In some ways, the destiny of Father Dobberstein was set in stone even before he became a priest. "Lets name him Father," said his parents. "Maybe that way he’ll decide to become a priest." Sure enough, a short time later Father Dobberstein entered seminary and began his studies for the priesthood. Unfortunately, Father Dobberstein became very lonely because all his fellow seminarians had to call him "Father" even though he wasn’t yet a priest. "He thinks he’s better than us," they all said, even though Father Dobberstein bent over backwards to prove his humility and good works to his jealous colleagues and the Lord.

Finally one day, humble Father Dobberstein became Father Father Dobberstein. Though proud of having made it all the way through seminary school, the stress of the ordeal had placed Father Father Dobberstein’s health in jeopardy. But unlike the real jeopardy with its neatly ordered categories this jeopardy had no right answers, no calm and steady Alex Trebek to lead the way, nor any bonus rounds to make up for points lost on U.S. Presidents’ Pets or Defunct Social Sciences (come on Father Father Dobberstein, what is phrenology? Hello?). No, when the poor Father Father Dobberstein fell ill with pneumonia one rainy afternoon in 1912, there was only he and his Lord to sort out matters of life, death and other important things which hang in the balance unless they can’t balance or couldn’t to begin with.

A country doctor came and went. "All we can do is give him a butt load of morphine," said the doctor. "This stuff is actually the cure for opium addiction and we have two more years ’till Hearst’s newspapers sensationalize drug abuse in racial terms to the point where anti-Marihuana and anti-Mexican hysteria leads to the creation of the Harrison Act of 1914, prescription medicine, the role of doctors as gatekeepers and patients as victims, treatment based on corporate business models, and the beginning of the U.S. War on Drugs.. So…if we can keep him alive and full of morphine until 1914 we’ll be okay."

But it was no good. Dobberstein got sicker and sicker, until one night he slept like a rock and almost never woke up. Then he did wake up, knowing that this might be his last day in the land of the living. He called out, "Heavenly Father, hear my prayer!"

"Who is it?" said the Lord.

"It is I Father," said Father Father Dobberstein.

"’I’ who?" said the Lord. "Tell me your name my child."

"Father," said Father Father Dobberstein.

"Yes, I hear your prayer child, but tell me who you are."

"Its me, Father," Dobberstein was heard to say. "Do you not know me?"

"Of course I know you! I know everyone," answered the Lord, by now irritated. "Don’t give me that ‘do you not know me’ crap. I know everything! I’m the Lord me-damn it, I just get tired once in awhile…a little forgetful… Now be a good lamb and tell me who the hell you are, first, middle, last. Just give it to me straight. I’m a busy man up here."

"Why, I’m your servant Father Father Danny Dobberstein and I’m going to die soon if you don’t help me."

"Oh yeah, right," said the Lord. "Dobberstein, poor kid. What were your parents thinking, with that first name of yours? Well, okay Father I’m listening. Whats eating you?"

Dobberstein explained his demise to the Lord, who heard and understood. The Lord knew all about it because he was planning to take Dobberstein’s soul from its tormented earthly life so it could hang out up in heaven with the Lord. "That doesn’t sound so bad does it?" said the Lord. "I only get this way when I drink and besides, you get 80 virgins when you get up here… Oh wait a second, I keep forgetting I’m not Allah. Only I get to keep the virgins! And why not? Shit, I made ‘em didn’t I." The Lord also explained that the flight to heaven had been reduced to four direct, non-stop hours with no layovers in Purgatory expect for unbaptized couples and unmarried babies, and all they had to do was eat grass and live an ascetic lifestyle for several generations until they got their reward.

"I want to live," Dobberstein told the Lord. "If you cure me, I will spend the rest of my life building a rock filled grotto celebrating the redemption of man through Christ. I will build it 400 cubits long by 300 cubits wide. I shall fill it with azurite, hydratite, quartz, feldspar, bauxite, hematite – "

"- Wait a second," said the Lord. "You want me to let you live so you can build a grotto out of rocks in honor of my kid, Jesus?" The Lord could hide his annoyance no longer. "Damn it Dobberstein, were the menu options not clear enough? Dial one for Jesus, two for the Holy Ghost, three for Allah, four for the Great Mystery and four for me. So, you want to build a shrine for Jesus and yet you want me to save you? Me-almighty! Well, fine I guess I can swing that. Nobody better say I’m an angry god after this!" The Lord wanted to know what substance would be used to hold the rocks in place at his grotto. Dobberstein told him about a revolutionary new mortar called cement. "Cement? Are you nuts? You are going to be throwing together one butt ugly pile of rocks for the Son of Man. Yikes I better give him a heads up. Alright, where are you going to locate this thing, Mt. Sinai? Bethlehem? The edge of the Grand Canyon?"

