The miracle of Sister Wilhelmina
On the eve of Pentecost, a sunny afternoon at the end of May, I stood at a gravesite watching my children carefully digging in the dry, crumbling earth, filling small containers with dirt to take home. It was one of those moments that would have been unimaginable a decade earlier, in my pre-Catholic life; but even though it no longer felt unthinkable it was still surreal.
Just 72 hours earlier I had never heard of Sister Wilhelmina Lancaster; or of the Benedictines of Mary, Queen of Apostles; or of Gower, Missouri, a tiny town less than three hours from my home. But then, on a weekend when some close friends from out of state were visiting, I got a text from a local friend with a link to a news article. Have you heard about this? I went to see her and it was amazing…
Our visitors had also heard the news, and we excitedly started discussing it. We read the story of a sister who was deeply devoted to her habit, who founded a new order at the age of 70, and who then lived another quarter of a century, working and praying. Her body was recently exhumed so she could be moved closer to the community’s oratory; and despite four years in a cracked wooden coffin buried in moist Missouri clay, her body was found intact. Perhaps just as incredible, the habit to which she had been so devoted was perfectly preserved. People were already calling her the first incorrupt African American woman.
We looked at each other around the table, awed by the story, unable to believe how close we were to something so momentous. And caught up in each other’s excitement we started to ask, What if we went?
Our friends had flown into town, and our own van wasn’t big enough to fit everyone, meaning we would have to acquire a last-minute rental car on a holiday weekend, without spending a fortune. “If you want us to come visit you,” we told Sister, “please make it happen.”
The first rental car reservation fell through almost immediately. When we made a second, no confirmation email arrived. The men went to the rental car location on Saturday morning nervous about their prospects, but hoping for the best; and then proceeded to watch with growing alarm as the man in front of them, who did have a confirmation email, was told apologetically that there was no car available for him. A panicked text went out: Pray! So we did, and the men were promptly handed a key to a rental car, ready and waiting for us.
As we caravaned through Nebraska, Iowa and Missouri, nervous excitement filled the car. We had left a little later in the day than I anticipated, and I was worried about the long lines we had been warned to expect. Could all of the children handle a long wait in the hot sun for a few seconds next to a dead body? Would they be frightened? What if we didn’t even make it in to see her on time, before Compline when all visitors were requested to leave? I tried to push the worries aside, because our journey felt inevitable. The plan we probably never would have hatched or followed through on if not for the fact that we had done it with friends, the available rental car that felt almost miraculous- we felt that we were being pulled toward Gower, something deeper than our own interests, curiosities or desires drawing us there.
As we drove up and down the steeply rolling, nearly-deserted country roads, lush green farmland stretching out in all directions, I started wondering if we were in the right place. Finally, at the end of a dusty gravel lane, we saw it- the roof of the abbey reaching into a clear blue sky. Large lots were set up for parking with volunteers from the nearby Catholic church directing cars; but there was nothing like the crowds we had been expecting. A volunteer pointed us toward the doors we should enter.
It felt like another miracle: there was no long line, no waiting in the sun. We entered an utterly unassuming basement room with an old tile floor, unadorned except for a statue of Our Lady at the far end. A handful of other people waited quietly on each side of the room, and in the center was the sister on a simple table, flowers on the floor at her feet. The room was hushed and still; even the babies and toddlers were quiet as they waited. I had a sense I usually experience only at Adoration, of stepping outside of time. The people waiting ahead of us took turns approaching the table and kneeling to pray and place rosaries on Sister’s body. No one seemed rushed, and no one seemed impatient. We just waited in silence.
Finally my family had our turn to approach the table and kneel. I placed my hand on Sister’s leg, feeling the solidity of it under my hand; and I marveled at the fabric of her habit, which looked like it could have been put on that morning. We placed our rosaries on her body and prayed quietly. I touched her hand, waxy and cool, before I walked away; and the memory that came to mind was of standing by my great-grandfather’s open casket as a young child. My grandmother stood beside him, holding his hand as she calmly talked to me about death, normalizing the experience of seeing a body.
Our friend commented on how he had been reminded of being with his own grandmother at her death. There was a sense of family unity, of being drawn together with our friends through making this pilgrimage with them, and of a family connection to Sister Wilhelmina. We hadn’t heard her name until a few days earlier, but we somehow felt that we knew her. She was familiar to us, and the simple intimacy of touching her felt natural.
We all looked at each other as we left the quiet room, overcome with a giddy sense of joy. None of us could stop smiling. Outside, we made our way across the abbey grounds to the grassy corner where a simple headstone bore Sister’s name and the dates of her birth and death. Like everything else we had witnessed, it was simple and unassuming.
As the children scrambled about getting dusty and dirty, leaning over so far they nearly toppled into the holes in the ground, it was not lost on me that at the close of the Easter season, we were standing beside an empty tomb. O death, where is thy sting; O grave, where is thy victory? The gaping ground brought to mind the words She is not here; she is risen- not yet physically, but in the spirit. The body we had just seen, whole in a way that defies human understanding, was a tangible reminder of the hope of the resurrection.
I knew I had been in the presence of something holy, something miraculous. What exactly that means, I can’t say. The sisters themselves are quick to point out that no cause for canonization has been opened; the five years typically required after death have not yet elapsed. Even once a cause has been opened, the path to canonization is a long and difficult one. I hope and expect that one day, maybe even in my lifetime, I will see Sister Wilhelmina’s cause for canonization opened and watch it advance; and I imagine showing my grandchildren the rosary that touched her body and telling them about the day I touched a future saint. But I also know that the gift and grace of being with her was more profound than having a great story to tell or a holy object to cherish. It was a deeper reminder than I ever expected to receive on earth that God made our bodies and souls and loves and cherishes the entire human person. Nearly all of us will experience physical decay; but that doesn’t mean it’s our final reality. “The dead shall rise again incorruptible,” St. Paul tells us. Incorruptibility, in the end, is not just for those we call Saints.
It’s for all of us.
Photos from the Catholic News Agency - https://www.catholicnewsagency.com/news/254441/thousands-visiting-sister-wilhelmina-body-gower-missouri
