“I don’t know how you can eat those things,” hoping to change the subject.
“I know; but we’ll eat anything,” Sr. Gertrude quipped. “At my age, I’m grateful my taste-buds are still working. You’ve done more than been librarian, you know. And being librarian was a wonderful way of getting to know everybody in the community and what subjects they care about. And you’d buy special interest books to fit the sister; we all noticed it. You also have a wonderful way with the young Sisters, and before Solemn Profession, they’re all saying ‘such a blessing’ this and ‘such a blessing that.’ You’ve got us old-timers saying it too.”
“Well, you all are! Such a blessing you bring to the community!” And Sister would laugh.
“Look out there,” she said gesturing with her hand to the cemetery. “There’s our blessings. For over a hundred years the show has gone on without a single intermission. Oh, the scenery changes and the leading roles come and go..."
“But the corps de ballet keeps on dancing.” I added.
“You’ve got it, kiddo.” Sister said with the old twinkle in her eyes.
We talked of other things, and I noticed Sr. Gertrude would tend to repeat herself a lot now, but I didn’t mind. I guess we shouldn’t have favorites, but it happens. Its human nature, and Sr. Gertrude was one of mine. I would miss her terribly when that time came, and I didn’t want to think about it.
Back to reality…Sister Gertrude and Sr. Rosaria returned from the chapel and the confessional. Sr. Gertrude beaming from ear to ear. “That new priest, after absolution, told me I’m as clean as a brand new whistle.”
Laughing, I said: “And what did you say?”
And she whistled our choir response: “Deo Gratias.” And laughed.
“Mama used to say after coming home from temple on Yom Kippur, ‘Well, thank goodness. T’shuvah…we repent and return to a clean slate. Such a blessing, this day.’”
Indeed. I’ve certainly learned that “the show goes on, thanks be to God” as Sr. Gertrude would say. I’ve come to realize that repentance is an on-going disposition of the soul. I look at the young sisters, and remember the initial sense of repentance. It was what we call “leaving the world” or a break with the world, or as Sr. Rosaria would say in French: “Rupture du monde.” I suppose we think taking vows is like “graduation” from repentance, without realizing it’s only just begun! We come in thinking and feeling much like the world we leave behind. This can be in very subtle little things, like food will make me happy, or excelling in keeping the rules will win me the approval of others; I’ll be whispered about as the best novice they’ve ever had. Letting go of our self-centered way of thinking is a long process of repentance, of t’shuvah, or what the Church Fathers always say in Lent, “metanoia.”
When I was “in the world” I’d go to confession maybe every month, like before First Friday, one of the first devotions I adopted. I might go during the month if I lost my temper at work and swore under my breath or had all kinds of prejudiced thoughts about some of the people who came into the library. I would trip over “gluttony” once in a while, never seeing the vice or need deeper than having thirds on dessert. Greta was a talented pastry chef which she called her hobby; and I was a talented food-taster, which I said was my hobby. We were a great pair! That all gets turned around in the monastery. We don’t eat in between meals, period. If I fell in that regards, well, I added it to my usual litany of sins in confession.
It’s a wonderful sacrament that accompanies us all along the way, because none of us really lives the life perfectly; we make mistakes; we fall, and we get up; we don’t fulfill our vows like we think we should; like we think the saints did, but through it all, we go on, and even though we get on each other’s nerves at times, and even discover that we can envy others a little, be jealous, get resentful, even discover that we’re capable of a little hate, we also discover we can forgive, and that we need God’s mercy and each others’, like we said when we lay prostrate on the sanctuary floor and the bishop asked: What do you seek? And we said: “God’s mercy and yours.” (The community’s.) And over the years, dear Lord, we can get very close to some whom we come to love, and even those whom we aren’t very close to, in the end, we love. I know I’ve received a tidal wave of mercy.
