the red-headed woman who happened to be the finest Nun I have ever met:
A LIGHT DRIZZLE FELL THROUGH THE DAY...
CLOUDS MOVED SLOWLY THROUGH THE SKY. An empty hearse from the Chausee Funeral Home came down the road making a test-run along Hahn Street for the future burials at the cemetery up on the hill, as I stood watching it slowly moving back-and-forth in the strange chill of morning, certain that before it was over the funeral home would have a lot more customers.
Including people that I had known and loved.
If you had been in an airplane on the day before that particular day, it would have looked like the same old plains of central Colorado at the base of the Front Range; the green placid rectangles running off to the east and west, some toward the Black Forest, as if the earth were celebrating the arrival of spring; with farm houses and small hills and cattle decorating its face; morning mists lacing the low hills. It was late May in 1964 that I had arrived in this serene setting.
But on this particular morning in early June, I only saw standing water in the streets and the skeletons of small buildings that had been washed away by torrents of falling rain. I was the pastor of Saint Paul's Evangelical Lutheran Church in the town of Calhan, Colorado who was now looking at a countryside of farms reduced to rubble; great gaping holes along the streets filled with remnants of rain; plywood and tin covering shattered windows; and people in mourning the loss of relatives who only the night before had giggling children and women cooking supper in homes that felt safe and warm.
Then the rains came.
Now 13 of them were missing and presumed dead.
And the tedious search had begun to see if there were more.
Throughout the night, men and women and children hauled huge sandbags to serve as barricades against gaping holes, chairs and tables at the local diner had been set inside, and everyone was fighting against the gusts of wind and the torrents of the still falling rain. Women had been extraordinary in preparing food in church kitchens around the town; as were the children, who brought the food wearing galoshes and raincoats to those who were filling the bags full of sand. Across the street under the protection of the diner's front porch , a knot of older men were brewing hot coffee on a camp stove and filling paper cups full for those standing in line awaiting something hot to fill their stomachs before they returned to the filling of the bags.
But the women on the sandbag line were firebrands, led by a red-haired, tight-lipped young woman who gripped the filled bags and tossed them with both hands into the gaping holes of the streets, and flipping back her hair against the drizzle of rain, as she said in an obvious Irish brogue: Have at it, Ladies! We may wear skirts, but we're as good as any man here!
She happened to be a Nun by the name of Sister Mary Louise from Saint Micheal's Catholic Church. She talked about the need of speed, that God would not allow rain to drive people out of their homes, "and that only can happen if we allow it to happen. So let's not go out without a fight. I doubt if God cares all that much for lazy losers!" She then looked directly up at me and said: Don't just stand there lookin' at me, Lutheran Preacher or not, lend me a hand! I don't care if you are not a Catholic because I'm sure there may be sinners in my family too..."
So we worked side-by-side throughout the rest of the night; and as we filled sandbags, she talked about growing up in Omaha, Nebraska, that her name was once Mary Louise Murphy, of the first and only boyfriend she ever had who she eventually dumped, about being bored in an accounting class at Creighton University, and eventually coming to the conclusion that becoming a nun was her cup-of-tea, not only because she was Irish, but because the mere thought of it totally filled her with insane joy. She smiled and said, My Father always said: When you find something that you love, walk through the door and go for it. Which was exactly what I did...
We continued to fill bags and when the dawn eventually came, she asked if I would mind listening to her prayer and when I said, Not at all, we both bowed our heads and she began to pray: We have friends, dear Lord. They are lost and we want nothing to happen to them. We want them to come back with their minds and bodies safe and sound. We don't want anything to happen to them because the loss of a friend or family is like a stab in the heart. Amen.
I was thinking of her words of prayer as I watched the empty hearse making test-runs up and down Hahn Street in the chill of that morning, when I spotted her slowly trudging through the mud and up the lavender-colored hill in my direction, her red-hair dancing as she walked, a smile etched firmly on her lips; she said when she got up to me: Our prayer has been answered. All 13 of them are safe and sound, just like we asked. They had taken refuge in the Kosley family barn. Perhaps I misjudged you Lutherans, it looks as if God answers your prayers too.
She gave me a wink...
...A hug...
...And a smile...
