The Middle Ages of Sister Mary Baruch (Sister Mary Baruch, O.P. Book 2)

by Jacob Restrick

  “David never married, but he fathered a child. This was, what? Ten, twelve years ago, no, fifteen years ago now. She was a doctor doing her residency at New York Presbyterian. I don’t know how they met, but David was always dating doctors or nurses from that hospital. I met her once, such a beautiful girl to be a doctor. She’s Lebanese. Ruthie met her only once too, when they were all home for dinner. Ruthie said afterwards that of all David’s girlfriends, she was the most stunning. She had that beautiful natural olive complexion, you know, and beautiful eyes, and pitch black hair. Such a beautiful woman I couldn’t imagine as my doctor!”

  “And?”

  “And she became pregnant. She didn’t want to get married. I don’t think either of them wanted that; their careers were their spouses, and she was planning to move to Ohio, of all places. Oy.” Mama finished off her rugelach before washing it down with a grimace, and went on. “She wanted to keep the baby, and she said she would always keep in touch with David, and the child would know his or her father. And she kept her word. She moved to Ohio; I think it was Youngstown or Akron, one of those towns out there, but came back and took up residency in Long Island. This was good because David got to see his son. He made me promise never to tell you. I don’t know why, if he is still angry with you, or ashamed, or just very private. So I’ve never told you, and I made Ruthie swear that she would never tell you either. I knew she used to visit you.”

  “And you’ve met him?”

  “Oh, yes, such a fine looking boy he is. He’s got his mother’s eyes which will break many girls’ hearts down the road. His name is Sharbel. Such a name for a boy, it sounds like a cat’s name. I’ve never heard of anyone named Sharbel. I think it’s a Lebanese name. I thought she should have named him Danny Thomas; he was Lebanese. But I was so happy to meet my grandson. He calls me grandmamma. Of course he’s a Catholic, like his mother, but some special kind of Catholic, like Maryanne White.”

  “Maryanne White? Oh, you must mean Maronite Rite. That’s wonderful; there are lots of Maronites in Brooklyn here. They have their church just down the street. And St. Sharbel is a wonderful Maronite saint. He was just canonized in 1979, I think. He was a monk and hermit in Lebanon, and all kinds of miracles occurred after he died, like a light coming up out of the ground where he was buried; and when they exhumed the body, he was completely incorrupt and exuded a sweet smelling liquid.” Mama just sat silently listening to all this.

  “You Catholics have all the neat stuff. I wonder if Sharbel knows all that.”

  “Oh, I bet he does, with a saint’s name like that. You should ask him about St. Sharbel. Well, I can’t believe it… David has a Catholic son…”

  “He’s a wonderful grandson even without a Bar Mitzvah. And he loves his father, you know. His mother never married, so David’s been the only father he knows. He brought him to Shabbat dinner one Friday night, and the boy brought two yarmulkes with him; one for him and one for his father. David wore it without a fuss, just like the old days, I thought. I wished your father was there to see it.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle, which is not the reaction Mama was expecting. “That’s funny after all we’ve been through, huh? A Catholic son, who’s helping David be more Jewish.” Mama had to laugh too.

  “And not a David, Sol, Irving, or Ruben, but a Sharbel.” Mama stomped her foot. “And the boy loves to eat, oy. The four of us went to a Lebanese restaurant for Sharbel’s sixteenth birthday.”

  “How wonderful for you, Mama, you have at least one grandchild. I’m sorry David doesn’t want me to know, and I’ll keep your secret, I promise.”

  “Thank you, Becky. I think David is softening a little in his old age. I think he’ll come around, and bring me here to see you. Talking to Sally has made a big difference too, and I think he’s curious if anything. Besides, Sharbel is dying to meet you. He was thrilled when his father told him you were not only a Catholic, but also a nun. He said he was thrilled to think he had an aunt who was a nun. I think that maybe prompted David to think about things.”

  That was soon after the new year of 1997. Mama would speak of David when she’d come to visit. She missed one Sunday due to the weather, and was surprised to learn that we wouldn’t be able to visit during Lent, unless there was really something urgent going on.

