Parishioners mourn as they cope with the loss of their pastor

by Marc and Julie Anderson
mjanderson@theleaven.org

SENECA — “Right now, the community is in shock and sorrow. My son and I likened to it to how the apostles must have felt when Jesus died. They felt lost, bewildered and without their compass.”

Thus begins a journal entry by Joan Henry, a parishioner of Sts. Peter and Paul Parish in Seneca.

Throughout the past several days, the parish’s 800 families have prayed together, cried together, hugged one another, posted messages on Facebook and written in journals as they mourn the loss of their beloved pastor Father Arul Carasala.

Just two weeks prior, Father Carasala was “thrilled” to see months of planning come to fruition with a two-day event known as “Rooted in Christ.” Ironically, an article about the event was published the day after his death.

“Father was so excited about that event,” Bryce Haverkamp said. “It’s just awesome he got to experience that.”

Haverkamp serves on the parish’s evangelization team and was one of several team members who helped plan the event. He first learned the news about the shooting sitting with Emily Altenhofen, the former parish secretary, while watching kids from the parish’s grade school compete in a track meet 45 miles away.

“My mom had called and told me that something was going on with Father and that he had been shot, but nobody really knew anything other than that,” Altenhofen said.

The time between phone calls, Haverkamp said, felt like an eternity as they, along with coaches and teachers, waited for more information.

“We didn’t know what to do. Do we tell the kids? Do we not tell the kids?” he wondered. “Then, some social media stuff started coming out. Two of the four teachers at [Sts.] Peter and Paul gathered everybody and told the kids what had happened. It was a very raw, emotional period. The kids were all very upset. One of the eighth graders, out of the blue, started saying the Our Father. So, we as a group, said the Our Father, the Hail Mary and the Glory Be. We were just consoling the kids. About 15-20 minutes later, Emily got the word that he didn’t make it.”

“It was tough,” Haverkamp said, adding that the vast majority of the kids didn’t have parents with them. Ultimately, the kids didn’t finish the track meet.

Returning home to be with family and friends, shock waves continued to echo throughout the community of 2,100. A second baseball game of a doubleheader was canceled. A prayer vigil was organized, and a Mass to be celebrated by Archbishop Joseph F. Naumann (see below) was planned.

At Mass, the Knights of Columbus choir sang many of Father Carasala’s favorite songs, including “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” and “How Great Thou Art.”

As he has done for years, Haverkamp ran the livestream, allowing him to view the Mass from two unique vantage points — the choir loft and the livestream camera.

“[Father Carasala] was always trying to find ways to get people to come to church,” Haverkamp said.

“We lost quite a bit due to COVID, and people never, for whatever reason, never really got energized back into going to regular Mass,” he said. “Some of those people were there [that evening], and I guarantee you that he would have been smiling and just thrilled that they were there, back at Mass receiving Jesus. He cared. He cared a lot.”

Organist Terry Nordhus agreed.

Nordhus was among a small group of parishioners and area priests who prayed in the emergency room with the body of Father Carasala, adding that Altenhoffen (her daughter) had asked her to go to the hospital so their priest wouldn’t be alone.

“After he had passed away, they let us go back into the emergency room to see him. There were some priests there, and we prayed. It was kind of tough, but I was glad I got to see him,” Nordhus said.

Along with Cyril Steinlage, Nordhus has served as one of the leaders of the Knights of Columbus choir for the past 10 to 15 years. When she learned of the prayer vigil and Mass, she sent a text message to the choir.

“I just sent out a text two hours before and said, ‘We’re singing for Father Arul.’”

All of the members showed up, Nordhus said, a fact which pleased her.  Still, it doesn’t make it any easier knowing that Father Carasala is gone.

“It’s just hard to believe that everything that comes up now — first Communions, confirmations, graduations — he won’t be there.”

But Nordhus said she continues to be impressed with how the community is coping.

“The whole community has come together. That’s what I would like people to remember. Father was such an amazing person. I think he’s bringing all of us together in his death,” she said.

“He was always so helpful,” Nordhus recalled. “It didn’t matter who you were. It didn’t matter if you were Catholic or anything else. He was just that kind of a person. He would help you in any way. He was amazing, and I think it just shows what kind of person he was that we have all come together.”

Haverkamp agreed.

“We packed the church last night for the rosary, for the Mass. We did an impromptu healing session this afternoon for our kids because they didn’t have school,” he said. “The church was full with that. . . . We just rally [together] in the community.”

Nordhus’ daughter-in-law, Katie Nordhus, agreed.

Through the years, she’s been involved in music ministry, Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, the parish school’s Parent Teacher Organization and the Order of Christian Initiation of Adults.

She first learned of the shooting as she picked up her daughter Miriam, a sixth grader, from the parish grade school.

The normal route, one that goes past the rectory, was blocked. At the time, though, she didn’t think anything of it due to some tree removal work being done in the area.

“Then, my daughter called me. ‘Mom, where are you?’ I said, ‘I’m on my way. I’m 30 seconds away. I can’t get to where I normally park. I’ll park by the adoration chapel.’ She said, ‘I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going on. All I know is that the teachers are really scared.’”

Once she got in the truck, her daughter reported that some kids said they’d heard gunfire. Someone else said that Father Carasala had been shot.

Surely, Nordhus thought, there had to be another explanation. But she soon received a text confirming the terrible news.

“We still cannot process it. It is beyond anything,” Nordhus said.

She attended the Mass that night and was inspired to see how the parish and entire community was coming together.

“I spoke with Father Joel [Haug], and I said it feels like our shepherd, Father Arul, the shepherd was struck and the sheep felt orphaned, just lost,” concluded Nordhus.

“It’s difficult. It’s like no emotion you’ve ever experienced because you take it for granted that your parish priest will be there to consecrate the Eucharist and hear your confessions and baptize your babies and then they’re gone,” she continued. “You feel like a child who has lost both parents and you’re orphaned. That is what we’re all feeling right now.”