At the Old Mission

My in-laws used to live in North Dakota. On our way to visit a couple times, we stopped at Old Mission State Park in Cataldo, Idaho. The mission (which was founded by Jesuits in the early 1850s) sits atop a beautiful, grassy hill. As a Christian, it is a testament to the sacrifices God’s people have made to spread the message of Jesus. As a person, I am always touched by the meditative quiet, the lovely old buildings, and the sense that I am walking into an echo.

Our last visit to this park inspired the poem below. My fourth book, The Anonymity of Waiting, will include this poem when I self-publish it in 2024.

At the Old Mission

At the old mission,
a tour guide explains everything: 
the arrangement of the buildings, 
teepees placed where Indians might’ve camped,
and native petroglyphs 
on larger rocks around the grounds.

Inside, our guide mediates 
mysteries carved or painted on the walls,
rehearses the uses of sacred vessels, and 
expounds behind a lectionary
that props up a ragged missal.

Some of us follow the brochure—
chapter and verse—
nodding our heads as he talks.

We venture to the simple sacristy 
where he holds replicas of
200 year old vestments 
in front of his khaki uniform,
becoming a photo stand-in 
of an 1800s Jesuit priest.

Returning to the sanctuary,
our guide invites a girl
in pigtails and Fruit Stripe tights
to climb into the confessional
where her stuffed monkey 
chatters through the privacy screen.
A tide of low chuckling carries us outside.

The tour concludes where it started:
in the visitor’s center.

Our tour guide
gives a slight bow with namaste hands
and leaves us to the meagre souvenirs:
a book of local history,
collectible pens, keychains, and mugs.
We glance at them on our way out
to the parking lot,
dropping brochures in a box
marked with the recycling symbol
by the door.