  “Can you talk on the phone during Lent or do they make you keep silent the whole time? I can’t imagine not talking for a month. For a month? Oy, I can’t imagine not talking for a day!”

  “We can talk on the phone, and I even have a phone in my office which I never use, so I’ll call you. And yes, we talk among ourselves except on Tuesdays; and on Fridays we don’t have recreation and keep a greater silence. Silence is good; you have more silence in your life now than you’ve ever had.”

  “Well, I don’t have anyone to talk to all day, but I keep the TV on and Millie Hutner comes over every morning for coffee. And Imogene Levinson pops in once in a while. Her granddaughter, Leah, is giving Imogene gray hair! Poor girl, she lives with her father, after her mother died of cancer, poor thing, and tries to come over to Imogene’s every week. You met them, remember? So, I keep myself busy. David calls me every day, I think to check if I’m still alive! And he asks about you all the time—a good sign, I’m sure he’s coming around.”

  The spring and summer came and went very quickly that year. Mama was a regular visitor now. In September of that year, she came with four homemade apple cakes for the community. And after Sr. Paula prepared our Zabar’s French roast coffee, Mama pulled out a plastic container full of sliced apples and a jar of Zabar’s kosher honey.

  “I have a gift for you for Rosh Hashanah,” Mama announced as she was putting my apples and honey on the turn. “David’s going to come with me next time. Shana Tovah, my daughter, the nun.”

  Chapter Three

  T’shuvahRepentance, metanoia, change of heart

  …because the heart of this people has become dull – with their ears they barely hear, and their eyes they have closed, so as not to see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their heart, and do t’shuvah, so that I could heal them. (Mt. 13:14 on Is. 6:9-10)

  Afternoon thunderstorms are usually a welcome surprise. It gets dark out, and one hears the distant rumble of thunder like a subway passing underneath your feet; sprinkles of rain sputter outside, and a flash of lightning is seen, and you hold your breath and count, and BOOM the thunderclap crashes over the chapel roof. I’m second in line for confession, sitting in the stalls which are designated for penitents who silently go into the nuns’ part of the sacristy, and to the confessional, which is really an open space between two doors. There is a kneeler on our side, and the door has a screen on it covered with a white linen cloth. Father, of course, is sitting on the other side of the door, his right ear towards the screen.

  The thunder makes it all feel quite ominous this time around. BOOM.

  I liked hearing the rain pouring down on the roof as Father gave me absolution; it’s like the grace of the sacrament pouring on our souls in all their brittleness and dry spots. I was halfway through my penance when I remembered I was supposed to be in the infirmary helping the Sisters get down here to the confession, at least those that could go – unless they would want Fr. Kelsey to come to the infirmary afterwards.

  “Father who?” Sr. Gerard said, trying to adjust her hearing aid.

  “Father Kelsey, Sister, he’s our new Dominican confessor; he comes down from St. Catherine’s every two weeks. You went to him last time, remember?” I try to shout, but am never sure these days whether I’m getting through to her.

  “Father who?” Here we go again.

  “Father Kelsey, Sister, he’s our new Dominican confessor; he…”

  “Oh yes, I like him, Fr. Kellys. I went to him last time. But I won’t go this week; it’s raining out.”

  “It is, isn’t it—really hard. But you don’t have to go outside, Sister, Father is just in the sacristy confessional. I can push you there…�
��

  “No, I don’t have any new sins, although I want to gain a plenary indulgence for my second cousin who died last week, but she can wait; I promised Sr. Amata we’d work on a new puzzle.” (She and Sr. Amata were avid jigsaw puzzlers.)

  “That’s fine, Sister, I’m going to check on Sr. Gertrude, and then I’ll make some nice decaf-tea for us all.” Sister fussed with her hearing aid, and waved me goodbye, mumbling to herself something about Tillie, her cousin, who never came to visit her; she can wait.

  Sr. Gertrude was up and in her wheelchair, ready for the trip to the sacristy. She never missed going to the Sacrament of Reconciliation, which used to be called the Sacrament of Penance, or just plain old “going to confession.” Sr. Rosaria was already here too, ready to push her there. Sister Rosaria and I nod at each other and smile. (Sr. Gertrude was humming a new tune she heard on an album from Taize.)

