The Mayflower pilgrims arrived in America on November 21, 1620. Squanto, the real hero of our Thanksgiving, has a 400 year-old tale of survival in a pandemic.

Thanksgiving by Fr Gordon MacRae

Editor’s Note: The following post was written by Father Gordon MacRae in November 2020, a time when all Thanksgiving became a challenge under the weight of a global pandemic. Nonetheless, there is cause for Thanksgiving here.

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The autumnal equinox brought trial after trial to us behind these stone walls. My litany of woes will follow, but if you have been reading my posts you know I cannot let “autumnal equinox” pass by without comment. The equinox occurs twice each year when the Sun crosses the celestial equator resulting in equal day and night on Earth. In the Northern Hemisphere, this happened on September 22 marking the autumnal equinox. The term comes from the Latin, “aequinoctium” for “equal night.”

But for me, the equinox brought forth more night than day. I’ll get to the point in a moment. My friend, Father George David Byers often chides me for being too subtle when I write. He says that most people want to get right to the point without being led to it through the labyrinthine ways of one of my posts. That’s another really cool word. It refers to a maze. The word was first used in Greek mythology to refer to a maze built by Daedalus for Minos, King of Crete. In the Greek myth, Daedalus and his son, Icarus were imprisoned there, but escaped with wings made of wax. Icarus flew too close to the Sun and perished.

The word was also used by Francis Thompson in the first verses of one of my favorite epic poems, “The Hound of Heaven,”

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind;
And in the midst of tears, I hid from Him.
And under running laughter, up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated, adown Titanic glooms
Of chasmed fears, from those strong Feet.
That followed, followed after.

I never tire of reading these verses, but the rest seems a chore, a stark reminder of where I have spent the last 30 American Thanksgivings. The next verse reminds me too much of prison:

I stand amid dust of the mounded years —
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled, and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sunstarts on a stream.
Yea, faileth now even to dream.

But I have thwarted Francis Thompson on one point. I still dream, even when I wish I did not. Like what Fr. Byers says of my writing, my dreams are too subtle, and leave me pondering them for days to come. I shared a strange one with you a few years ago, a time that now seems far older. That post was, “Prison Journal: A Midsummer Night’s Midlife Crisis.” It was a haunting dream in which I returned to where I started religious life some 48 years ago as a Capuchin. Strangely, Pornchai Moontri, my friend of the present, was with me there. I realized only days later that the dream took place early in the morning of August 17, the day I professed first vows as a Capuchin.

And I realize only now that at the time I was professing my first vows, Pornchai was two years old and had just been abandoned by both his parents whose lives had fallen apart. Pornchai was left to find food in streets, and was treated for severe malnutrition. The echoes of our lives resonate through these dreams. That one ended when Pornchai and I left Mass to start down a long winding path. “Where are we going?” he asked.

I bring this up again because I more recently suffered through a sequel to that same dream. It was a continuation of it. Pornchai was gone and I walked alone on that same path. I was back in my Capuchin habit with the large wooden rosary we once wore hanging from my cincture. I was troubled that the rosary was too long. The crucifix at the end of it was dragging along the ground as I walked. When I bent down to pick it up, I was startled to see that the Body of Christ was gone. I had to go back to find Him, but I was frozen in place not knowing how far back I would have to go. I decided that I will just have to carry the cross for the rest of the way.

Trials That Came with the Fall

With the autumnal equinox, all the trials came at once. Father George David Byers wrote of some of them recently in his post, “Censoring the Already Censored: That Hurts Bad.” A BTSW reader kindly sent me a printed copy. I was grateful for the effort, but his title was not subtle enough. Nonetheless, it was all true, and even a little cryptic where it needed to be.

My writing over the years helped to develop a wonderful team from the United States, Thailand, and Australia that came together to assist my friend, Pornchai. His story is seen as one of the most amazing accounts of grace, conversion, and redemption ever to appear in print. Our team worked hard to prepare for his repatriation to Thailand. “Repatriation” is the nice word that we use to cover up the hard truth of it. He is being expelled from the United States as a criminal alien. “Send me your tired, and your poor, and your huddled masses yearning to be free,” and we will put them in cages until we can throw them out.

It was not long before the American disdain for the stranger and alien in our midst developed into a profitable business for some. “Profit” means that some private enterprise has taken over a task of government, and then stretched it out to strengthen the bottom line. After leaving me on this path on September 8, 2020, Pornchai was told by his ICE detention handlers that he would be in Thailand by the end of September. Then they misplaced his travel documents and he would leave by the end of October.

