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For All that We Have Done

by Father Eddie Fronske, OFM

It took a blow to the head to bring me around. It was my third concussion, and severe enough this time to slow me down and force some time away from routine activities. You know how when you are away from loved ones, you come to a deeper appreciation of them? It was like that for me and the Apaches of Whiteriver, Ariz.
 

St. Francis Church in Whiteriver has been home to me for more than 20 years. Here among the White Mountain Apaches, I have been honored and blessed to live with a deeply spiritual people.
The reservation land of the White Mountain Apache is spacious – 1.2 million acres – with many hills, lakes, streams, and mountains that reach up over 9,000 feet. It is a land of four distinct seasons, whose forests are filled with wild game and whose waters, with fish.

Forestry, cattle, a ski resort, and gaming are among the enterprises of the tribe. New housing projects are always appearing, and yet there is much poverty and unemployment. We are located in the Diocese of Gallup, the poorest diocese in the United States. Finances are a never-ending struggle and have been identified by the parish as our greatest ongoing challenge.

But back to the assault and to the blessings it made possible. My attacker was mentally ill but physically strong; I was forced to take time off to heal. In that time, I learned about reconciliation efforts that were being made in various places, including a ritual of forgiveness that is called “representational repentance.” This form of repentance brings representatives from conflicting groups together to express the forgiveness and healing that is needed.

When I returned to Whiteriver after nearly a year away, one of my first actions was to do a representational repentance with one of my parishioners. With a mediator present, I asked forgiveness of the Apaches, especially the Catholic Apaches, for anything I or any of my Franciscan predecessors had done to hurt them. The Apache representative forgave me and in turn asked forgiveness for anything that she or the Apaches had done to me and my predecessors. There were tears and healing, and a great peace.

Then I began having a healing Mass once a month. These have drawn people from near and far. Some Navajos traveled to Whiteriver for several of these Masses, and soon I was invited to visit their parish and celebrate a healing Mass. Little did I realize the fruit these Masses would bear.

At the first Apache-Navajo Mass, the Apache woman with whom I had reconciled stood before the gathered Navajo community at the penitential rite and said, “I would like to represent the White Mountain Apaches and ask you Navajos to forgive us for all that we have done to you in history.”
There was a stunned silence as the Navajos looked around at each other in wonder. Then a Navajo woman whose ancestors had been stolen and never returned by the Apaches, stood and spoke: “My sister, we forgive you. And on behalf of the Navajos, I ask you to forgive us for all that we have ever done to the White Mountain Apaches.”

Reconciliation continued to flow for an hour and a half, person after person standing to ask forgiveness. Military people asked, educators asked, and I asked for the Franciscans and Catholics, and even Navajos asked Navajos. The Eucharist, which has begun at six in the evening, ended at midnight.
Then, another Navajo parish invited us to come and the seeds of forgiveness and healing were planted anew!

Old Enemies and New Hearts

Based on these peacemakings, I finally knew how to respond to Franciscan Father David Beaumont, a Conventual friar living in the Sonoran mountains of Mexico. Father David has visited Whiteriver one day and had been sitting down by the river, where he was observed by two Apache women. After a while they approached him and said they could tell he was a spiritual man. He confessed to being both a priest and a Franciscan. They invited him to come and meet their own Franciscan priest and pastor – me!

Father David and I talked together for a long time. He told me how his people lived in very impoverished conditions, some with no electricity, running water, schools, or clinics, and that some still lived in caves.

I was most surprised, however, when he told me that his people, the pimas, continue to be afraid that the Apaches would come again to raid and kill. He said that a game the children play is “Quick – Hide, here come the Apaches!” When he left my heart was sad and heavy. But now, on the way home from the healing Mass in Navajo territory, I was confident there was something that could be done.
I talked among friends and decided to write Father David and tell him that we were ready to come to the Pimas and ask forgiveness. His letter of reply assured me that the governor of the Pimas would welcome the Apaches to their country.

Preparations were begun: money from benefactors and parishioners was saved, gifts were purchased, and, finally, plane tickets. We were ready.