We are T’shuvah…we return to grace by repentance, not just once a year, but every day really. The Mass—ah, the Mass! Jesus and His Apostles who were gathered with Him at the Last Supper celebrated a Seder, and a new covenant was made in His Body and Blood. And that was truly fulfilled the next day—the true and lasting Yom Kippur, Day of Atonement. And that act of love is made present to us every day in the Mass. Would that His Passion become our passion, for such a blessing we live in every day. And it does if we simply live the life. Like “repentance,” patience is a disposition, a virtue, we grow into. It’s not just being patient with the Sister who is slow in the procession, or singing just a little off key (right next to you), or the Sister who sings too loud and isn’t told to turn it down; patience with ourselves, bearing up through the colds or flu that may sweep through the house; the heat in the summer when our bandeau is always moist from walking down the humid cloister. The poor sisters assigned to the kitchen in summer…patientia, as we learn in Ecclesiastical Latin 101: bearing with suffering and trials. The word “passion” comes from patientia. How close all that is to repentance, to our daily t’shuva…returning to grace, the grace of the present moment, which can put everything in perspective.
I go to confession every two weeks now. It seems, at times, to be the same litany of sins, but that’s okay. It reminds me that the Holy Spirit isn’t done with me yet. I like beginning again, brand new.
Chapter Four
Kiddush
Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who creates the fruit of the vine (Haggadah)
Thinking about Yom Kippur brought back other memories of my childhood. It seems the older I get the older my memories get, too. I remember Papa in the kitchen with me wiping off the bottles of wine and pouring them into his cut-glass decanter that only comes out for Pesach, and Rosh Hashanah…and Chanukahh…and Purim. He would shout Kadesh meaning the first cup of wine, and then he would pray the blessing, the Kiddush, over it. We Jewish kids were used to drinking wine from an early age, unlike many of our gentile friends who never even had a sip till they were teenagers. Really little kids would have candy in their wine glasses instead.
Such mental wanderings make me sleepy, and sure enough I had dozed off at my desk in my office. It was just 9:30 in the morning. I hadn’t slept much the night before thinking about today. Today was the day of Mama and David’s visit. It was autumn of 1998. I had easy access to Mother, being her “private secretary”. Of course, I did a lot of extra things for both Mother and Sr. Anna Maria, the sub-prioress. We would talk about things almost every day. So they both knew of my impending visit with my brother whom I hadn’t seen or spoken to in nearly thirty years.
I went in to see Mother as usual after Terce, and to pick up the mail she wanted me to respond to. She was at her desk, which was always so much neater than mine.
“Good morning, Sr. Mary Baruch, you’re looking chipper this morning.” I don’t think Mother ever said that to me, or to anyone else for that matter. It must’ve been the anxious bounce of my walking which she mistook for “chipperness.” She should have seen me an hour ago dozing at my computer, nodding off before that little jump-awake in my chair.
“I don’t know about chipper, Mother, but I’m feeling nervous about my visit this afternoon with David…today’s the day.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Glancing down on her calendar on her desk. “I have it marked right here. Now, try not to be too anxious, Sister; think of it as a little miracle. You’ve been waiting for a long time for this reunion, and it hasn’t happened over anyone’s death.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mother. But I’m still anxious. I don’t know how he will react. But I prayed about it all week and put him
the chalice this morning. I trust that Our Lord and Our Lady will bring about a real reconciliation. I’ve been praying about it all week. ”
“Sister, there is nothing here that needs attending to immediately. Take the time this morning to rest and pray. And I’ll be praying for you; let me know how it all goes.”
“Thank you, Mother, that’s most kind of you. They will arrive around 3:30, please feel free to stop in and meet him; and I know Mama is always happy when you visit with her, even for a moment.”
“I will, thank you. I’m glad it’s this afternoon, I’ve got a meeting this morning with a new workman who’s coming to fix a couple doors; we’ll start with the parlor door on our side. It needs new molding and he’s going to attach a rubber runner on the bottom, which will help both with drafts and sound-proofing.”
“Why isn’t Sr. Thomas Mary taking care of that? “ She was the Sister in charge of maintenance. Any jobs involving workmen from outside were handled by her. She loved it, I think. She was in charge.
“Sister has a dentist appointment this morning. She’s having another root canal. She was going to cancel it when I told her about the carpenter coming, but I insisted she go. I can handle a doorman.” Mother chuckled. “Prioresses are not totally helpless.” Chuckle, chuckle. This was contagious as I chuckled along with her, and together we had a good laugh, which was just what the doctor (or the prioress) ordered.
