What in the world was he going to do? Father William McCormack knew teachers couldn’t be married and Joplin’s only Catholic school teacher had just announced she was getting married. True, there were public schools, but miners’ children deserved a parochial education.

As with all things, Father McCormack turned to God and to his superior, Bishop John J. Hogan of the Kansas City, Missouri, Diocese, for guidance. Bishop Hogan surely smiled when he read Father McCormack’s urgent plea because he had an answer. He knew the Sisters of Mercy well and trusted their abilities. He referred the request to Mother Mary Ignatius Walker, the superior of a Mercy convent in Louisville, Kentucky, who had already established two successful foundations.

Joplin’s injured miners would have to travel 60 miles to the nearest hospital in the early 1890s.

Joplin’s injured miners would have to travel 60 miles to the nearest hospital in the early 1890s.

The prospect of a wild and woolly mission into a frontier town excited Mother Mary Ignatius and fired her missionary zeal. She gathered a dozen young Sisters to accompany her, and on July 26, took what she called “a little ride” by train across the Midwest to their new home.

Five sweltering days later, the 13 Sisters disembarked into the rowdy mining town. By chance, an entertainment troupe of a dozen Indians arrived at the same time. The unfamiliar sight of the Sisters in their black habits and the Indians in full regalia created quite a spectacle for the townspeople.

The Sisters spent many nights listening to the howling wind and the equally unruly saloon patrons, but eventually they settled into life in Joplin and their ministry of teaching. But then tragedy struck, a mine collapsed and everything changed. The injured were loaded on a train and shipped 60 miles away to the nearest hospital. Not content with this solution, Mother Mary Frances Sullivan, the new superior, resolved to open a hospital in Joplin.

One legend states she marched into the town’s richest casino and told the owner she needed him to give her a building for the town’s first hospital. A less dramatic account credits a wealthy mine operator with offering the building for free.

Either way, the 10-bed Mercy Hospital opened in 1896. In true Mercy fashion, anyone in need was welcome, regardless of their ability to pay. Miners were offered medical plans for only 25 cents a week and those who donated to help expand the hospital were given a card entitling them to free medical care.

Today, Mercy Hospital Joplin is a 367-bed facility. It is ranked as a Top 100 Hospital by Thomson Reuters Healthcare.

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