Sr. Gertrude was in charge of the music and Sr. Agnes Mary and Sr. Catherine Agnes (SCAR), who was now a part-time resident of the infirmary, made gingerbread nuns with black licorice veils.
“All these nuns are my ‘sisters of color’, un hun,” Sr. Elijah Rose announced when the gingerbread nuns were brought out. “And this one is built just like me.” Then she broke one in half, “This one’s is more Sr. Leah Marie with a deep tan.” And she turned to thank Sister Catherine Agnes: “You done good, girl.”
I had never ever seen SCAR blush before, but she was simply delighted with such an outrageous comment. “You better believe it, sweet pea, so eat up cuz these girls aren’t gonna persevere on this plate, no way, no how.” I couldn’t believe my ears, SCAR was talking jive with Sr. Elijah Rose.
Sr. Elijah apparently loved it too: “Sho’nuf, Sista, they look deeelicious, emmmhummm, and Mama’s little baby loves shortnin, shortnin.”
That’s all Sr. Gertrude needed: “Mama’s little baby loves shortnin bread.” Everyone who knew the song broke into the chorus.
“Thank you, Sr. Catherine Agnes, they’re beautiful,” Sr. Leah Marie quietly intruded into the conversation. “Did you design these yourselves?”
“Well, actually there’s a mold for gingerbread girls, I just designed the veil.”
With that Sr. Bertrand decapitated one of them with one bite. We all laughed.
“Seriously,” it was now Sr. Benedict talking, “we are so happy that the two of you are making profession. You’ve had a very interesting postulancy and novitiate, unlike any of us ever lived through. We’ve been praying for your perseverance and, well, here you are, on the eve of your first profession.”
Sister Amata: “And on Divine Mercy Sunday, how appropriate that is when you prostrate on the floor and Mother asks you what do you seek. And you both will answer together…”
Sisters Elijah Rose and Leah Marie: “God’s mercy and yours.”
The gingerbread nuns were eaten without much mercy, but at least a dozen were left for the infirmary cookie jar.
Their profession was indeed a joyous day; the liturgy was beautiful and afterwards we met both families gathered in two separate parlors. The Hubbard Family filled up the large parlor with parents, sisters, brothers, and nephews and nieces, plus a few friends – including Sister’s godmother, who was a nurse at Roosevelt Hospital. Her parents who were okay with “Brenda’s” conversion, but had been very opposed to her entering a cloistered monastery of nuns, seemed quite pleased to see how happy their Brenda was. I was really delighted to speak in a corner of the grille with Sister’s father, who was Eli’s son. They were all amazed that I knew Eli when I was a child, and that he was “my favorite of all doormen.” His son had the same broad happy smile and laugh, without the gold tooth.
Sr. Leah Marie’s family were just a few. Her mother, her aunt, and her cousin came. Her mother was separated from her father, who had remarried and lived in Tennessee. And Bettina, the girl who had been at the Fashion Institute with her and later was the girlfriend of Nick, who died on 9/11, came. They had kept in touch with each other, which I think helped Sr. Leah Marie get through the trauma of it all. Her friend, Bettina, brought back memories of little Grace White visiting with her technicolor hair and display of earrings.
In the refectory there is a small bouquet of flowers at each of the newly professed sisters’ place. But at Sr. Leah Marie’s place there was also a vase of white roses and a card which read: “Mazel tov, my dear friend. Love, Leah Levinson.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Passover 2005
Let my prayer rise before You, O Lord, like incense in Your sight. The raising of my hands like an evening oblation… Turning sixty is like Vespers. It’s not the end of the day, but the day turns into evening. Some truly wonderful and remarkable things happened – and two very sad things which, like Vespers, are joined to the Magnificat of Our Lady. Our souls, even in sadness, rejoice in God our Savior because He never stops looking upon the lowliness of His servant. They are like Amen/Alleluia moments which are both happy and sad at the same time.
