When I went to Indiana to take the course on the Trail of Death Pilgrimage, I had only been here at St. Jacobs for 2 weeks. In those 2 weeks we’d had camping, baptisms, new members, a leadership council meeting and 2 funerals. To say it was a whirlwind introduction to ministry, is an understatement. I had only barely begun to meet and get to know Mark and Janet, and all of you. I knew that this community would soon feel like home, but it didn’t yet. I felt like a fish out of water- everything done just slightly differently than what I was used to, with names just slightly different than I was used to, and different personalities from those I was used to. I was also unprepared for the way I would grieve leaving the congregation that had raised me up into leadership.
Whenever I would tell someone that my summer plans included a pilgrimage course in Indiana, following the “Trail of Death,” I’d usually receive one of 2 responses: “You must mean the Trail of Tears,” (which is actually an entirely separate forced migration of Indigenous people through the midwest, though it was equally treacherous and deadly) or “oh… sounds like a bummer!” Not having much context of American history, I wasn’t really sure how to respond because I just didn’t understand the significance of the trail, or the impact it would have on the Indigenous communities across the continent.
To begin, The Trail of Death refers to the 600 mile migration of the Potowatomi people, by military force, primarily on foot, from the damp, woodlands of Indiana to the open, dry, prairies of Kansas. The shift in landscape is dramatic. You’ll see in the photos that we begin our travels with tall, old trees and streams to cool our feet. One afternoon we ate our lunch in the shade of a willow grove, in a little gully beside some enormous, beautiful houses. The Potowatomi would have been hunting, foraging and collecting water to supplement the dry military rations they were given along the way. Being woodland people, they were adept at using the tall, old trees to find clean water sources. As they progressed along the trail, one of the most deadly challenges they faced was dehydration and starvation.
As the landscape changed, the woodland skills became less and less useful, until eventually, there were only wide open fields of grasses with unfamiliar animals to hunt, foreign berries and plants to eat, and of course, no cool, clean streams to drink from. Exhaustion, Typhoid and violence were also rampant among the Potowatomi. Pregnant women were forced to give birth to their children in camps or in bumpy cargo wagons, neither of which were adequately sanitary, and many mothers and babies died in the process. The elders, many of whom were the respected leaders of the Potowatomi, and the children were the most vulnerable to illness, accident, and exhaustion which killed people almost daily. The physical realities of the trail were horrendous.
While there were many lessons I learned about grief and stories of leadership along the way, I want to first share the litany of remembrance we would recite at every encampment marker along the trail. This was meant to embody remembrance, offering words of honour and commitments to peace, and sometimes leaving small markers of our presence like small stones, tobacco or tiny wild strawberries.
However I cannot forget the Emotional realities that also faced the Potawatomi people. This long journey began when soldiers took advantage of the potawatomi’s Devotion to the Catholic Church among them. The military chose to Ambush them while they were attending a Sunday morning service, trapping them and forcing them to begin this journey with very little but the clothes on their back. The fact that a church service was used to manipulate the entire people group into cooperation with the military relocation tugs and my heart. I can’t help but empathize with the priest in the community, father petite. Father Petit was a young, inexperienced priest, in his first placement. He ministered to the Potawatomi people with enthusiasm and new creative ideas, like learning their language as well as teaching them English, and immersing himself in their culture, rather than. Every day, we read the journals that Father Petit kept as a record of his time among the Potawatomi, Beginning just before the Potawatomi were forced to walk the trail of death.
I think I empathize so much with Father Petit, because I myself had also just begun my first post with enthusiasm and not much experience. It is easy to look back now and read the journals and understand the implicit racism and cultural bias that father Petit carried, however at the time, his ideas and approach would have been revolutionary. Similarly, I’m sure I will look back from the future, and see all of the ways my own attitude is colored by my bias and in need of change. Part of what drew me to Father Petit, was his willingness and insistence, in joining his charges as they were forced to march the trail of death. 2 weeks ago, Marilyn Rudy-Froese shared with us all the ways that pastors are called to be set apart from their congregations. However, I was struck in this story by all the ways that Father Petit chose to see himself as no different than his congregation.
