Hope's Imperfection

Chapter 7: Discovery

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to frighten you, but we do not get many visitors to this property,” the man explained.

I rose to my feet and stood next to Sarah. “My friend and I have been hiking most of the day. We were in search of the gravesite of one of my ancestors. We read that she may have been buried at this location,” I explained.

Sarah was impressed with my poise.

“I see. Please let me introduce myself: my name is Father Nash. I am a member of the Jesuit church in St. Ignace. This cemetery is no longer used; however, it is still church property, therefore we continue to maintain the grounds. Our maintenance staff was working over the weekend and I stopped by to make sure that the shed was locked. They are quite careless,” the man said.

“It seems we are the ones that are careless, Father Nash. I should have inquired about this cemetery in town and sought permission to enter the grounds. I feel I must apologize,” I confessed.

“Did you find your ancestor?” Father Nash asked.

“No, we didn’t,” I admitted.

“Well, perhaps I can help. I have a list of all of the internments back at the church. Why don’t I drive you back to town and we can look through the list together to see if you can find the name,” Father Nash offered.

“We would be so thankful if you would do so,” I answered.

I looked over to Sarah who was still shaking from the startle. To this point she was the one that had been street-smart and savvy. I was relishing the opportunity to take the lead in this encounter.

We walked back to the road and I held the back door of Father Nash’s Buick LeSabre open for Sarah. She smiled at me as a way of acknowledging that her trembling had subsided. I smiled back and got in the front seat beside Father Nash. A day’s walk was covered in a twenty-minute drive and we were soon back in town, ironically about five hundred feet from the diner where Sarah and I had eaten breakfast. On the drive there was the usual exchange of pleasantries, including where we were from, where we’d attended school, and what we were studying. I handled all of the questions with ease whereas Sarah became insular and guarded in her replies. Father Nash and I were getting along famously.

We entered the Catholic Church of St. Ignace. It was a glorious old building, and carved into the cornerstone of the church’s northwest corner was the year 1863, denoting its vintage. Father Nash led us slowly through the front doors of the church and we walked down the aisle splitting the pews.

“I detest church pews,” I whispered to Sarah, with a chuckle.

We passed by the lectern where the sermons were given and Father Nash led us through a back door into an area with several offices and adjoining rooms. The church was deceptively large.

“The internment list is in the library,” said Father Nash.

He opened up a door and revealed a grand library.  Part of the original building, the room was octagonal in design and contained thousands of leather-bound volumes. Sarah and I were awestruck at its grandeur.