The first Amen/Alleluia came to us during Holy Week and in the splendid Alleluia of the Easter Octave, Divine Mercy Sunday, April 2, 2005, when our dear Holy Father John Paul II died at the age of eighty-four. The television Mother Rosaria had purchased when 9/11 happened was only brought out of seclusion for very special occasions. In addition, it was now possible to record things on the television and watch them at a different time. And so we were able to watch the funeral Mass celebrated in St. Peter’s Square by Cardinal Ratzinger and all those cardinals, bishops, and priests, and a million of the faithful.
Our prayer for his health and a holy death had been rising like incense in our chapel for weeks before. It would, of course, continue for the repose of his soul, and for the Conclave and election of a new Holy Father.
I believe it was around 11:30 AM on April 19th, 2005, when there was white smoke coming from the Sistine Chapel chimney. Fr. Ambrose called Mother, and after Sext, Mother announced that she arranged for us to have a pick-up lunch; we could get what we wanted on trays and go to the community room. I don’t think this had ever happened in our hundred year history. The television was on in the community room and everyone was still abuzz, waiting for the new pope to appear on the balcony.
All week our refectory reading had been on the papabili, the Cardinals who were considered as possible popes. All week long, as well, there was much to read about Pope John Paul II, the first non-Italian pope in 600 years; would the new pope be Italian? Or perhaps African?
The news people suddenly became silent (thank God) as we went live to St. Peter’s Square. There was movement behind the heavy drape in the back of the balcony, when a Cardinal came out and made the announcement we had all been waiting for:
Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: HABEMUS PAPAM! (I announce to you with great joy: WE HAVE A POPE!) We all sat frozen to our seats: not a Sister chewed, clinked her silverware, or uttered a word. Eminentissimum ac reverendissumum Dominum, Dominum Josephum Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae Cardinalem…(Everyone held her breath) RATZINGER.
Sr. Antonia, our quiet, reserved, never-say-anything librarian, literally leaped out of her chair: “Holy Moly—I don’t believe it. Cardinal Ratzinger!” And we all clapped for three seconds, till Mother hushed us to catch his name: Qui sibi nomen imposuit Benedicti decimi sexti.
We were all Latin singers, but few Latin scholars; we caught the Benedict part, and waited for the English commentator to announce: Benedict the 16th. We cheered at the words; at least most of us did. We all loved the writings of Cardinal Ratzinger and never believed he would be chosen as Holy Father – especially if you read all the negative voices in some of the papers.
Sr. Sheila was overjoyed but Sr. Patty (Pretty Flower) didn’t know what to make of it. Sr. Elijah was twirling around and singing ‘alleluia’ and Sr. Leah Marie sat sedately and applauded with everyone else.
And there he was coming out on the balcony, waving with both hands. There was a flurry of activity on the balcony getting the microphone to him; the crowd which was screaming and applauding got silent, as the new Holy Father was getting ready to give his first blessing Urbi et orbi. We also got silent, and most of us got down on our knees, staring at the television, and blessed ourselves when he gave us his blessing.
With Mother’s permission the novices and I were able to move the TV into the infirmary, as we knew this would all be repeated on the Catholic channels, and the Sisters in the infirmary could see it all like it was live.
Sr. Benedict, of course, was thrilled at the name. Sr. Amata kept saying, “He’s a holy man; he’s a holy man.” Sr. Bertrand: “What kind of a name is Rats…singer?” Poor Sister got all hung up on people’s names.
Sr. Gertrude was in a wheelchair, and at eighty-nine not as sharp as usual, but still joined in the festivities. “He was kind of like Pope John Paul’s understudy. I hope he’s ready for the role.”
Sr. Gerard let us all know that this could be the last pope according to Nostradamus, to which Sr. Bertrand added: “What kind of a name is Noter-dame-us; did he teach at the University in Indiana?”
“No, I think it’s for the cathedral in Paris,” said Sr. Amata who knew very well it was neither, but loved to get Sr. Bertrand confused. “He was the vicar.”
But all in all, they were very happy; they too had been praying every day since the death of Pope John Paul for the new pope.
