The intercom phone rang. It was Colleen. “Father, there are two men here. One of them wants to talk to you.”
“OK, sure. Send them down.”
I was alone at my desk. After a while I heard the door open. It was very quiet. I rolled my chair around so I could see. The taller man was Delano Renville, an old friend, a great man in the community. On his arm was another, bent and pale, but eager. I didn’t know him.
I have a hide-away corner in my office. A place surrounded by relics of Elders, other men and women whose spirits upheld the traditions of the tribe. At the Memorials, one year after death, families have given us monks pieces of clothing and prayer pieces that the deceased had worn and prayed with. They are here for us to keep, so we do not forget.
When we have serious things to talk about I lead my visitors to this small sheltered place. The quiet overcomes them. They remember, “Uncle had that.” And “Unci (my grandma) used that a lot.” We are immediately in another world. What is said here is said in the presence of the Holy. What is said here, stays here. Sins are remitted and bad memories unlocked. They float away, gone, like a sigh. Young and old making the AA 5th Step start slowly. Their life has been a life of secret guilt, but the sacredness of the Elders in the Memorials takes them back to their innocence.
This tiny niche is a convenient place in which to find the peace for dying, too.
Delano helped his friend to a soft chair. “Father, this is my life-long friend, Paul. We did all kinds of things together, and now we want to come here and be with you a while and talk.”
Paul had not yet said a word. He was still working to get his breath. His eyes passed over every item around us. He was listening and waiting for the appropriate moment to begin his story.
“Paul used to be very healthy. Now he has blood cancer, and he knows he is dying. Once he was ozuya wicasta, as we say, a real warrior, one who really took care of the poor and the little ones. We made him the commander of our Legion Post. Then when he couldn’t do it any more, he saw to it that I got to be the commander. I am doing for him what he did for a lot of our warriors. We know that we are not always going to be strong, so, as long as we can, we take care of each other. We are not Catholic, but he know you men, and we, that is Paul and I, want you to bless him before he gets too weak and dies without knowing it.”
Now Paul was ready. His was a long story and a stern and upright one. The Dakota word tahansi, cousin or close-knit-brother, was a weighty obligation for him, when he became tahansi for someone in times of need or distress. Paul had many true friends in return, and Delano was prepared to give Paul all the honors that a true warrior deserved.
In the end, I do what I always do. Protestants or Catholics, I think, like to have a token, solid and trustworthy, of a ceremony, when it is performed for them. Right at my elbow are Benedictine medals. I explain the medal. It has a short bit of red yarn tied to it, so you can find it quickly at your bedpost or in your billfold.
I think medals are to be used; they need a string for easy retrieval.
“Father,” said Paul, “this morning I felt awful. Then Delano came, and we came here. Now I feel wonderful. I wish I could honor you some way. All I can do is pray over you the way you prayed over me. And I’ll do that.”
I told Paul, and made sure that Delano heard me well. “Paul, when you are going to die, please call me first. I want to come right away.” It was agreed.
Three weeks later the call came. “Paul wants you.” Paul had been moved to his daughter’s house. He could no longer do anything for himself. He was in a big chair, with a blanket.
“Father, I’m not going to take all that blood any more. It don’t do me any good, except for a couple of days. Bless me again.” This we did.
“Father, I’m going like I came. I left the house for the last time. This pants and shirt is all I have. I didn’t even bring my shoes when I came here to my girl’s place. I am ready and all of you” he looked around “made it that way for me.”
He tried to stand. They helped him. He stood as tall as he could. He raised his hand, put it to his head and saluted, as sharply as an old weary warrior can. Ozuya wicasta; remember Paul Robertson.