching out to touch me as she entertained and served her guests. Occasionally I noticed that a tear would roll down her cheek. Then there would be a matching one that slid its way down mine. Both of us have the tendency to tear up when we are exceedingly happy. We had a very pleasant visit and again I knew that I had found a true friend in Father McDonald.
That year was long and difficult. Most evenings the other two nuns, being elderly, would retire early. I was left alone and lonely. One Saturday night after an especially hectic day of scrubbing, washing and ironing altar linens, preparing the church for Sunday Mass (At this time the lay people were not asked to help with any of these tasks) and waxing all the floors of the convent, I was fed up with everything. I longed for some kind of outlet for my emotions other than work, work, work.
TV was beginning to be affordable in some homes at this time. Father had bought one and on several occasions had invited us over to his house to watch the popular Bishop Sheen program. (No relation to Charlie, of Two and Half Men) On this particular Saturday, I decided that I would walk over to his house and ask if I could watch TV with him and his housekeeper.
His eyes opened wide when he saw me at the door. I asked, “Are you watching TV tonight?”. He said that he was and invited me in. He indicated a nice easy chair for me and I sat there without saying another word. He and the housekeeper would look at me out of the corner of their eyes wondering what was going on with me. The housekeeper got up to make some popcorn. I didn’t think that I should eat any but after Father’s urging I indulged. After an hour or so, I decided that I better get back to the convent before I was missed. I thanked my surprised hosts for an enjoyable evening and left. I had heavy feelings of guilt for what I had done. It was rude of me to just appear at the rectory without explanation to intrude on their evening. I never did it again and no one ever asked me about my one-time rebellion against the austerity and isolation of my life.
I was like most other people. I had that same tendency to think that when things are going good, God was with me. When things are going bad, God disappears. I realized that I was allowing my negative circumstances to prevent me from hearing from God. I was, in fact, more than a little disappointed with Him.
Prayer was always the way through my troubles. I devoted myself again to prayer. I had seen that remedy in my mother. Why had I let that lesson slip away so easily? I had seen this desert on the horizon—it had not just suddenly appeared. Now I was surrounded by it and as intimidating as it might be, I knew there was an end somewhere. I felt just on this side of hopeless, yet I knew that God would help me find my way out of this dry and lonely place. I knew that He does not allow us to venture into the desert to destroy us; rather, He let us go there so He can strengthen us. I knew that it would not be the last desert that I would trudge through, but the lessons I learned here would strengthen me to follow Him wherever He chose to lead me. I would stay here, learn from my experiences and be better able to encourage others through their tough times.
I recalled a story from Genesis where Joseph stands out as a character who went through one desert experience after another, beginning with an encounter in the literal desert with slave traders. Each situation Joseph endured seemed more unfair than the last. At some point, things had to change. Joseph went from favorite son to jail cell dweller, Joseph’s life seemed to take a turn for the worse repeatedly. Yet Joseph never doubted God. He never became bitter. Each time Joseph’s circumstances degenerated; we see how God went with him. Joseph spent many days in the bottom of a pit, but God did honor him for his faithfulness. I again determined that I would learn the lessons that God wanted to teach me here in this desert of my loneliness