“If school is all starting to get to you, you should come here for a weekend retreat, just to get away from the rat-race, and clothe yourself in silence and peace.” I hoped I wasn’t sounding too pious. But Grace just stared at me, twirling the green locks.
“Could I really do that? I’ve never been on a retreat.”
“Of course you could. We have several very small, but very nice guest rooms. They’re not at all color coordinated, but they’ve got pretty sheets.”
“Oh it sounds awesome, but what should I wear?”
“You can come casual…I think you’re familiar with that.” I was going to say a large bandana for starts, but then, I thought it will be fun to see if any of the nuns notice her hair. Probably not, as most keep pretty good custody of the eyes and aren’t gawking at the retreatants. Sr. Paula was already used to the technicolor coif.
Her casual wear was something we would never have worn when I was her age. “You’re fine just as you are; maybe bring some sweaters because it gets chilly in the chapel, and nothing too tight or too short, oh, and quiet shoes.” Grace was into boots up to her knees. You could hear her coming a block away.
And that’s how it all started. Grace graduated from the Fashion Institute in the spring of 1999. For all the time and money one puts into a school, she was unable to land a job in the fashion industry; but she did get a job as a sales clerk at a small boutique in the East Village, “Ester’s Wear-house.” She roomed with four other girls from school, none of whom had jobs as fashion designers.
Grace continued to visit, and made several weekend retreats…they were all “awesome.” It was in mid-June 2000 that she popped the question: “Do you think I might fit into this life?” Now at first glance, it would surprise anyone that this young woman with technicolor hair and an earring in her eyebrow, and purple lipstick, would be thinking of monastic life. I was now on the vocation “team” who would interview her and see if there were any “impediments.” Whenever I heard that word, I recalled my own anxiety when I was discerning a vocation. I was naïve enough to think that being Jewish and going to Barnard were impediments.
We reserved an aspirant’s room for Grace after the Assumption, August 15th, if she would be able to get off work for two weeks. She thought she might; she only got a week’s vacation, but could probably get two. Ester Easton, the owner of Ester’s-Wear-House, liked her. In the meantime, I spent at least an hour or two each week with her. Wednesday was her day off, and she’d come for lunch and stay until Vespers.
She was becoming quite devout, and began attending daily Mass and prayed the rosary every day. Sometimes she’d wear a rosary around her neck, which she said was very “Latino” – although Grace Darlene White didn’t know a word of Spanish. She spoke of a great feeling of discontent with her life as it was lived; first the attitudes and ambitions of her fellow fashion designers, not to mention Ester Easton and her fellow work-mates. She said she felt “disconnected” from them. She was not dating, although she had had a boyfriend at the Institute. She didn’t know if she could live in one place forever and ever, but there was something very attractive about the monastery which she couldn't put her finger on. “I think it may be the Lord, if that doesn’t sound too weird.”
“No,” I assured her, “there’s nothing weird about that. I know just what you mean.” I think I started praying for her every night at Compline that behind the weirdness of being a cloistered nun, there was a vocation there, and Grace’s pierced ears would hear His call.
She listened closely to everything I suggested, and did not argue or resist any of it, at least from what I could tell. She appeared to be a healthy introvert, which most of us are, and could seem to others to be rather shy. But she was also very open and capable of sharing her feelings and fears. By late November, after Thanksgiving, she appeared in the parlor without her usual display of jewelry and the eyebrow ring was gone. Her hair was back to one color, which was not her natural color, but would pass nicely. She called it “dirty blonde”.
I asked her about her parents, and she quite honestly said they were very much opposed to such a preposterous idea, especially after all the money they put into the Fashion Institute. Her mother was the Catholic in the family, but she didn’t always go to Sunday Mass. “I don’t get it,” Grace said to her mother. “Would you be opposed if I went to Israel and joined Leah at the kibbutz?” And her mother said she’d prefer that to a cloistered monastery because at least she could live a “normal life.”
