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

by Jacob Restrick

We enjoyed the weather on our rooftop garden…autumn in New York stretched out in front of our eyes. In mid-September there appeared a large bowl of apples on every table in the refectory. Someone must’ve made a great donation of apples for us; and, of course, at Vespers I kept thinking of Mama making the charoset for Rosh Hashanah. The Jewish New Year was late in 2005, not until October 4th. It really came and went without my thinking much about it. Maybe because I didn’t have anyone sending me Rosh Hashanah cards anymore. My mind was travelling ahead this year instead. November 1st would be the fortieth anniversary of my receiving the habit and becoming Sr. Mary Baruch of the Advent Heart. Papa and Ruthie were there for that. And it was the last time I saw Papa. He was so proud of me, acting very much like the ‘father of the bride.’

  Ruthie, of course, was swept up in the drama of it all, especially when I disappeared from view carrying my habit, and returned a few minutes later fully clothed. I’m not sure if I thought these thoughts forty years ago, but it must’ve crossed my mind, that these would be my clothes for the rest of my life.

  There’s a little paschal mystery going on when we pass over the threshold of the enclosure door, from the world into the monastery. I decided I would not observe my fortieth anniversary in any big way; I’d save that for ten years down the road. But I would ask Ezra to remember me at Mass in a special way. It would be All Saints’ Day, and he would have the community Mass intention. My meditations after Compline the week before were filled with gratitude and sorrow: sorrow for the thousand ways I was unfaithful or ungrateful in little things. My self-centeredness can still run amuck, and I can be lazy about everything, and have all kinds of unkind thoughts run through my mind over this Sister or that Sister.

  I know the Lord has blessed me tremendously from my earliest youth. Like Him, I knew the love of a Jewish family and the joy of our holidays, even if we weren’t the most observant Jews on the block, as Ruthie once put it. There have been many little paschal moments in my life. I am grateful for them all, even if I have come crashing down on the floor like Mama’s Seder plate. The Lord is with us all the time, and puts us back together.

  It struck me again how moments of death can seem like the crashing of the plate – they are moments of surrender and trust in God’s Infinite love and care for us. My brother Josh’s death was just the beginning of a whole new way of life for me. Gracie Price, my best friend whom the Lord used to bring me to St. Vincent’s on Lexington Avenue where He showed me His Sacred Heart and drew me into His presence in the Eucharist before I even knew who He was.

  There was Papa’s death early on in my life here, and Fr. Meriwether’s sudden death, and then Mother John Dominic. When she died I didn’t know if I could go on. All along the way, Lord, you brought me through. Then there was Ruthie’s sudden death and all that came from it; finally there were Mama and David and all the others whom we have carried in our prayers since 9/11. What joy You, O Lord, brought to my poor soul.

  Such was my meditation two nights before All Saints’. After supper, I grabbed a grungy parka and made my way alone to the cemetery. I had been thinking about all those sisters after Vespers, and it felt like a good night to “visit.” There was just a hint of snow in the air, which would be wonderful for All Saints. At the far end of the building I could see a light on in the chaplain’s quarters. Ezra was settled in and everyone seemed so happy to have him as our chaplain.

  I sat for just a moment on the bench on the edge of the cemetery, distracted by the movement of another sister in a parka heading my way. I guess I wasn’t the only one getting ready for All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days. But it wasn’t a Sister, it was Mother Rosaria. She very quietly came and, sitting next to me, reached over and took my hand.

  “Sister…it’s Sister Gertrude. She’s had a heart attack. I came to get you.”

  I caught my breath and squeezed Mother’s hand. “Oh, Mother…is she...is she?”

  “She’s still with us. Fr. Matthew is on his way to anoint her, and we’re gathering as many as we can. Sr. Bertrand was sitting in the picture window praying her rosary and she grabbed me and said, ‘Get Baruch; she’s out in the cemetery.’”

  We rushed off together, hanging up the parkas and making our way to the infirmary. Ezra arrived shortly after us but before the doctor. He spoke in a clear but soft voice, and prayed the prayers for the dying. Then he anointed her head and hands with the oil of the sick and prayed the beautiful prayer bestowing on her the Apostolic Blessing.