In April of 2000, five of us headed for Mexico. We flew to Hermosillo and were met by Father David for some friars in formation. For six and a half hours we traveled in the back of a cattle truck through the plains and mountains of Sonora. We were stopped once by the military and questioned. One of the Apache women was shaken by this stop, maybe carrying in her blood the memory of a time when her ancestors had been stopped or pursued by the cavalry.

We arrived in Yecora around midnight, tired, cold and grateful. “Sleep well, but quickly,” Father David encouraged. “We start early in the morning.”

Early it was indeed when the alarm summoned us. I stumbled into the dining room. Several Pima had also gathered for breakfast. There was a young Pima girl sitting across from me at the table. “Buenos días, señorita,” I said. “¿Como se llama?” No answer; just a shy look. Again I asked her name, and again was stared at silently. I thought maybe she didn’t speak Spanish, so I talked with some others.

Then Father David came in and greeted us, told us to finish up, that we had two villages to visit that day. Then he introduced those who were there. He said, pointing to the young Pima girl: “This is Carmela. She is 12, her parents are dead, and she lives on a ranch by herself.”

Carmela had heard that the Apaches were coming to ask for forgiveness, and she walked for six hours through the forest, alone, to get to her relatives’ house; then she walked two hours more with them to get to the road to catch a bus to come here!

I was amazed. If this was how much they wanted reconciliation, I could face the fear that had begun to creep into my bones. I could do whatever was necessary in the days ahead, no matter what.

Soon we were piling again into our beloved cattle truck and were off to the first of four villages that we would visit in those two days. On the outskirts of the village, we got off and Father David instructed us to wait there until we heard the people singing and saw them walking toward us. We were given a picture of the Good Shepherd and told to walk with it to the Pimas, who would be carrying a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe. When we met we were to raise the two pictures and then walk together to the church.

As we heard and saw the people coming toward us, the tears welled up in my eyes. Those salty drops would be frequent visitors throughout the two days! Little children broke ranks and ran up to us, staring at us as if we were from another planet. More tears! The raised picture of the Shepherd and Our Lady met overhead and we continued beneath them on our way to church.

Once inside the little chapel, with benches around the sides – they dance during the Eucharist – Father David prayed, read from scripture, and then shared the story of his visit to Whiteriver. I was asked to share why we were there. I talked about the reconciliation with the Navajos and our desire to be forgiven by the Pimas.

We stood in that tiny chapel and faced five Pimas who stood opposite us. In their native language, the Apaches asked forgiveness of the Pimas for all the killing and stealing and hurts of the past. Then in their own language, the Pimas responded, forgiving us and asking forgiveness for the ways they had killed and hurt the Apaches.

My tears were not alone. We made a formal greeting of peace, shared our gifts, and danced three songs. Smiles had replaced the frowns and fear and our hearts were flooded with peace. Ancient enemies had become brothers and sisters, crying with each other, blessing each other.

Then it was on to the next village, Los Pilares. The same ceremony was celebrated there, except within the context of the Mass. We were shown where Apaches had camped in some of their raids and saw a cave that had been home to some of their attackers. They shared their food with us, and we prayed with them for rain upon their parched land.

The next day, before we left for two or more visits, we wanted to present a special gift we had brought, a doll from the daughter of one of the White Mountain Apaches. “Give this dolly to one of the Pima children,” the child had instructed her mother. We chose Carmela, but I wasn’t able to be there when the doll was presented to her. So before boarding the truck, I said to her, “Carmela, I want to see your dolly. I haven’t seen it yet.” The silent stare appeared. “Carmela, I want to see the dolly. . . Carmela, this truck isn’t moving until I see your dolly.”

A slight smile crept into the stare. “We’re not moving, Carmela.” She went and got the doll and showed it to me. “Ah, such a pretty dolly,” I said. “Now Carmela, take care of that dolly. I don’t want it crying in the truck while we travel.” The slight smile yielded to one that was full and beaming. Finally! From then on, every time I looked at Carmela, I was blessed with that beautiful smile.

Off we went to the third village, Juan Diego, a two-hour drive deeper into the mountains. Father David said that this was one of the most poor of the villages, and that 12 other villages would also be represented here.