  “I’ll have the teapot on when you get back,” I say. Sister Rosaria smiles even more broadly.

  “Did you hear that, Sr. Gertrude? Sr. Baruch will have the tea kettle on for us when we get back.”

  Sr. Gertrude tilted her head like she does when she’s getting ready to sing. “That will be lovely, dear. A reward for getting shriven. And to my utter amazement she sang the opening line of the Kol Nidre in perfect Dominican Hebrew chant.

  Getting the kettle on, I fix the cups and sit down at the round table in the infirmary kitchenette, my thoughts wandering, Sister’s chant still lingering in my ears…

  Yom Kippur was the one holy day that Mama would go to temple. She said it was to hear the sounding of the shofar and the singing of Kol Nidre which begins the high holy day at sunset the night before. But I think it was to be shriven, as Sr. Gertrude says. The Kol Nidre, always sung in ancient Hebrew chant, very haunting and pleading for God’s mercy marks the Jewish “Day of Atonement.” All vows (kol nidre) and promises and oaths and resolutions one has made to God are wiped away. It’s the closest a devout Jew comes to confession, albeit a “general absolution.” It comes at the end of a week—ten days really—of thinking about one’s weaknesses, failures, broken promises and “vows”. (Kind of like getting a plenary indulgence for the year!) It’s a heavy burden we human beings can schlep around—guilt. For Rabbi Lieberman, I remember, the kol nidre was always a form of not keeping a mitzvah, or commandment of the Law. A devout Jew is conscious of being a son or daughter of the commandments, of the Law, the Law of Moses to whom God gave the Commandments, the covenant.

  The whistling of the tea kettle brought me back to the table in the kitchenette, with its plastic oilcloth table cover displaying an array of autumn leaves. The “penitents” could be a while, depending on how many Sisters were ahead of them, and Fr. Kelsey tended to talk a little more than former confessors. So I fixed myself a cup of tea from the box of Twinning’s Earl Grey which was a gift from Gwendolyn, and that I kept stashed in a back corner of the tea shelf.

  Thinking back as I sipped my tea…Sr. Rosaria was already a novice when I entered. We weren’t especially close in the early years, although we did have a few good laughs, which helped relieve some of the tension. And she was always a wonderful “comic relief” for all the novices because she was so innocent and open about everything. We became much closer after Solemn Profession. I was engrossed in the library for years, and Sister Rosaria was assistant cook for many years; assistant librarian for a couple years; assistant chant mistress; and an assistant organist.

  “I’m a professional assistant,” she’d say, “which is just fine because the buck doesn’t stop with me. I can always pass it on. I’ve never been assistant bursar, come to think of it. I think they’re afraid I would bankrupt the place.” And we’d all laugh.

  She was great with the elderly Sisters in the infirmary, and loved baking special treats for them. She specialized in French pastries. One of her words of wisdom is: “One good thing about getting old and infirmed, you’ll eat better…and sweeter.” We used to joke how nice some of the more disagreeable sisters were when they’d come to visit the sisters in the infirmary. We were at the age now when we could reminisce together about the Sisters with whom we lived in our early years, and are now gone. Sr. Rosaria has a great knack for imitating accents and little gestures which marked off the uniqueness of each Sister. Sister Rosaria also has a servant heart; something Mother John Dominic had, our first prioress way back when – and which I believe Mother Agnes Mary has too.

  Even before the year 2000, when Mother’s term would end in February, there was “buzzing” behind the scenes about who would become our next prioress. I think most of us would not want the job at all, and none of us would campaign for it, unless one did it in an unconscious way. Sr. Thomas Mary, the assistant novice mistress, I think, wanted to be prioress, not because she has or doesn’t have (who really knows?) a servant heart, but because her brother was a monsignor in the Brooklyn Diocese. Sister Thomas Mary was postulant mistress sometime in the nineties. We all thought she’d be novice mistress, but she never was. I don’t know if you can say that someone is “too observant.” Sister Thomas Mary was—still is—a model religious. Sister Anna Maria once said to me: “If the Customary ever got burned up, we’d just have to follow Thomas Mary around to know what we should do.” I don’t think Sr. Anna Maria meant it in a complimentary way. I know she (Sr. Anna Maria) always made a face at me, if Sr. Thomas Mary was assigned to help out in the laundry. She would do it, of course, but always seemed to act as if “assistant-laundry-mistress” (Sr. Anna Maria’s words) was beneath her. Sister Anna Maria had been “laundry-mistress” for over twenty years before she was named sub-prioress.