  Mother arrived with Doctor Hirsch, who felt Sr. Gertrude’s pulse and listened to her heart. Her breathing was very shallow. She was not perspiring nor did she appear at all agitated. The doctor said she should not be moved from here. She was comfortable and not in pain. He left a sedative and a heart pill in case she should become agitated or experience chest pains; he was not sure if she would make it through the night.

  Sr. Elijah Rose asked permission to stay the night with her. “Perhaps not the entire night, Sister, that’s very kind of you. Stay till midnight, and we’ll see how she is then. I’ll be here with you too.” I looked over at Mother to presume permission, and she whispered: “of course.”

  There were perhaps twelve Sisters gathered around her bed and out the door. Sr. Lucy quietly, but with perfect pitch, intoned the Salve, and we all sang without perfect pitch, but with much fervor. One by one, the Sisters quietly left; the infirmary Sisters were last to leave.

  Sr. Amata put a framed picture of the Sacred Heart on the bed table and placed a single vigil light in a red glass held in a golden vigil candle holder with ruby-like stones around it. Each Sister then came to her bedside and kissed her hand. Sr. Gertrude didn’t stir, but slightly moaned and changed the position of her head. Sr. Elijah Rose and I sat on the opposite sides of the bed and quietly prayed the rosary together. I took my old pocket rosary and put it in Sr. Gertrude’s hand, and used my side rosary to pray.

  We could hear the Sisters singing Compline over a distant P.A. in one of the infirmary rooms:

  …Upon you no evil shall fall,

  no plague approach where you dwell.

  For you has he commanded his angels,

  to keep you in all your ways…(Ps. 91)

  The reading at Compline we knew by heart: They shall see the Lord face to face and bear his name on their foreheads. The night shall be no more. They will need no light from lamps or the sun, for the Lord God shall give them light, and they shall reign forever (Rev. 22:4-5).

  Sister Elijah Rose and I sang very quietly along with the Sisters over the P.A.: Into your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit. You have redeemed us, Lord God of truth.

  We sing these words every single night, and yet how full of meaning they become when sitting at the deathbed of one you love. Lord God of truth. In the end, it’s the truth that matters; and we have given up our whole lives to live by that truth, who is not a thing but a person – God.

  Lord, now you let your servant go in peace; your word has been fulfilled: my own eyes have seen the salvation which you have prepared in the sight of every people: a light to reveal you to the nations and the glory of your people Israel.

  I thought of Sr. Gertrude’s little Tony Award acceptance speech when she told us about the single light left shining on the empty stage. From there she found the light of the tabernacle burning in the sanctuary of St. Malachy’s Church. Here there was one before the Sacred Heart of Jesus whom she loved with all her own heart. The vigil light by her bedside flickered and seem to make the image of the Sacred Heart breathe.

  And then it got very silent. Mother stopped in around 10:30 to see how things were, and asked if we needed anything. Without our answering, she said she’d bring us each a cup of chamomile tea, which she did. I thought, it’s the little things people do that count so much. I could remember Sr. Gertrude saying to me once: “It’s the little scenes that matter; not the show stoppers.” That’s our life. It’s little scenes, one after another, day after day.

  I could see Sr. Elijah Ros
e beginning to nod during the third decade of a second rosary, so I told her she should go to bed; she could stop by here in the morning on her way to Matins. Sr. Maureen, who was assistant infirmarian now and would be here all night, looked in and then made her way to the infirmarian’s cell.

  It was a little after midnight, and Sr. Gertrude turned her head slightly towards me and opened her eyes. She smiled and whispered: “Sister Mary Baruch?”

  “Yes, Sister, I’m here. Do you want some water?” And she nodded her head, so I held the glass down by her mouth and she drank through a straw. “Are you warm enough, Sister? “ I was fussing with her blanket, but she waved “no” with her right hand.

  She turned her face to the picture on her bed table with the single candle burning. Only a table lamp was lit in the corner. Sister again turned towards me and had the most serene face I ever saw and such a lovely smile. She said: “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

  I couldn’t say a word, but recognized the question instantly. And so I kind of muttered: “It’s the Passover question…” I don’t think Sister even heard me, and a little louder I simply said: “Tonight is your night, Sr. Gertrude.”

