17
November 21
Sacred Heart Chapel, College of St. Benedict, St. Joseph
In a simple way, with no stained glass, no flowers, no statues or Way of the Cross stations, the Sacred Heart Chapel at the College of St. Benedict was very beautiful. Simply beautiful. The church had four sections of pews facing a circular, central altar under a huge dome so none of the pews were far from the altar. The walls were simple white with the only ornamentation being the ionic columns supporting the high ceiling. Before Mass, in the spacious narthex, I met a long-time friend and former co-worker, Connie, whose indomitable spirit I always admired. We sat among the many Sisters who walked directly from their connected monastery. The music was divine with the high, clear voices. I noticed the wine came not in small glass cruets, but in large pitchers as nearly everyone took both body and blood.
On the feast of The Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the young priest began his homily with a rhetorical question: “Where have you seen an image of Mary before the nativity?” I was aware that I looked down and to the right, which is where most people focus when they are having an internal dialogue, but I could not recall an image. Images of a young woman with lots of blue and white and gold, but never as a child. The priest explained that Mary was three or four years old when she was presented at the temple and described the painting he saw in Rome of a very young Mary climbing steps to the Temple as she faced the Rabbis and moved away from her parents, which was unusual as most children of that age might start up the steps, but then would run back crying to their parents. Finally, he had us imagine the daunting future the teen pregnant mother faced and urged us, like Mary, to focus on the great things God has done in our lives and to embrace hope.
In my childhood, I swear Mom made up holy days of obligation, but I cannot recall paying attention to this feast day before. Mom’s fervor was balanced by Dad who would try to explain a few holy days away, claiming that Vatican II had eliminated them. Those two! Throughout my childhood our family attended first Friday masses and every holy day including All Soul’s in full Halloween apparel. As a teen, I even had to call our priest and ask for dispensation while being in Germany for two weeks and missing Mass. Mom’s faith was readily apparent in Mass, holy water, and Saint’s feast days while Dad’s faith was definitely “seeing Christ in others” as he often urged; I remember as a child wrinkling my nose, squinting my eyes and literally trying to see Jesus in those around me.
The Nuns
Due to tradition, Dad’s family went by their middle name so he was James despite being baptized Peter James. It was not a problem except for legal documents that used James instead of Peter In his medical appointments, Dad sometimes did not respond quickly or looked confused when medical staff called him Peter since it was on his chart. Other names in the family were also confusing too, like when he talked about his sister Veronica, since he also had a sister, Sister Veronica, who was legally named Catherine Caroline who answered to her middle name as a child. Mom had a sister named Loretta and another sister, Sister Loretta, who later switched to Sister Katherine. Prior to Vatican II, the novitiates were assigned their names by the convent, but we often shook our heads at why the Sisters had their sister’s names when there were so many saint names to choose from. It’s hard to capitalize Sister aloud.
Some of my favorite childhood memories are when the nuns spent a week with us every summer. The nuns were three of my dad’s four older sisters, Benedictine sisters from the Mount Marty Monastery in Yankton, South Dakota. I remember loitering in the kitchen, watching the clock closely and monitoring the driveway for the convent car, which we kids noticed was almost always a light blue sedan.
Sister Bennett was the oldest and usually the main driver. Sister Ann often navigated and Sister Veronica had the back seat to herself. Their personalities were so vibrant and so different. Sr. Bennett was cautious and reserved, disliked being outside and exercise was not her thing. The cherubs that were formed in her somewhat plump knees served as a reminder to me to stay fit. Dad would refer to her as Mother Superior if he felt she was getting too bossy. She completed a Master’s in Theology and taught at Mount Marty College in Yankton, where the mother house was also located.
Sister Ann, baptized Gertrude Ann, was named Sister Imogene when she professed her vows, and then changed to Sister Ann after Vatican II. Sister Ann earned a Master’s in Education. Her life experience included many years of teaching and several of being principal. Later she ran the daycare at the college and always had delightful stories of the babies and toddlers under her care. As a selfish little snipe, I was even jealous of the day care kids because they got to see her all the time and I only saw her for a week each year. I have never met a more nurturing soul than Sister Ann; her hugs were amazing. Plus she was the most game to play with us–card games from Crazy 8s to poker, croquet, water fights–and a fierce competitor in all events. Her approval of my boyfriend meant the world to me.