When we arrived and preparations had begun, Father David invited me to come and meet someone. Rosa was an older woman, and when David introduced us she just looked at me – but it was enough to make me jump. I had seen that kind of wildness in only one other person. David said, “Her name in the village is ‘the wild one.’” When he told her that I had come with the Apaches, her eyes flared. “You brought the Apaches?! The Apaches are in our village?!”

I saw the ancient terror of which Father David had spoken. He explained how we had come to ask for forgiveness and peace and that he wanted her to come to the ceremony. In disbelief she walked away from us and into her humble little house. I was shaken, no longer by her eyes, but by the depth of her fear.

We rejoined our group and began walking toward the Pimas. We met on a hill, greeted each other with the raising of the pictures, and then headed down to a little church. I kept looking back to see if Rosa was coming. Father David said, “You really want her to come, don’t you?” I did. He assured me she’d come, and just before we stepped into the church I saw her exit her house and begin walking toward us.

When she arrived we were all seated, and there was only one space left – next to an Apache woman. Rosa desperately looked for someone to move over, but they just pointed to the empty place. She walked slowly and carefully to the place and sat down – and didn’t dare to move. How could she know that she was sitting next to one of the most loving and gentle of Apache women?

The ceremony began. Once again, when we stood, five Pimas stood across from us. Standing across from me, the one with whom I’d share the greeting of peace and gift, was Rosa.

The tears that flowed in that church nearly ended their drought. We each shared, and the guitarist of the two days was one of the five Pima representatives. When he spoke, I knew that I could die then and there as a fulfilled and blessed man. He said, “I want to thank you Apaches for coming to ask forgiveness of us. Now we must go and ask forgiveness of our enemies.” To be honored to witness such a moment, such days, was almost more than I could handle.

Father David told us that the Tara Jumara were those enemies. The Pimas had long taught their children that the Tara Jumara children were born from dogs. No more! We danced the victory of reconciliation. Several women stood on the sides holding their babies. Would they trust us with their babies?

I wondered. I danced up to one of the women with my hands outstretched to her little one. This infant put out her arms and was immediately in mine, dancing the victory too. Ahh, she fell asleep on my shoulder! I returned the child at the end of the dance, but then danced with another, and he too fell asleep in my arms. God knows so well how to melt me.

It was Rosa who climbed into the truck with us as we headed for the last village! This was the home of the governor and his wife, and would be our last and most festive ceremony. We were dropped off at a bend in the road in what seemed to be the heart of nowhere. “I knew you’d do this, David, drop us deep in ‘enemy’ territory,” I joked. “We’ll send someone to call you,” he said, smiling.

Soon after, a young woman came around the bend and invited us to start walking toward the village. We followed her around the bend and saw hundreds of people walking towards us, singing and carrying a banner that said: “Welcome Apaches. God lives in those who forgive.”

The people were dressed in their finest, and their church was humbly but beautifully decorated. After the ritual picture greeting, as we started for the church, I told Father David, “And all we did was come to say we’re sorry!” David looked at me with his healing smile and reminded me: “God is good!”

Once inside the church, the ceremony began, including Eucharist. The governor and his wife were among the five Pima representatives who faced us. He told us that we would be guests at his house if ever we returned. At the end of Mass, he asked a favor. “Would you come to our old church, now a museum, and sing one of your songs and dance your dance? You have danced our dances – we want to be able to tell the people that the Apaches came, sang and danced their songs here in our old church.”
Of course we danced, tears streaming from our eyes. Then I explained the song and how to dance our dance. And many of the Pimas got up and danced with us. Yes, David, God is so good!

The next day, we said our goodbyes and returned home. None of us would ever be the same. I’m told that the Pimas have not had a single murder in their nation since our visit.
Sometimes it takes a blow to the head to slow me down and help me to hear God in new ways. Pray with me for the man who hit me, and for this wonderful Whiteriver parish where repentance and forgiveness are alive and well.

Father Eddie Fronske is pastor of St. Francis Church in Whiteriver, Ariz. In addition to his work with the people of Whiteriver, Father Eddie guides retreats throughout the Province of St. Barbara. This article is printed with permission from “The Way of St. Francis.” Visit them at www.sbfranciscans.org. Photos courtesy of Fr. Eddie Fronske and David Elliott.

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