Father Petit, being a white man, a Catholic priest, and a settler had no reason to find himself walking the trail of death, other than his show of solidarity and identification with his congregation in their hardship. I would hazard to say that it was Father Petit’s willingness to find himself equal to those he was serving that most demonstrated the gospel Among the Potawatomi. Father Petit’s story of his service and Ministry, has had a profound effect on how I personally view the calling of a pastor. He used his privilege and position of authority among the government and military officials to advocate for Humane treatment, adequate rest and religious freedom of the Potawatomi during their months-long walk. Father Pettit would go on to continue administering the sacraments and rituals of the Catholic Church to the Potawatomi that’s so chose it, and he would be instrumental in ensuring that a Sabbath each week was observed not only so that the Potawatomi could attend church, but so that they may have a day of rest during a grueling and terrifying Journey. He would attend to the sick, give last rights, baptize, council, and comfort his people, which for me, is the epitome of the shepherd caring for and protecting his flock. About 2/3 of the way through the Journey, Father Petit would contract typhoid and his health would decline rather rapidly. He would die not long after, while being carried on horseback by a Potawatomi man trying to get him To the nearest town in search of medical help. What greater love is there than this: to lay down one’s life for your friends.
I am acutely aware of the fact that our only written account of this harrowing migration is by Father Petit, a white priest sent to evangelize the Potowatomi, and the exceedingly brief military reports that simply stated the number of deaths, the rations available, the distance traveled, any notable conflict, and the overall physical condition of the group. The knowledge we have is so limited, and any first hand stories from the Potowatomi have only been shared through oral history, passed down through the generations within families. I wish that I could highlight the voices of the Potowatomi survivors that have gone on to establish a thriving community that invests in the education and heritage of the younger generations, that honours the earth in how they rehabilitate Eagles in their sanctuary, and that remembers the generations that have gone before them.
However, perhaps the most important part of what I learned along this pilgrimage is the importance of remembering, especially as an intentional and active part of grief and of honouring our ancestors. This is where this morning’s ritual comes in. I first came across it when author Sarah Bessey shared how her spiritual director had given her this ritual to help her to not push away her feelings of grief, sadness or fear, but to offer her a physical place to put them. In adding the salt she would recognize the feelings, allow herself to feel them, then release them with the salt, into the bottle in which God collects our tears.
As I researched this ritual, I came across the blog of a pastor that talked about our verse that refers to God collecting our Tears In A Bottle. He described an ancient practice of using tear bottles to collect tears of grief, to be buried with a person one is grieving. In other instances he described a tear bottle being used to collect the tears of a grieving person, then allowed to evaporate over time. When the bottle was dry, the morning period had ended. And yet a third way he described this practice was for empty tear bottles to be offered at times of Celebration, with the intention of them being filled in times of grief, and the precious tears saved as a reminder that our grief and our joy are always present.
When we apply this to the imagery of God collecting our tears in a bottle, We see a creator that holds our tears, the very suffering of humanity, as precious. He is not letting our tears evaporate and the mourning period to end, but rather remembering us, remembering our pain, and in so doing, honoring it.
Before my job had even been posted, I had the chance to interview Renee Sauder who grew up here, about her early church experiences and how that led her to ministry. One of her descriptions of her childhood here was that she would look around the congregation and knew there wasn’t a person there that she didn’t love. There have been a few times in the last 5 months that I have had the same experience. I am a person that is generally quick to love and slow to let go, but even so, I have been happily surprised by my comfort here.
So I hope that in the midst of a world that feels too heavy to bear alone, may we be remembered and remember others. May we know that the shepherd that is taking care of us also holds each of our tears in a bottle; that our suffering matters to them. May we honour the grief contained within our hearts, and find the space to release it into the creator’s care. AMEN