  “Tonight is my night,” she repeated. “I think this is the final curtain.”

  I took her hand in mine, and said: “I think it is…are you ready to make your curtain call?” She smiled again.

  “I’ve been ready for a long time.” And she closed her eyes for a moment then looked at me again: “What time is it, dear?”

  “It’s almost 1:00 o’clock in the morning.”

  “Oh my, we’re late for the midnight office.”

  “That’s right, but we’ll make it up a little later. Try to rest now, Sister.”

  Only a couple minutes went by. She opened her eyes again and looked at me. “Sister Mary Baruch?”

  “Yes, Sister, I’m right here.”

  “Tell the other sisters I will get a place ready for them; we’ve got an opening night to get ready for…” and her voice faded, but she squeezed my hand.

  “I’ll tell them, Sister; but they’ll all be by in the morning. You can tell them then.” I could feel the silent warm tears roll down my cheek. Sister opened her eyes again and looked at me: “Everything will be just fine…tell them everything will be just fine…” and her voice faded off.

  I sat in silence. The words of Compline came back to me: For you has he commanded his angels, to keep you in all your ways. And I realized Sr. Gertrude had spoken the words of Eli in my dream: Everything will be just fine. Eli our doorman was like our guardian angel, letting us into our home and keeping us safe.

  Lost in my thoughts, I think I dozed off for a moment, but woke up quickly when Sister Gertrude became a little agitated. She was having a difficult time breathing, or so it seemed. I quickly took her hand again. She became very calm and opened her eyes, but this time she wasn’t looking at me. She had a beautiful smile, and spoke in a whisper, what sounded to me like “Mama”. Her eyes opened wide with amazement; she sighed heavily and took her last breath. Her eyes were fixed on something…or Someone. Then she was gone.

  I sat and just stared at her. “Mama” she said. Mama. I knew Our Lady had come for her, to take her to the Lord. She is the Porta Caeli, the gate of Heaven, the “doorman” to Eternal Life. I looked at my watch…3:33 A.M. I sat there for maybe fifteen minutes, praying, and I kissed her on the forehead and closed her eyes, and made my way to the infirmarian’s cell. Sister Maureen called Mother who came within a few minutes. The Sisters would be making their way to the chapel for Matins. Before Mother prayed the O Sacred Banquet, she announced that “Sr. Gertrude of the Sacred Heart has gone home to the Lord.”

  Without a pause to reflect much; the Office became the Office of the Dead with the beautiful First Antiphon: From the earth you formed me, with flesh you clothed me; Lord, my Redeemer, raise me up again at the last day.

  There was a stillness in the house all day. It reminded me of the stillness of Holy Saturday. The infirmary sisters were quiet; there were no cards being played or jigsaw puzzles being worked on; everyone seemed enclosed in their own thoughts. Sr. Gertrude’s final scene was without drama, and it was “played out” here, not in a hospital or nursing home. It was sudden, but not surprising. It was just the way she would have wanted it to be.

  And, Lord, I was with her. You gave me that great privilege to be holding her hand and as she would say, to be on stage when the curtain came down. It is a moment I will always cherish.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Vespers, All Souls’ Day 2005

  Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord, Lord, hear my voice!

  O let your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleading. (Ps. 130)

  It has been quite a time the last few days. We received the body of Sr. Gertrude before Vespers on All Saints’ Day, and our Evening Prayer was full of joyous Alleluias. It was hard to believe that this body was eighty-nine years old; her face was smooth without the usual wrinkles. Her rimless glasses were on and her expression wasn’t quite real looking, but it was Sr. Gertrude. Last evening before Compline was the public wake and a number of people came to pay their respects. These were mostly life-time friends of the monastery. Mr. Feldman of Solomon’s Deli’s down the street came with his wife and two daughters. And there was a young mystery woman who came swathed in black, reminding me of Gwendolyn from years ago. She met with Mother in the Prioress’s parlor briefly afterward. All we learned about her was that she was an actress and a friend of Sr. Gertrude’s. Perhaps she was Mother’s connection with getting a Tony Award statuette. Sister’s great nieces and their husbands came briefly last night, but were not here for the funeral this morning.

