Hospitality sows seeds for new school

By Brother Paul Ackerman, FSC

Christian Brothers vow to “go where they may be sent,” and in my 40 years as a brother I have lived and worked in a number of places and cultures, but few have been as welcoming as Montana and the Blackfeet Nation. Now in our seventh year of ministry, De La Salle Blackfeet School in Browning, Mont., is where God placed me after a wonderful experience in Africa. I wonder where I would be if not for the hospitality of the first Montanan I spoke to.
Before I headed off to Kenya in January 1994, I had the opportunity to tour the U.S. I decided to try a perimeter route, with a concentration on visiting national parks and presidential libraries. I left Chicago in early September of 1993, and by the middle of the month I was at Yellowstone Park in Wyoming, trying to figure out why so many people were there in the fall, and wondering how (and why) they enjoyed being crammed together in the wide-open spaces of the West!
I had toured the park and stopped to see the usual sights, like Old Faithful and the bubbling, multi-colored pots of sulfurous water that dot the park. It was all very interesting, but I really hated the crowds, and decided to camp at the entrance nearest to Montana and head north in the morning toward Great Falls, where I planned to stay with some friends.
The campground was crowded, which I guess I could have expected. The temperature was in the 50s, and I sat outside my tent writing in my journal about the sights and sounds of the day. I suddenly had the feeling that I was being watched. It felt like someone was peering at me over my shoulder. I turned, and found myself looking into the face of a huge elk, sporting an amazingly fierce-looking rack.
I had seen the creatures wandering in the “town” in the park, seemingly oblivious of the cars and people that would normally send a wild animal running. Obviously, they had lost their fear of humans. At first they were a novelty and a wonder to see, but discovering one trying to read my scribblings was disconcerting to say the least, and a little scary as well.
I decided that ignoring him was the best recourse, and went back to my journaling. He eventually wandered away, probably in search of someone who was having a more interesting day. I had a nice fire going, which felt good against the slowly dropping temperature. As usual when camping, my clothes were soon permeated with the smell of smoke, and dirtied from carrying firewood to keep myself warm as night approached. I wrapped up my writing and headed for my tent, hoping to dream of sleeping in a real bed at my friends’ place.
I woke up at about 5:30 a.m. to a drastic change of weather. It was cold – very cold – and snowing! I decided that the best course of action was to get up, throw my tent in the car and head for Montana. In no time I was on the road, heading north and fighting my first Montana snowstorm. It seemed like a blizzard to me at the time, but I have since learned it was just a “skiff” of snow. This is a term unique to Montana, meaning a dusting with no significant accumulation.
As I headed north, I realized that trying to make it all the way to Great Falls was probably not a very safe idea, so I decided to stop in Helena and get a motel room. After all I was cold and still wearing the smoke-saturated sweats I had on from camping and wasn’t in very good shape to drop in on my friends. Since it was Sunday morning, I decided to see if I could find a church and go to Mass. I figured God would probably be more understanding of my scruffy appearance than Terry and Faith, my Great Falls contacts.
As I drove into town, I could see the spires of a church in the distance. Guessing it would be Catholic, I headed for it and soon found myself parked in front of the Cathedral of St. Helena, home of the diocese by the same name. As luck would have it, Mass was starting in a few minutes. I found a seat that was sufficiently far enough away from other people. I didn’t want them wondering where the fire was – or had been.
As I sat down, I found myself amazed by the structure I was in. Here in Montana, the “Wild West,” was a marvelous Gothic church that would have seemed more at home in Europe. The beautiful stained-glass windows told their biblical stories without words, and they did it with eloquence any author would envy. Drifting up from the sanctuary was the heavenly sound of a piano playing a soothing song of welcome, inviting us to prayer and reflection. The pianist was a lovely young lady wearing a dress that could have graced a royal reception. It was an amazing complement to the beauty of Yellowstone I had just experienced. This was a place of man’s creation, but it was just as beautiful as the natural wonders I had just witnessed. It was a wonderful re-introduction to “civilization.”
Mass began, and I learned that the church was honoring those parishioners who were celebrating significant wedding anniversaries, 25th, 50th and so on. Since I was in my 25th year as a Christian Brother, I felt I somehow fit in with the crowd that was gathered, except that they were all dressed up for the occasion!
The homily was very touching, dealing with forgiveness and its importance if a marriage were to succeed. I applied it to life with the Brothers, as well. The couples were invited to come forward to renew their wedding vows, a very touching moment, especially for the older couples. The music was wonderful, the mood happy, and it was all in all a very uplifting experience.
After the service ended, the celebrant greeted each of the couples and posed for pictures. I decided to wait until the crowd had cleared so I could introduce myself to the priest and thank him for such a wonderful and surprising experience. I knew I was not in proper attire, but I was so moved by the service that I wanted express my thanks.
Since I was in a cathedral, I guessed the man was a bishop. I addressed him as such, and told him I was celebrating 25 years as a Christian Brother. He told me that he was not the bishop, but the administrator of the diocese, as they were awaiting the appointment of a new bishop.
His name was Father John Darragh, and he thanked me for my years of service. Then he surprised me. He said, “What are you doing for breakfast?” I replied (not too surprisingly) that I didn’t have anything planned. He suggested I accompany him and several other parish folks to a nearby restaurant, and I gratefully accepted his offer.
So the diocesan administrator, the pianist, and the homilist and I had a delightful Sunday brunch. We talked about many things, including the need for more Catholic education in their diocese.
Father Darragh was familiar with the Brothers from his travels around the U.S., and suggested that perhaps one day the Brothers could establish a school in Montana. I agreed that might be a good thing to hope for. Of course at the time, I was headed for Kenya, and didn’t even have a faint idea that one day I would return to help found De La Salle Blackfeet School.
Looking back, it seems prophetic that a priest who was a stranger could have been so kind to a smoky, grubby person unknown to him on that Sunday morning 14 years ago.
Father Darragh remains a friend to this day, and laughs when I remind him of his kindness back then and the unexpected consequence of it. One never knows when God will send a message, or what you will be wearing when he does.
De La Salle Blackfeet School is on the Blackfeet Reservation in Browning, Mont.
Tuition accounts for 3 percent of the school’s budget needs. For the rest, we rely on God’s Providence through our benefactors. Donations are welcome at: PO Box 1489, Browning, MT 59417.

Published in The Montana Catholic, Vol. 24, No. 2, February 15, 2008.