Grace didn’t know how much she sounded like a few of our younger Sisters and even a few of the older ones. She would learn that all of us who enter embrace that cross, heavier for some than others, but God has a way of softening even the hearts of our parents.
“Would you like to join Leah on the kibbutz?”
“Oh no. They have more regimentation to follow then you do here—I think. And they work a lot. I like some things about it, the sense of belonging, but …well, I guess the big difference is that they don’t know Christ. He’s the big difference; and that’s true for the kibbutz and for Americans right here.”
There was a lot more going on in her than she outwardly showed. It was after Christmas, two days before the new year 2001, she donned the ‘habitus’ of a postulant, which reminded her of a 1950s Catholic school girl’s uniform, except the skirt was longer, and she had a short veil for chapel and refectory. The change of clothes is just the beginning, but she was ready. Her hair was all a light brown, atop her “ring-free” ears and eyebrows.
Grace kept in touch with Leah, and wrote to her that she was joining the “Catholic Kibbutz” she introduced her to and that they should pray for each other.
Chapter Fourteen
New Year 2001: “As time goes by”
And no matter what the progress
Or what may yet be proved
The simple facts of life are such
They cannot be removed.
You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by. (From Casablanca, 1942)
Meditation time, or what some call “mental prayer,” is one of the best times in the monastery. I love the early morning after what we used to call the Night Office, now we call Vigils or the Office of Readings. It’s the best time to do Lectio, reading the Scriptures in a slow, prayerful way. I usually read the readings we’ll have at Mass. Sometimes, I confess, I just do the Gospel, especially if we’re in the Old Testament in the first reading. I guess that doesn’t sound very Jewish of me! I also love the forty-five minutes we have after Vespers before supper. Vespers is really that quiet transitional time moving from the business and noise of the day into a quieter, peaceful time. There’s a third period, just after Compline; but that time can also be spent in Squeak in our cell and writing in my journal, usually about the events of the day. Sometimes I think it’s more like a diary than a spiritual journal, but it’s where I remember so many things from my past, and now can see how God has been a part of it all.
The New Year of 2001 did not have the same excitement and psycho-drama as the year before. We had a festive meal on New Year’s night, but no wine, and nothing unusual.
I had a parlor that afternoon with Mama alone. David was spending the day with Sharbel and Olivia. Sally didn’t come to New York to see Mama because she and Mitzie were spending the holidays in Honolulu. Mama was fine, though, and not feeling lonely. I think she actually enjoyed the alone time. I had invited her here for New Year’s Eve to stay overnight.
“Do you get cable on the television?”
“Cable? We don’t even have a television.”
“I should have New Year’s Eve without Dick Clark? No thank you, darlin, I’ll be quite comfortable on West 79th Street.”
So when I saw her New Year’s afternoon, I asked her if she saw the ball fall with Dick Clark. “I only turned the channel back to NBC and Dick Clark five minutes before the ball
fell. I don’t like all the rock n’ roll music before; it’s all so noisy. Not like when Guy Lombardo did New Year’s. But earlier I watched a movie on TCM…are you ready?”
“Am I ready? Don’t tell me it was some horror flick; no, I know, it was probably Funny Girl, or maybe even The Sound of Music.”
“Wrong, wrong, and wrong. It was The Bells of St. Mary’s. Your father used to watch it after you came here, but I never did. Ingrid Bergman, probably a nice Jewish girl, made such a beautiful nun, and Bing Crosby, oy, what a handsome priest he made, enough to make you want to become a Catholic!”
“Ingrid Bergman was Swedish, I don’t think she was Jewish. She was also in Casablanca, of course, and lots of other films. Ruthie and I loved her.”
“She also played Golda Meir, so go figure.” We laughed.
I could tell Mama was slowing down, but she still seemed very youthful to me. I credit David for that; he keeps her active.
“So, no big trips planned with David and your grandson coming up?”
“Sharbel wants to go to Lebanon. He’s never been and he’s half Lebanese. And David wants to go to Israel, so they may combine the two; and they want me to go with them.”
“That would be wonderful, Mama.”