  Her body lay in the middle of choir for Matins and Lauds today, All Souls’ Day. The funeral Mass was at 3:00 o’clock this afternoon as our dear bishop said he wanted to offer the Mass, but could not come till the afternoon. We sang the Gregorian Requiem Mass Setting which is really filled with inexpressible beauty and joy. Fr. Matthew preached a moving homily on the single line in the first Preface for the Dead: “Life is not ended, just changed.” The bishop gave a spontaneous eulogy before the final commendation. He told us Sister Gertrude corresponded with him since he was a young seminarian and was like a spiritual mother to him. He called her “Sister Gert,” and had us all near tears when he put his hand on the coffin and spoke to her: “Sister Gert, I shall miss you and pray for you every day, and can only imagine the glory of Eternal Life, as your ‘opening night’ unlike none other.”

  Wrapped in our black cappas we formed the final procession from the chapel to the cemetery out back. I thought of all the times Sr. Gertrude and I and countless other Sisters had sat with her by the picture window looking out on this scene. We have the custom now to chant the Litany of the Saints in Latin as we make our way to the graveside. It’s our way of calling on all the Court of Heaven to come and welcome her. There must be so much joy in the crowd there to welcome her, and our own small Communion of Saints along with the big one.

  It was a clear crisp afternoon; the sun was low in the sky casting long shadows across the cemetery lawn. The grave-side prayers of commendation were prayed by Fr. Matthew who wore our old black cope which I think he brought out of storage…he knew the vestment had to be just right. Sr. Gertrude’s plain wooden coffin was lowered into the ground. The bishop, Fr. Matthew and Mother sprinkled the grave with holy water as we all sang our final Salve Regina, as is our Dominican custom.

  We would normally process back together into the monastery, but Mother had given the Sisters in the infirmary permission, at their request, to remain graveside while the funeral men filled in the grave, gathered their equipment, and left us alone. I had planned to process in with the novices, but waited and stood with Sr. Gerard and Sr. Bertrand. I knew the Sisters in wheelchairs would appreciate a push back as well. Sr. Anna Maria stayed back as well, as did Sr. Maureen. We just wrapped our cappas tighter around us as the sun slowly set be
hind the clouds. Before the grave was completely filled in and the men left, Sisters Elijah Rose, Leah Marie, Mary Cecilia, Sheila and Pretty Flower made their way back to the grave, so we were a good little group surrounding the grave. Sr. Mary Cecilia brought back a funeral bouquet of red roses from the chapel and laid it on the grave.

  We were standing (and sitting) there in the silence of the graves – each, no doubt, lost in her thoughts remembering Sr. Gertrude. Then Sr. Benedict called us to gather close together as she pulled out a round pitch pipe from under her cappa. “Sister Gertrude, our dear sister, our dear friend, we shall miss you more than words can say—so, Sister Honeybunch, this is for you.” And in lovely soft harmony we sang Sister’s favorite song from A Chorus Line:

  Kiss today goodbye,

  The sweetness and the sorrow.

  Wish me luck, the same to you.

  But I can't regret

  What I did for love, what I did for love.

  Look my eyes are dry.

  The gift was ours to borrow.

  It's as if we always knew,

  And I won't forget what I did for love,

  What I did for love.

  Gone,

  Love is never gone.

  As we travel on,

  Love's what we'll remember.

  Kiss today goodbye,

  And point me t'ward tomorrow.

  We did what we had to do.

  Won't forget, can't regret

  What I did for

  Love…

  What I did for

  Love…

  The cold November air was still. Only the creak from the old apple tree could be heard. Silence. Then the monastery bell tolled…calling us to Vespers.

  -Curtain-

  * * *

  [] Epikeia: A liberal interpretation of law in instances not provided by the letter of the law. Etym. Greek: epieikes, reasonable. In short, when “charity” replaces another already standing virtue. Cf: Summa Theologiae, Secunda Secundae, Question 130.