Then nothing — absolutely nothing — was done to arrange travel for him. He had seven different ICE handlers in seven weeks, each one starting from scratch, seemingly clueless about what came before or what comes next. The final one seemed at least professional and sympathetic, but the 90-day travel documents issued by his Consulate were left to expire on November 10, and we were left to start over. Meanwhile, Pornchai was living eight to a room, then forty to a room, and then eighty to a room. He was held in captivity a full five months after his prison sentence was served in full.

Funds I was saving for Pornchai’s future were rerouted to pay for his survival. Food is sold to detainees at hugely inflated prices. Telephone calls are eleven cents per minute. All the hopes Pornchai left here with began to fade. Our daily phone call, so necessary for his survival, became a daily pep talk while I struggled to really believe all that I was telling him, and he struggled to believe as well. ICE detention is a one-size-fits-all American horror story.

No nation can survive with open borders through which anyone can enter at will. Only the most clueless radical would advocate for such a thing. But ICE and the for-profit concentration camps that feed off it are not the American way. This is not a nightmare of four years in the making. This is a nightmare that has evolved since September 11, 2001. Justice Sonia Sotomayor, President Barack Obama’s appointee to the Supreme Court, went on record with a majority opinion that any foreign national who commits a crime on U.S. soil is subject to rapid removal. I hope that what happened to Pornchai is not what she meant by “rapid.”

But there is also cause for Thanksgiving here — at least for me, and for Pornchai as well. The grace of Divine Mercy gave us in advance both the helpers and the means necessary to get us through this. Pornchai has never starved, and we were able to help a few around him as well. And we have been able to walk with him, and encourage him in the belief that there is some meaning and purpose in this odyssey. I am most thankful for that.

The Cracks in These Stone Walls

All during the above, as Father Byers wrote with no subtlety at all, we were also facing the collapse of These Stone Walls after eleven years of writing. I was faced with a very difficult choice, and the outcome seemed dismal. Then someone else appeared on the scene with the willingness and ability to salvage everything, and maybe even improve on it a bit. There is cause for much Thanksgiving in that, and in all that now awaits us Beyond These Stone Walls.

And at the same time all of that was going on, Covid-19 renewed and tightened its squeeze on this prison resulting in heightened confinement, even fewer resources for writing, almost no access to a library, and the complete shutdown of any access to Catholic Mass or even a Catholic presence here. All the progress Divine Mercy made in this prison was then in a three-year hibernation. With help from the prison chaplain, a Catholic deacon, I have been able to obtain the elements necessary for Mass once per week.

With Pornchai gone after fifteen years as my roommate, I have had to change the opportunity for Mass. I now begin it on Sundays at 11:30 PM Eastern Time. This is after my new assigned roommate falls asleep and all the prison counts and other security measures end for the day. It is the only time I will not be interrupted. From ICE detention in Jena, Louisiana, it was at 10:30 PM and Pornchai used the Spiritual Communion prayers from his United States Grace Force Prayer Book to join me. There is cause for Thanksgiving in all of this.

And right on cue about three weeks before Pornchai was taken away, I tore the rotator cuff in my right shoulder making normal daily things like writing, even subtle writing, a painful ordeal. This prison has an excellent physical therapist, however, and three-times-weekly treatment over the previous three months had resulted in remarkable recovery without surgery. There is cause for thanksgiving in this, as well.

Enter Squanto of the Dawn Land

Back then, I wrote a post that was to become one of the most read and cited from behind these stone walls. It was the story of the real unsung hero behind the account of the first Thanksgiving that you thought you knew. It is a story that was kept hidden in plain sight for centuries while the story of the bravery and resourcefulness of the Mayflower Pilgrims of 1620 prevailed. Don’t miss, “The True Story of Thanksgiving: Squanto, the Pi1grims, and the Pope.”

This story became a Thanksgiving tradition for our readers over the last decade. It is a remarkable story of human crisis and redemption told in the odyssey of Squanto, a Native American who, like our friend, Pornchai, was stolen from his home, taken to a foreign land, rescued from slavery by a Catholic priest, and then, in the end, restored to his homeland only to find it nearly devastated from a global pandemic. He arrived just before the Mayflower pilgrims did 400 years ago this week. Squanto became one of history’s great emissaries of Divine Mercy. It will be our special Thanksgiving Week post this year.

My version of the story has appeared in numerous sources including a pair of history books. One of them is 1620: The True Story of Thanksgiving by Rick Gregory (2015) and an essay, “A Eucharistic Thanksgiving” by Adam N. Crawford.

I hope you will read and share that story anew to mark Thanksgiving 400 years later as the Pilgrims did, in uncertain times and surrounded in darkness. And please pray for us as we do for you. There is cause for Thanksgiving here!

You may also like these related links: 

The True Story of Thanksgiving: Squanto, the Pilgrims, and the Pope

Prison Journal: A Midsummer Night’s Midlife Crisis