“Don’t I know it. ‘Next year Jerusalem’ could be this year! David said he’d get me a tranquillizer for the plane. ‘A tranquillizer?’ I said. ‘I’m not a horse or a dog.’ At my age, I can handle a little flying. Anyway, that’s not till next summer; Sharbel will be going to college in the fall – wherever he ends up going – and my eightieth birthday is in September, so we’ll go sometime before then…too bad Rosh Hashanah isn’t in August! So we’ll see.”
“Oh, speaking of “new” we have a new answering machine for the phone. Mother Rosaria says it was her Christmas gift to us. It will be a great help, we think, and it frees Sr. Paula from being out front all the time and answering the phone when we’re in the chapel.”
“They’re great, aren’t they? I’ve got one myself; it’s also a good way of screening your calls. The more expensive ones even show you who’s calling.”
“Yeah, they’re amazing. Ours only has a miniature tape deck which records the messages. I like it because people can call for prayers and just leave the message; I don’t have to write them a note back.”
“Sally and Mitzie have one too, and can you believe, at the end of their recorded message they have a dog barking. I figure that must be Cognac wishing everyone a happy new year. So I wished them a happy New Year back and barked a couple times for the mutt.”
It was nice having Mama all to myself…we chatted for almost two hours, and went down memory lane a few times which is a fun thing to do. It’s hard to believe that I’ve lived longer in the monastery than I did at home…that talking about those days is like another life-time…times goes by and we move on.
* * *
January sped by very quickly. I remember we prayed a lot for our new President, President George W. Bush. He was the 43rd president, I think. We aren’t particularly political people, but we pray for the people who are.
The winter months gave the novices lots of indoor work to do. We painted a number of the rooms; and updated some of our religious art. This was a project Sr. Grace especially liked, although we were afraid she’d want to put up something abstract or modern. But in the end, she had a classical mind for art. She and Sr. Brenda were both doing well as postulants. And Emma, the clarinetist from Sarasota, became a white veil novice before Lent, around the time of Mother’s first anniversary.
Her religious name is Sr. Mary Cecilia of the Immaculate Heart. She looks lovely in our habit and it’s as though she glides down the cloister. We had a heavy snow the evening of her clothing which made us all very happy. Well, it made me very happy; I know not everyone loves the snow. Uncle Bo has yet to make a visit. Sr. Gertrude says she hopes he wears his clown outfit.
Our life kind of moves along from one season to another. Lent was upon us again, and I went into hibernation, according to Mama. David had not been back to talk about religion, but seemed to be at peace with coming here, unless it was just a matter of getting used to a routine.
Gwendolyn wrote briefly before Lent began that she and her sister would be spending Easter in Lancashire. They didn’t open a Tea on Thames at Ezra’s shrine, but did host a hospitality room. She said Ezra was looking very good and was very devout. I brought that to Our Lord every night at Vespers in gratitude.
Mama and David were going on a winter cruise, but I would see them after Easter. Sharbel would graduate in the spring and was accepted at Yale, the one university he hadn’t thought about before. I told him about the Dominican parish of St. Mary’s right there on the Yale campus, and that we had cloistered nuns near by New Haven in North Guilford…so he would be surrounded by Dominicans. He promised he would come see me before he left for school. But that didn’t happen. Time can get away from us. But he sent me a postcard of the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library on campus where there is a Gutenberg Bible, dating from 1455.
Dear Aunt Mary,
I thought of you when I saw this Gutenberg for the first time. The campus is beautiful, and I really like St. Mary’s. Please pray for me often. Love, Jackie.
I keep the postcard in the back of my journal.
Our big project – well it was really Mother Rosaria’s big project – was converting our plain old ugly rooftop into a garden. We put in artificial turf which looked real, comfortable chairs, wicker tables, and potted plants. There was also a section off to the back where the novices had potted tomato plants. In another far corner she had put in a trestle like we have in our out back garden, and a two person swing with a canopy over it. It was very nice. Mother did a lot of the nitty-gritty work with us, which I think was good therapy for her. It got her out of her office almost every afternoon.