The Amen/Alleluia event, happy but marked with a twinge of sadness or concern, was that our chaplain, Fr. Ambrose, was being assigned to the Angelicum, the Dominican university in Rome. Their gain is certainly our loss. But it left us wondering when (and in whose name) we would celebrate our own “habemus papam” – when we would get our new Father chaplain.
Fr. Ambrose was consulted on this by his provincial and the other friars in New York who make these appointments. We knew, as Sr. Assumption said at recreation, the “pickins were slim.” (Sister was from Kentucky.)
There were so many “firsts” happening, and this was one of them. We have always had a Dominican Father as chaplain, except maybe ninety years ago when they had a Franciscan for a few years, and a couple diocesan priests. But Fr. Ambrose knew a priest from another Order whom he thought would be a wonderful chaplain; he knew the nuns very well; helped out a lot during busy holiday times, and if he heard right, his own provincial wanted him back…from England!
Both provincials came to an agreement; and Mother and her council also put in a positive word of approval, and so Fr. Matthew Goldman, CCSP became our chaplain, and moved into the chaplain’s quarters in early summer.
The chaplain and I met in the parlor in late May.
“Well, Fr. Ezra Goldman, here you are back with us. Such a blessing the good Lord has showered upon us! “
“Rebecca Feinstein, I presume? Do you serve Earl Grey in this joint?” We both laughed.
He told me his health had improved for a while, but the cold and dampness of the UK brought lots of other problems. He loved his ministry there at the shrine, and didn’t want to come home to the other assignments he might face in his province. When Fr. Ambrose contacted him and said he wanted to propose this to his provincial, he asked him if he was interested in it, and if his provincial would permit it.
“It was like an answer to a long standing prayer. I know what St. Paul means when he says ‘the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’ I need to be in an environment of holiness, at least where I can pray regularly, have silence in my life, and say Mass for people who believe and aren’t in a hurry to get somewhere. The shrine in Lancashire was good in many ways, but I missed New York. Isn’t it funny with all my years in Africa, I would still miss this crazy city. Or maybe it’s just my age. I’m tired, Becky, of running from here to there and back again. You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know just by your being here and praying for me. So when the provincial called me and ran it by me, that he would be willing to let me serve as chaplain and live here, I couldn’t believe my ears. Such a long standing prayer should finally be answered?” (There was the old Ezra I remembered.) “So here I am, or will be, come June. Your Fr. Ambrose has been a great help in getting me settled, and he’s the one going overseas!”
I just sat silent, smiling, trying not to cry. I’ve realized in my “old age” that I’m not going to get any more control over my emotions than I had when I was younger. Maybe St. Paul would call it the gift of tears. And on a day like today – when it overflows from joy – I think he’d be right.
“How did Gwendolyn take it?”
“Like the trooper she is. She was sad, but more happy than sad. She said she knew I wouldn’t be in England forever, and now she had even more excuse for ‘coming home’ to visit. She’s retired, you know, and living with her sister, who isn’t retired, and doesn’t think Gwen should be either. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ms. Putterforth putters forth on back to the U.S. of A. She’ll make a decision after the new year.”
I suppose I could say that was a third bit of joyful news in 2005, but I’d have to wait till after the New Year to see. I put it “on hold” along with another promise of good news, this time from Sharbel. In his infrequent visits he was hinting that he wasn’t so sure he wanted to go on be a doctor, and wanted me to pray for him over all this. He didn’t know how his mother would react to a change of career plans. He was also coming into his inheritance, or he already had, but hadn’t moved in or moved back to New York, and didn’t intend to immediately, at least.
I wondered if he was going to run off and get married or something. I had decided I was going to give his bride, if there is a bride, Mama’s brooch. Till then it would stay in the corner of my small dresser.
It was the day after Thanksgiving when Sr. Paula came and got me. I was actually in the library with Sr. Antonia marveling at all the computerized cataloguing she has accomplished. Sr. Paula told me I had a surprise visitor in the small parlor. I couldn’t imagine who it was.
There he sat all by himself, my nephew Sharbel.