  “I would have loved to have seen Thomas Mary’s face when Mother announced that she wanted me to be sub-prioress,” Sr. Anna Maria confided to me one day when we were doing dishes in the infirmary kitchenette, chatting about this and that, and slipped into the precarious area of “this one and that one.”

  Sr. Anna Maria, of course, was an ideal candidate herself, although we’d never use that term. She was a good sub-prioress; she certainly knew the sisters well, although she was kind of formal with the novices and postulants. They didn’t always know how to take her humor. She has a very dry wit and loves puns. She is very clever with words…definitely one to keep an eye on. If we were in the world, I would happily be her campaign manager.

  I also liked Sr. Bernadette a lot; she had a wonderful way with the sisters in the infirmary, and more recently as cook. If it came down to a “servant heart” she would certainly be my choice.

  It’s possible to elect a sister from another monastery, but that has never been done here, although we’d surface a couple names each time “election day” was getting close, like six months before! We had an older sister from one of our southern monasteries come, Sr. Caritas, to rest for a few months with us, and we all loved her. She reminded us (her fan-club, that is, which included me) of Mother John Dominic. Again, we don’t campaign for anyone, but Sr. Caritas’s name surfaced among more than a few of us. The biggest drawback, I think, was her age, and that she was not a Sister in our community, even though she knew us pretty well. She came here for a rest, and wound up helping out more sisters than she did in her own monastery. It was like she had to go back to her own monastery to rest from being here! There might have been something of the “workaholic” in her which burned her out, but also kept her going. She died in 2009, the year before her Golden Jubilee.

  Even the infirmary sisters like to buzz about things, at least one in particular, my dear heart, Sister Gertrude of the Sacred Heart. It was still January of the new year, 2000, more than a month before the election. We were sitting alone together in front of the picture window overlooking our cemetery. There was a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, and on each of the stone crosses in the cemetery.

  “I still pray for Ruthie, you know,” Sister Gertrude said out of the blue. We weren’t particularly talking about death, but maybe looking at the cemetery brought it to mind. “I know
she didn’t always understand our life, and why you were so happy here.”

  “I know,” I interrupted her thought. “She used to think our life was ‘sad.’”

  Sr. Gertrude chuckled. “I know. But she also saw that the passion she had for the theater, was like the passion we have for this life, like you have!”

  “Thank you, Sister, but I think you received the Tony Award for that role. Ruthie had a change of heart about us and this place after she met you. That you gave up the lights of Broadway for this…”

  “The Narrow-way. Yes, indeed. But I see that passion in you; always have since you were a novice, and I don’t mean in your talent, which you are adept at hiding, but in the daily grind. The sacrifices you were willing to make to enter this life and to persevere. And I know it hasn’t always been ‘coming up roses,’ to quote a certain mother of Gypsy Rose Lee!”

  I laughed. Sr. Gertrude would quote show people and characters from plays like some of our Dominican Fathers quote the Early Church Fathers.

  “We older and wiser Sisters like to chat once in a while too, you know. And we think you should be the next prioress.” There it was, plop out of her mouth in front of God and all the deceased sisters snug under the snow.

  I nearly choked on my hot cocoa, which really wasn’t that hot. Instead I stomped my foot and laughed. “That’s a riot! But it takes more than a little passion to be prioress, and I’ve poured most of mine out in the library!”

  Sr. Gertrude didn’t respond right away. She sipped her cocoa and took her time with the ginger snaps which were left over from Christmas. Oddly enough, I couldn’t abide them. Maybe because they came out of a bag, were bordering on the stale side, and were not very spicy – not enough ginger in the snap.