I was grateful for the morning off and went first to the cemetery. I know one can pray to the communion of saints anywhere one is, but I liked going to the graveside of my special “communion of saints.” First stop, of course, was at Mother John Dominic’s grave.
“Good morning, Mother, it’s Sr. Mary Baruch, as you know. Thank you, Mother, for your prayers. I’m sure you have had a big part in this reunion…you, and Papa, and maybe even Ruthie, and Joshua, and Fr. Meriwether. It’s a little strange, I guess is the word, because I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the last time I saw David. I hate to confess that I’m not positive when that was. He was at the last Passover Seder I went to with my family, but he didn’t speak to me. His last words were probably when they had invited the rabbi for dinner to try to talk me into waiting a few years; to embrace Judaism more. David was really the most upset about it all. You may remember me telling you how authoritative he became about everything Jewish; he almost quoted from the Talmud! My ‘defection,’ according to David, had international repercussions affecting even the State of Israel. Even Sally laughed at that. She knew more about the state of Israel, I’m sure, then even Papa, she being a journalist, you know. That was all over thirty years ago. I know Sally has talked to him since Ruthie’s death two years ago, and certainly Mama has more than anyone. Maybe he’s doing this just to appease her. I can only imagine the monologue from Mama that he’s been given over these years. ‘Such a son I should have who won’t make up with his sister?’” I laughed a little at my own imitation, and hoped Mother John Dominic was laughing too. I hope we can laugh in Heaven. I can’t imagine Heaven without laughing. I distracted myself with my own theological conundrum.
“I know you’ll be praying for us…it’s at 3:30 this afternoon our time. Goodbye, Mother. I love you.” I said very quietly. I saw a small smooth stone just a couple feet away. In good Jewish fashion I picked it up and placed it on the horizontal arm of the stone cross which was her tombstone; and I moved on down the aisle of graves.
I stopped by Sister Mary of the Pure Heart’s grave. She was probably the first Sister in the infirmary that I met when I was an aspirant; she called herself a newcomer too, that is to the infirmary. She told me she was so happy a Jewish girl was entering the monastery. She grew up in Brooklyn, and her best friend through grade school and high school was Judith Morgenstern. “I loved her family as much as my own,” she told me. “I was able to be there many times for Friday night supper and still remember how beautiful it was to see Mrs. Morgenstern light the candles for the Sabbath and sing her prayers.”
“I know, Sister. That’s one thing I still miss. My mother had a lovely haunting voice which we only heard on Friday night.” And I sang the “Baruch Atah” for her, and dear Sister Mary of the Pure Heart broke into pure tears. She took my hands and kissed them, and promised me she would pray for me and for my perseverance.
When I received the habit and my new name, there were many cards and notes from the Sisters at my place in the refectory, but one struck me more than any other…it was a plain card stock, with an image of Our Lady on the front, and inside, in a shaky hand was written one word: Mazeltov. Sr. Mary Pure Heart. Hers was the first funeral of a Sister for me too. I had only known her a short time, not even a year, and I felt like I had lost my best friend. When we received her body, I thought it was somebody else at first. She looked like she was in the most peaceful sleep anyone could have, with a modest smile. I thought her name really fit her: Mary of the Pure Heart. Blessed are the pure of Heart for they shall see God. I wanted to be like her. We novices had our hour praying the Psalms back and forth across her coffin; the songs of Israel which she heard as a child in Hebrew at the Morgensterns.
It was nice to see that the public could come into the extern chapel for a viewing. Sister’s casket was moved up next to the grille. There were four floor candles burning at each corner, and on the extern side of the grille was a lectern with a funeral guest book and a pile of holy cards. They were stock photos, four varieties, printed with her name and dates:
Sr. Mary of the Pure Heart, O.P.
(Janice Chesterfield)
Born Feb. 9, 1891
Born to Eternal Life: March 24th, 1976.
Requiescat in Pace
Maybe three days after the funeral, the guest book was on the novitiate common room table, having been in the Professed Common Room for three days. There were not a lot of people who came; I guess when you’re that old, family and friends wait for you on the “other side.” Her doctor had come and a couple local friends of the monastery I was learning by name more than face. And near the bottom in a shaky hand—there it was: Judy Morgenstern Levine. I found another stone and placed it on her cross.