...As she added: Thank you for praying with me, Pastor. I appreciated it. Oh - I almost forgot - another thing I've been thinking about is asking God if He wouldn't mind giving me a whirl at the Sahara Desert on my next assignment, or at least someplace where there isn't any water for miles-and-miles around, except for an oasis or two, of course. Even Nuns need to bathe and brush their teeth, you know...
Including people that I had known and loved.
If you had been in an airplane on the day before that particular day, it would have looked like the same old plains of central Colorado at the base of the Front Range; the green placid rectangles running off to the east and west, some toward the Black Forest, as if the earth were celebrating the arrival of spring; with farm houses and small hills and cattle decorating its face; morning mists lacing the low hills. It was late May in 1964 that I had arrived in this serene setting.
But on this particular morning in early June, I only saw standing water in the streets and the skeletons of small buildings that had been washed away by torrents of falling rain. I was the pastor of Saint Paul's Evangelical Lutheran Church in the town of Calhan, Colorado who was now looking at a countryside of farms reduced to rubble; great gaping holes along the streets filled with remnants of rain; plywood and tin covering shattered windows; and people in mourning the loss of relatives who only the night before had giggling children and women cooking supper in homes that felt safe and warm.
Then the rains came.
Now 13 of them were missing and presumed dead.
And the tedious search had begun to see if there were more.
Throughout the night, men and women and children hauled huge sandbags to serve as barricades against gaping holes, chairs and tables at the local diner had been set inside, and everyone was fighting against the gusts of wind and the torrents of the still falling rain. Women had been extraordinary in preparing food in church kitchens around the town; as were the children, who brought the food wearing galoshes and raincoats to those who were filling the bags full of sand. Across the street under the protection of the diner's front porch , a knot of older men were brewing hot coffee on a camp stove and filling paper cups full for those standing in line awaiting something hot to fill their stomachs before they returned to the filling of the bags.
But the women on the sandbag line were firebrands, led by a red-haired, tight-lipped young woman who gripped the filled bags and tossed them with both hands into the gaping holes of the streets, and flipping back her hair against the drizzle of rain, as she said in an obvious Irish brogue: Have at it, Ladies! We may wear skirts, but we're as good as any man here!
She happened to be a Nun by the name of Sister Mary Louise from Saint Micheal's Catholic Church. She talked about the need of speed, that God would not allow rain to drive people out of their homes, "and that only can happen if we allow it to happen. So let's not go out without a fight. I doubt if God cares all that much for lazy losers!" She then looked directly up at me and said: Don't just stand there lookin' at me, Lutheran Preacher or not, lend me a hand! I don't care if you are not a Catholic because I'm sure there may be sinners in my family too..."
So we worked side-by-side throughout the rest of the night; and as we filled sandbags, she talked about growing up in Omaha, Nebraska, that her name was once Mary Louise Murphy, of the first and only boyfriend she ever had who she eventually dumped, about being bored in an accounting class at Creighton University, and eventually coming to the conclusion that becoming a nun was her cup-of-tea, not only because she was Irish, but because the mere thought of it totally filled her with insane joy. She smiled and said, My Father always said: When you find something that you love, walk through the door and go for it. Which was exactly what I did...
We continued to fill bags and when the dawn eventually came, she asked if I would mind listening to her prayer and when I said, Not at all, we both bowed our heads and she began to pray: We have friends, dear Lord. They are lost and we want nothing to happen to them. We want them to come back with their minds and bodies safe and sound. We don't want anything to happen to them because the loss of a friend or family is like a stab in the heart. Amen.
I was thinking of her words of prayer as I watched the empty hearse making test-runs up and down Hahn Street in the chill of that morning, when I spotted her slowly trudging through the mud and up the lavender-colored hill in my direction, her red-hair dancing as she walked, a smile etched firmly on her lips; she said when she got up to me: Our prayer has been answered. All 13 of them are safe and sound, just like we asked. They had taken refuge in the Kosley family barn. Perhaps I misjudged you Lutherans, it looks as if God answers your prayers too.
She gave me a wink...
...A hug...
...And a smile...
...As she added: Thank you for praying with me, Pastor. I appreciated it. Oh - I almost forgot - another thing I've been thinking about is asking God if He wouldn't mind giving me a whirl at the Sahara Desert on my next assignment, or at least someplace where there isn't any water for miles-and-miles around, except for an oasis or two, of course. Even Nuns need to bathe and brush their teeth, you know...
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