“Aunt Mary, I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead of time; I came home for Thanksgiving, and told Mother I was going into the city to see a film with friends, which isn’t a lie, but that’s not for a couple hours yet. I wanted to come to see you.”
“I’m so happy you have; you’ve made my Thanksgiving complete! I’ve been praying for your special intention as you asked.”
“Thank you, so much. That’s why I’m here really. I need to let you in on my ‘intention’ as I’m not sure what to do, and I know you’ve been where I am.”
“I have? That’s very interesting…don’t tell me you want to become Jewish and go to rabbinical school!”
Sharbel laughed, reminding me of David and Papa. Funny how little traits are passed on from one generation to the next.
“Not really, Aunt Mary, but you’re kind of close. I don’t want to be Jewish and become a rabbi…I want to become a Dominican and a priest.”
I almost fell off my chair, not with shock, but with unexpected delight. Leave it to me, but the water-works rose up and ran down my cheeks.
“Oh, Jack, I am so happy; I don’t know what to say.”
Sharbel (Jack) relaxed his face and smiled. “I’m so happy you are happy; although I never thought you wouldn’t be. My problem is my family – well, my mother! She doesn’t know this yet, and she thinks I’m applying to med schools, and is already bragging to her doctor-friends that I’m following in her footsteps. I don’t think she will accept that I want to be a priest. She is a good Catholic in her own way, you know, but I am her only son…and…”
“And she wants grandchildren as well as a doctor in the house.”
“I think so.”
“Well, you’ll never know unless you let her know. You may be surprised at her reaction, and then again, you may be right; but either way, you need to follow your heart. My first and dearest spiritual father, Fr. Meriwether, once told me you have to listen to the deepest desires of your heart, for that is where the Holy Spirit is speaking to you.”
“I hope I can do that. I’m not sure. How does one know what God’s Will is?”
“It’s not a common desire, an ordinary desire, even a natural desire, to want to give oneself to Our Lord completely as a priest. For most young men your age, it never crosses their mind, let alone their heart. Such thoughts you should have?”
His smile broadened. “Such thoughts I have, especially the last year. It’s like I want to take care of sick souls, more than sick bodies.”
“I think we only come to know God’s Will in prayer, and in listening to the deep desires of your heart. If that is God calling you, surrender to it and see if you are at peace with it. You’re coming to share this with me is a little surrender, you know.”
“That’s true. I thought I could keep it all secret. Nobody would understand. B
ut I knew you would. If this is God’s Will, please pray for me and with me, that I will know that and have the grace to say ‘yes’ and to know how to let my mother know. She thinks I’ll be moving into my father’s duplex once I get out of school and start my practice.”
“Well, duplexes are just duplexes. They’re not the be-all and end-all of life. Who knows anything of one’s future? You could land a job in Seattle for heaven’s sake!”
He laughed. “You’re right. Let this be our secret for now, okay. And I’ll be back at Christmas time and let you know how it all goes. Thank you for being here.” And he couldn’t say anything more…he squeezed my fingers, and blew me a kiss as he ducked out the door.
And I took him with me to Vespers each night entrusting it all to Mary’s Immaculate Heart, and his mother to Our Mother. Indeed, I had so much to pray for especially at Vespers. It was really like the “paschal hour” for me each evening…passing over from the noise and activity of the busy day, to a more silent, peaceful eventide.
Chapter Twenty-five
ComplineThe Church’s Night Prayer, ending with a blessing and chanting the Salve Regina with a procession led by Sisters with lighted candles.
“May the all powerful Lord grant us a restful night and a peaceful death.” (Blessing at the end of Compline)
Compline, like Vespers, is also very conducive to meditating or remembering times past. I think that is especially true in the Fall. October is such a prayerful month when the leaves display their grand array of autumn colors. There’s a chill in the air and it just seems easier to pray and think than in the heat and humidity of summer. I suppose early September will always be a sad-moment of remembering when September 11th rounds around, but time will heal that too.
The Middle Ages of Sister Mary Baruch (Sister Mary Baruch, O.P. Book 2) Page 25