Walking home from Mass early one dark winter morning in Cambridge, Ohio, a group of us nuns heard a little boy in the distance repeatedly saying, “Look, mommy, look.” As we grew closer he identified us, “Look, mommy, Penguins.” Dressed in our black and white, everything but our faces covered, we must have reminded him of his last visit to the zoo. In any case, from that day on, we would often refer to ourselves as penguins. I would like to pay tribute to a few of the unforgettables from the zoo of my own past.
Justinian and Francis Aloysius, two who had loved me and now are gone. The earth is now a less friendly, less personal place for me. How pleasant it would be to think, as the nuns once said, they are watching now, taking better care of those they loved.
Sister Justinian died first, at age 89, diabetic, weak of heart, her feet full of gangrene. I had traveled half way across the country to attend the final closing of St. Ambrose School, in my home town of Ironwood, Michigan, in August of 1998. I thought I would then drive down to Manitowoc for a brief visit. When I arrived at Holy Family Convent, a mutual friend, Sister Mary Richard, grabbed my arm and took me over to the convent infirmary. She told me Justinian was near death, seeing angels and the Lord himself – probably from the drugs the convent nurses were giving her. She laughed as she recalled Justinian’s answer when she asked what Jesus looked like. “Like any ordinary man” she had replied matter-of-factly. The angels, however, she had said, were brilliant with light.
I arrived in Manitowoc on a Tuesday; she died on Wednesday. She squeezed my hand as I said my final farewell to this woman who had so long inspired me with her practical saintliness and her wry sense of humor . She was not pretty, but as soon as you got to know her, her lantern jaw, shapeless body, long thin nose and sharp blue eyes turned lovely and loving. She was a mother figure, yet a best friend, a teacher and a leader. She was not above acting extremely silly in order to break through any barriers between her and others. The priests from schools where she had been principal, some of them formal of manner and stiff-necked, loved her and filled the convent pews during her funeral mass.
I remember visiting her 8th grade classroom in Cambridge, where she was also the Superior of our convent. She was adjusting the blinds on her classroom windows and pointed out to me the local pastor Father Tuttle, making his way to the high school next door. No doubt he’d be meeting with the three priests whose parishes fed into our St. Benedict High. Also without a doubt there would be friction, even quarrels between them.
“Male egos, strong, protective, ambitious and useful at times,” she muttered, “ugly and destructive shadows of baboons at others.” As principal of the elementary school and known to be a good listener, she would have to be the ear to several sides of these priestly conflicts; she would have to bring peace. Today she just wanted to go back to the convent, put on her slippers and visit the small house chapel where no one could bother her. But as she left the building to return home, I remember seeing her slip a piece of lemon pie onto the passenger seat of the car driven by one of the priests whom she had recently smilingly told not to be such a mule.
Other memories came flooding back. One of my best friends, Sr. Melany, who taught in a neighboring city, loved beer – something we never drank in those far-off days. Knowing Justinian had a reputation for breaking minor rules for charity’s sake, Melany asked her if she would let her have a beer if they were together at the same school. Justinian, always loath to say no, answered, “if you really need one, dear.”
I visited her as often as I could after I left the community; she always left me feeling light-hearted and serene; my whole family loved her, including my sister Corinne who had visited Cambridge with three of her little ones. Justinian remarked that she wished I could develop a little more of the outgoing personality she saw in Corinne and in my mother. It was easy to take correction from such a humble person and I tried to do what she recommended – but introverts cannot will themselves to become extroverts.
At a later visit I made to her, after I had left the convent, she asked me what would have kept me in the convent – maybe if they had offered me the Presidency of the new college, Silver Lake College, run by the nuns? I assured her nothing would have kept me there once I realized I had to leave. I brought my children to see her and once, in Green Bay, she visited the motel where we all were staying, sat on my bed, and talked to me as if I were still among them. Her letters to me always requested stories about what my twins had done and said – I know she repeated them to anyone who knew me.
The most remarkable trait of hers was her trust – in people, in process and in life generally. She knew I was troubled by my longing for an intimate other. One of my graduating seniors in Cambridge, in particular, seemed so close to being my soul mate – always in emotional and mental harmony with me. I remember walking up the stairs to our beautiful Southern mansion- style convent home with its mulberry trees, wrap-around porch and chandeliers in the parlor and music room, thinking my idea of heaven would be coming home to a house like this to live with him. My position as his teacher and that I was several years his senior made me careful around him, but I indeed loved and admired him. She knew this, and yet allowed him to drive me to the train I would catch to return to the Motherhouse in June. Most other superiors would have said no, but her attitude was, let what will happen, happen. She once quietly told me that the reason she could never leave and never seriously considered marriage is that she knew in her heart that she would “love the man to pieces” and he would desert her. In any case, Eddie was the perfect gentleman during our ride but as the train was pulling out, our eyes locked for what seemed like minutes and that gaze nourished my romantic soul for months. I always appreciated that she trusted me.
When any one of us visited Sr. Justinian in her little room near the college, she always had pieces of candy to share, a treat not readily available in the convent of those days. In her eighties, after she had moved to the assistant living building called St Francis, she always offered to do more of her share of dishwashing and other chores. She said she made a bargain with God that if he would keep her legs working, keep her out of wheel chairs, she would be a servant to all, which was her normal stance throughout her life.
I first met Sister Francis Aloysius when I entered St. Ambrose High School as a freshman. We held her in awe. She seemed to favor the older students, so as we went up the grades, she was the one we wanted to favor us, to welcome us back and to greet us warmly after we had graduated. She treated every returning student as if he or she was the most important person in the world, introducing them to her class and inquiring about the details of their lives. I looked forward to being one of these visitors.
But I never returned to visit her classroom. Instead, when I decided at age 17 that I had to check out this possible vocation, this call to enter religious life, she was the one I went to talk to about it. She was full of stories of unlikely young women who left careers and boyfriends, even fiancés, to follow their vocations and who were now very happy.
What was most intriguing about her was a classic dignity, posture, and gesture. I later found out that her father had been a state senator, and I could easily imagine her as one too. A lively complexion, a riveting gaze from her dark brown eyes, and a brilliant smile revealing an occasional gold tooth seemed to be necessary parts of her appearance. Style and charisma had always fascinated me and though I could never truly define those traits, I knew them when I saw them – as I did in her. She was my high school history teacher, but there are only two things I remember from her classes. First, in a debate, she chose Joe Tiziani to defend the then-feared but now disgraced Senator Joseph McCarthy, and me to oppose him. Second, she had her whole class recite the same long poem each day as the school bell buzzed for classes to begin. Now I often mock-repeat part of that poem as a day ends, the seemingly inane words: “Now the sun is going down behind the wood, and I am very happy ‘cause I know that I’ve been good.”
Through the years, she remained good friends with my mother and, after my departure, when I visited the convent, she exercised the same charm with my daughter Marta that she had with her students. My aunt, Sister M. Priscilla, had arranged for Marta and me to have lunch with her and Francis Aloysius and they clearly hit it off. As she aged and had to leave teaching, she was given various tasks at the Motherhouse, finally ending as a seamstress with one of my crowd, Sister Mary Wilma, assisting her. I wasn’t there to see her before her death but Mary Wilma was, and though she repeated often to herself that this death was God’s will and Francis Aloysius was in a better place, she too was disconsolate at the loss.
To be continued . . . .
Journal of a Former Nun 