Sister Veronica was a brilliant scientist with little common sense. Once I helped her carry her luggage, a brown grocery bag, into the house from the trunk of the convent car, questioning why she had brought a bag of garbage: she had grabbed the wrong “luggage.” Sister Veronica’s master’s thesis in biology was on shrew tapeworms and her PhD on woodpecker tongues, though he did not get credit, Dad provided all the specimens. Walking in the Roscoe Prairie and Scientific Nature Area with her was magical. This plot of virgin prairie was east of our farm across a minimum maintenance gravel road. Always quick to laugh and teach, she would give the Latin name of every plant we encountered. Her explanation of how she resolved the science world with her religious beliefs was exquisite. I could never do it justice, but basically she explained that the Biblical days of creation were not the same measurement of time that we know as days.
Though they traveled often, the convent life usually meant they ate cafeteria food and had only their cell or room to keep clean. Sister Bennett loved to clean and Mom would save projects for her. Each sister would plan a meal while they stayed with us and they were some glorious gustatory treats. BBQ Ribs, fry bread, and the delightful Polish kolaches pastries were my favorites. When he found a vibrant patch of wild spinach, aka pigweed greens, that most would identify as a weed, Dad would fence off that section in the pasture for us to harvest. Blanched then loaded with butter, the wild spinach was delicious except for rogue blades of grass.
If I dig deep, I can remember them in full long black habits, the veils and the starched, white whimple at their throats. When their order chose to give up the habit, they switched gradually. Since they had very short or even shaved heads under the hot veils, it took some time to grow enough hair to be presentable. Sister Veronica took a full year as she had gained weight. She methodically calculated how to reduce, lost the weight and never gained it back. Though they no longer wore the habit, they still kept to very plain clothes and hairstyles often giving each other a trim. When I attended the College of St. Benedict and College of St. Scholastica, I could always detect a sister by their clothes, shoes, and haircut. Sister Phyllis at CSS was my Women in Biology professor and a close friend of Sister Veronica. Sister Veronica did not appreciate it when I abbreviated her friend’s name to Syphilis. This is why, people, I needed loads of prayers.
They enhanced our lives, sharing their live culture yogurt, teaching us yoga, describing their trips to the Holy Land, but my favorite was attending the Kateri Tekawitha Pow-wow at St. John’s University with them. Sister Ann and Sister Veronica spent their last decades of work as missionaries on the Rosebud Reservation and were absolutely beloved by the families they worked with, many who attended the pow-wow.
As I grew older, I noticed that they did not. Physically, they aged, but when they gathered, they all reverted to their eighth grade selves. There were five children born in five years with Dad as the youngest. When Bennett, Ann, then Veronica reached eighth grade, they attended Catholic girls’ boarding school in Mankato, MN or Yankton, SD. All joined the convent shortly after high school so the siblings were rarely together from age 14. I noticed the youthful pinching and teasing. And swearing. Mild swearing, but still! From them I noticed that a few salty words used sparingly were highly effective.
In some regards their somewhat cloistered lifestyle made me feel older than them. They had few obligations, were disconnected from anything money related, and lacked some practical skills. Purses and drivers licenses were frequently forgotten, and once Bennett left her suitcase in the elevator at the convent where it rode up and down, up and down for two days until she called after arriving at our house to have someone locate it and pull it out. Meanwhile she had only the clothes she was wearing to last the week. I brought over some pants and a few sweaters, though it was summer, she ran chilly. What I remember most clearly is the animated discussion between them about if Veronica or Ann would donate a bra. The ensuing sizing commentary could have taken place in any girls’ locker room. Offers to purchase new clothing were kindly refused as their vow of poverty was solidly entrenched. If Bennett needed new clothes it would have been an option. In the end I left my donations with Bennett, something about Nun’s clothes made me question their fashion standing. I also knew the clothes might end up in the storage room the sisters mentioned where the belongings of sisters who died were transferred. I pictured a dark cell with a pile of black clothes heaped on the floor, but all three spoke of it like a high-end boutique filled with treasures. Often they would compliment each other on how nice Sister So-and-so’s clothes looked on them. You can’t help but absorb some humility from hobnobbing with nuns. Their vow of poverty was contagious.
Their lives influenced mine. I remember how their faces radiated during Mass. Even on vacation, they wanted to go every day. As my church crawl continued, I found a similar drive. One day I even woke up praying! My pilgrimage was merely a month while theirs was a lifetime and now I counted them among my intercessors, pestering Jesus in prayer for me.