When the summer heat left, like around Labor Day, we were planning a little garden party to dedicate the roof to St. Joseph. I said little but it turned into a grand production!
Chapter Fifteen
Late Summer 2001
BetzahA roasted egg, which symbolizes the Passover sacrifices brought as offerings to the Temple and is a symbol for the wholeness and continuity of life.
It wasn’t a recurring dream; it just happened two times, but each was as frightening as the other. Maybe Ezra’s visits before he left for England loosened a lot of subconscious memory plaque. I was again around twelve years old in my cyclamen pink dress with a Chantilly lace collar, helping Sally set the table for Passover. I was carrying in Mama’s heirloom Seder plate, but each of the empty pockets had a betzah, a roasted egg, in its place. They are supposed to represent the sacrifices made in the Temple in ancient times; but these were all colored like Easter eggs. When I got to the dining room, Eli was sitting at the table: “Good afternoon, Miss Rebecca.” And the plate crashed on the floor. And I jumped awake, not in the chapel this time, but in the lounge chair in front of the picture window in the infirmary. Sr. Bertrand was next to me; she had also fallen asleep, but my jump and scream, startled her awake as well.
“Goodness lands, child, you’ve frightened me half to death. My poor heart. What are you screaming about?”
“I’m sorry, Sister, I was having a bad dream. I’ve had it before, I drop the…I drop an expensive plate belonging to my mother, and it crashes on the floor.”
“Well, you could’ve dropped it at another time. I think I need my blood pressure pill.” The look on my face must’ve converted her heart, as she immediately changed her tune. “But don’t you worry about it; I have bad dreams all the time. It’s the Brooklyn water—it’s not good for us.” Sister Bertrand was on one of her pet theories: “Causes cancer, arthritis, lumbago, bunions, and bad dreams—mark my word.”
I couldn’t do anything but laugh. She was known for going on about everything. “We’re not getting enough Vitamin D, cooped up in the house all winter and all that air-conditioning in the summer; it’s
not healthy, I tell you.”
“Have you been on the rooftop garden?” I jumped in. “Mother Rosaria did a fine job fixing the roof this summer; it’s been the nicest thing she’s done. She’s been prioress almost a year now, and I think St. Joseph must be very happy with our rooftop garden.” It was named St. Joseph’s Garden.
Sr. Bertrand laughed. “Oh, I don’t think St. Joseph gives two hoots whether we have a roof-garden or not. Granted it’s a nice change to sit up there in nice weather; it has a marvelous view of the Manhattan sky-line. So, yes, our little rooftop patio, is very nice. I’ve only been up there once, mind you, when it was first finished and everyone was talking about it. It’s too chilly up there for me; I like it right here in front of this big window…those trees over there will be turning in another month. Then you can get all the novices out in the fresh air raking the leaves. It’ll be good for them; better than being cooped up here.” She snorted, her little Sr. Bertrand snort.
“I’m looking forward to raking the leaves with the novices. I never got to rake leaves growing up in Manhattan.”
“Well, we certainly did growing up in Westchester County, and we’d burn them too. Not allowed today, I hear. That’s a darn shame, there was nothing so autumn-y as smelling burning leaves…better than being cooped up here.” (snort)
Sister Bertrand moved into the infirmary in March of this year on the feast of St. Joseph. The move was one of Mother’s first decisions. She was a “pip” as Mother told the council when it was decided that Sr. Bertrand was ready. She was getting very forgetful, had fallen a couple times, and could get a little disruptive in the refectory. The more settled Sisters in the infirmary welcomed her warmly and wanted a little tea party in the afternoon to do so. Sr. Amata had a candle and little bouquet of artificial flowers in front of the statue of St. Joseph, and told Sr. Bertrand that she thought St. Joseph must be very happy that she was moving in on his feast day.
The Middle Ages of Sister Mary Baruch (Sister Mary Baruch, O.P. Book 2) Page 15