I had to smile when I passed Sr. Norbert’s cross. I didn’t know her very well either, but she was the one who shocked us when she, as we say today, “lost it” in the middle of recreation. It must’ve been a solemnity because the novices were with the professed for recreation. Mother announced that a Sister (I forget her name) was going to Rome for a semester to take courses at the Angelicum, the Dominican university in Rome.
Sr. Norbert blew up: “Sister Goody Two Shoes always gets to go wherever she wants. I had asked to go for further studies a year ago, and you told me we don’t do that. But your little pet gets to go—well, I hope she flunks and embarrasses us all.” We sat stunned; nobody breathed for ten seconds. Even Mother was speechless, and red as a beet. “I’ve had enough of your favoritism, Mother, you should step down; I’m sorry we ever elected you.” And she (Sr. Norbert) threw her knitting needles and three inches of scarf on the floor and stomped out of the room.
The Sister going to Rome was in tears. There was a grand silence in the recreation room; not a knitting needle clicked. It was probably the first time I felt sorry for Mother Jane Mary, whom many of us didn’t particularly like because she wasn’t Mother John Dominic. Mother quietly said: “Sister must be very hurt. She did ask to go to Rome to study last year…”
Sister John Dominic spoke out: “And I was Mother at the time and told her no. We didn’t do that last year and the years before. It would mean a Sister would live outside of enclosure, and we just didn’t see any need for individual further studies, especially in Rome. Sr. Boniface many years ago did go to evening classes at St. Francis College to learn English, or rather to improve her English and writing skills, but she was home every evening.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Mother Jane Mary continued. “It is highly irregular for us, but we’re willing to give it a try, and Sister Whatshername, did not ask to g
o; I asked her. She would be best qualified to follow graduate studies, and be able to share everything with us when she returns. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will go and try to soothe Sr. Norbert. Proceed into Compline when the bell rings as usual. And pray for Sr. Norbert.”
We were all kind of shook up about it, and Sr. Mary of the Trinity, the novice mistress, said that Sr. Norbert just needed a little attention. “She’s been hurt like this in the past. She’ll get over it. And Mother Jane Mary is just learning too, you know, to apply the right kind of glue to hold us all together. So pray for her too. Perhaps you’ve all learned a lesson too; that we’re a fragile bunch at times.”
We never heard anything more about it. Sister Norbert returned to choir the next day and acted like nothing happened. The Sister who went to Rome, went and came back to the U.S., but not to us. She left the Order and lives on Long Island. Sr. Norbert came down with ovarian cancer twenty years later and went through all the treatments, but died before my Silver Jubilee.
I patted the stone crosses of a number of other Sisters whom I remembered fondly, even Sr. Boniface, who didn’t particularly like me for a while. It took me a while to accept that and to grow to love Sr. Boniface who in the end was quite fond of me, although I’m not sure she knew who I was. She thought I was her best friend in community, Sr. Hildegard, our book-binder and shoe-maker.
Sr. William Joseph was the last in that row. She died when I was in temporary vows, and lived for years in the infirmary, so I didn’t know her well. There were whispers about her; good whispers, that she may have had some mystical experiences, but nobody ever talked about what they were. I think maybe talking about them was not allowed. Sisters would go in and pray the rosary with her in her infirmary cell, which they didn’t do for other sisters. I remember the first time I was assigned to help the infirmarian with supper trays, and I was given Sr. William Joseph’s tray to take to her. I don’t know why I was a little nervous. I thought maybe she could read souls, like Padre Pio or St. John Vianney, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted anybody reading mine. Padre Pio would tell penitents the sins that they forgot, and I didn’t want Sr. William Joseph telling me I forgot to confess something, like the time that I hid under Sally’s bed and listened to her phone conversation. She was the only one in the family who had an extension phone in her bedroom. Ruthie and I wanted our own phone too, but we never got one. Sally wasn’t the tidiest member of the family, and there was an accumulation of dust balls under the bed with me. I would have gotten away with being a private-eye, but I sneezed and blew the whole gig, as Ruthie put it.
The Middle Ages of Sister Mary Baruch (Sister Mary Baruch, O.P. Book 2) Page 5