My rule gave me the right to appeal to ecclesiastical authority for redress of grievances if I was not satisfied with the decision of my women superiors. So I next went to Archbishop Alexander Christie.
I told him of the wrongs which were causing me many heartaches and sorrows, and also the report the Superior General had told me she had heard so many years before. He told me that the Superior General had no right to handle me on reports she had heard before she had been in office, according to Church or Canon law. He said that I had made a vow of obedience and that the best thing I could do was to obey for the present and maybe he could do something for me later.
I had heard from priests about the justice of Archbishop Christie's Coadjutor, or Vicar General, as he is called, Monsignor Rauw, so I decided to go to him and see if he could intercede for me, or at least cause an investigation. He listened very intently and, seemingly, with much interest to my story of the injust treatment I was receiving, how I had spent so many years in the service of the community and church. In tears and sorrow I appealed to him to see that the right was done, not that I was complaining about my appointment to another mission, but I was complaining about my appointment to this particular mission on account of the climatic conditions, and in the manner in which I was being sent. There must have been some reason for all this—and I knew well what it was—but I could get no one to tell me so I could defend myself. When I had finished telling my story to this great "holy father," he stood up, and holding himself together with both hands, said, with much force, "In religion we have to make big sacrifices!"
Sacrifice! I was all but sacrificed then, and to get an answer like that from the last one I could appeal to for right! It is impossible to find words to express the feeling that came over me. My heart and very being became chilled. I shuddered at the very thought of religion. In my novitiate I had been taught that if at any time during my community life I would be in need of fatherly kindness and redress, I was free to go in all childlike simplicity to authorized priests or bishops. This was the first time in all my service to the church that I had asked anything of the priestly "fathers." It had always been my service and sacrificing for them. And now, when it was my turn to look for some assistance in my extreme oppression—when only a few words from any one of them would have caused the sun of justice to shine on my life—they stood by and did not say a word in my behalf.
"His watchmen are blind: they are all ignorant, they are all dumb dogs, they cannot bark; sleeping, lying down, loving to slumber. Yea, they are greedy dogs which can never have enough, and they are shepherds that cannot understand: they all look to their own way, every one for his gain, from his quarter. Come ye, say they, I will fetch wine, and we will fill ourselves with strong drink; and tomorrow shall be as this day, and much more abundant." (Isaiah, 56:10,12.)
In all my attempts for redress, the only word of encouragement I had received was from Archbishop Christie, who had said that he "might be able to do something for me later." But, as for the present, I could clearly see that nothing could be done, except for me to reconcile myself to my removal and go.
Remember, dear reader, that I had served eighteen years at St. Vincent's, and it had become as a home to me. Not only had eighteen years of my service been utilized in building this institution, but I had sold hundreds and hundreds of little cards to my friends and patients for five cents each, each card representing a brick in the building. More than that, I loved the work and had made hundreds of friends from every part of Oregon, administering to them in sickness. But laying all these things aside, I wanted to go and have it over with.
So I packed the wreck of a trunk that was assigned to me with what few belongings I had, stealing in a few forbidden books and pictures. In all cases of removals of sisters, the superior is supposed to examine the trunk, but for some reason, unknown to me, the superior did not examine mine, so I succeeded in keeping a great many little articles which otherwise I would not have.
During the last two days, I avoided meeting everyone possible for the final adieu, as the despotic and un-Christian manner of my removal was too sensibly present to me. The friends I did meet expressed great sympathy for me and often there was bitterness of tears from both of us. One of the leading physicians of the staff halted me near the main office, and in the presence of Sister Rita, told me that it was criminal to me after the years of service to that institution and at my years and poor health. He said that it was heartless and most un-Christian treatment. This little speech caused me to think differently of Protestants than I had in the past—that in the end I would rather go to the Protestant heaven than to ever again meet some of these "holy fathers and religious saints."
On July 26th, I left for Cranbrook in company with Mother Nazareth. On leaving St. Vincent's, I placed my arm over my eyes so that I could not see the sisters, or other friends, or even the building where I had lived so long. This was the first of many long, sad, sorrowful days for me.