"In West Bend, Iowa," answered Father Father Dobberstein, servant of the Lord. His answer caused the Lord to spit out a gold tooth, a mouthful of Crappacino and half a calzone.

When the Lord finished laughing, he said, "you know what, I’m not even going to ask why you chose West Bend Iowa. I’m just going to let you live so you can do it. Just remember: if you give up on it halfway through like most of the other desperate souls who make crackpot promises, I’ve got a six pack of thunderbolt in my pocket and it ain’t the kind you drink out of a paper bag. I’ve smitten down plenty of heathens and I could easily get some extra smiting done on you. Capice?"

"Capice," answered Dobberstein. In the morning, Dobberstein awoke, his health fully restored. His nurse approached, shocked to see him well and also of sound mind. The nurse was some sort of Celt, and she new what was up with the supernatural. "You should have heard yourself raving away on the morphine last night," she laughed. You promised the Lord you would build a butt ugly grotto out of cement and cannibalized caves. It was more than the morphine though," the nurse opined with lowered eyes. "I saw one of ‘em standing o’er yer bed, heaping fairy dust in quantity to fell an ox upon yer head. Don’t worry Father Father. You not be a madman. ‘Tis them flappy Brindle Boxer People, be playin’ tricks on you! Never the less, whether it was the Lord or the Boxers you answered to, you best keep your promise."

Dobberstein was not amused by his nurse’s pagan interpretation. "Freakin’ heathen!" he cursed. "Wanna see a Father stop breathin’!"

Yet Dobberstein knew in his heart that he had to keep the promise or run the real risk of receiving a non-alcoholic, sky-born thunderbolt. In the era before CPR, pace makers, and doctors who yelled "going into v-tag!" and knew what to do, death by thunderbolt was feared by all, even those without latent heart conditions. Dobberstein immediately requisitioned his first truck load of stone from South Dakota. Tons more followed, along with the sweat, loneliness, and misunderstood dreamership inherited by any who possess the bravery to acknowledge a vision that comes to them from beyond, and the tenacity to pursue it unquestioningly to the last breath of their life. The unknown Iowa priest became an iconoclast, his vision immortalized in cement. But how many of us can say we perused our dream, however bizarre, so passionately? Dobberstein slaved away on his project for more than 20 years, eventually becoming a mute who refused to communicate with other human beings except through the use of shadow puppetry and Latin mass. Eventually, what started out as a rock studded cement mound that looked like undigested, jewel studded piles of dinosaur guano became so intricate in their climbing, asymmetrical ugliness, that they became beautiful, perfect and complete in a way that only someone like Dobberstein, the Lord and the Brindle Boxer People could ever fully appreciate.

I can tell you from experience, there are few things that look so ugly from far away that look so relatively not ugly, when seen close up. The South Dakota Badlands is one of those things, so is the Grotto of the Redemption, filled as it is with its mud colored, artificial caves and shrines loaded with white, agonized statues, fake roses and the attached prayers of supplicants. The scenes depicted by the hark-hark-a-babe-is-born angels and the life of Christ will take you from babe to carpenter to king in less than half an hour’s self guided tour all while giving you the impression that you are visiting the haunted Roman ruins of Pompeii, where everybody was frozen in time by volcanic ash at the height of their decadence. Dobberstein’s statues freeze their subjects in time at the height of their spirituality and surrounds them in isolated, crystal strewn, all-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-other, heaped up, campy glee.

A functioning shrine of their own, the restroom building sits at a corner of the compound in a more familiar rectangular, modern structure but with rock encrusted outer walls that maintain the Grotto’s aesthetic and the continuity of its strange mojo. Inside, one leaves behind strange mojo and enters the familiar domain of an average, dank, park restroom, billowing with invisible but potent vapors. The animal pen-like stalls, rancid urine-smell and unique, wash-basin style urinal spurs the imagination to conjure the fabled stable where Baby Jesus was born. Don’t worry ladies, you won’t miss out on the vibe on your side of the building. Oh come of yea faithful, joyless but resigned! (And check thy nostrils at the door.)

– Justin Teerlinck