THE NOVENA TO Our Mother of Perpetual Help and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament the night before restored my soul to peace. I don’t know why that was, but I tried not to analyze it and just accept it. Maybe that’s the key—acceptance. When I’m struggling with something and unable to accept something, I can get myself all upset. I guess I hadn’t really accepted that Gracie was gone and somehow, which I can’t begin to understand, that it was God’s will. Acceptance…boy! I did accept an ice-cream sundae without too much analysis, got home, fixed a cup of tea and retreated to my room.
I sat alone in my squeaky rocker close to midnight. I wasn’t reading or formally praying anything, I was just thinking about acceptance, and accepted that I was different from most of the girls my age. I think I always felt different because I was not as pretty or thin or athletic as the other girls. I wasn’t boy crazy since sixth grade. The coeds at school now were kind of flighty and wild; some others, like flower children, were protesting the war, and others were getting angry over feminist rights and issues; the serious studious ones were on their way to Law School or Medical School or Rabbinical School; and I lived in the world of books and literature, movies and philosophy and was not really sure what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I accepted that my coming to know and, dare I say, love Christ was genuine and was not something I did, but something that was given to me—it was purely a gift, and, for whatever reason, I was ready to receive it…to accept it. Maybe that was a big part of faith—simply accepting what God wants to give, what God has said and revealed about Himself, accepting that God doesn’t want to remain anonymous to His creatures. I also knew and accepted that I would probably be plagued at times with doubts and fears, and always wondering if what I was doing was God’s will, if there is a God. And I accepted that there must be a God who loves us into life, for by ourselves we make such a mess of it, and can’t understand why things happen to people, like Grace Price getting leukemia.
Perhaps I was always an atheist to the world’s gods and goddesses. I feared that Ruthie was falling under their spell. The world can be very seductive and God so very distant, or so it seems. Yet the more I read the Gospels, the more I discovered how much God wants to be close to us. The Incarnation, I knew, was for our salvation, but I think it was also so God could be as close to us as humanly and divinely possible.
I knew the time had come to tell my family what I was planning to do—to be baptized in the Catholic Church. Next week I was beginning my formal instructions with Fr. Rayburne at Blessed Sacrament Church, where Ezra had gone, the church where Gracie’s funeral would be tomorrow. But I was so lacking in courage and so full of fear. Would anyone in my family be able to accept this? I prayed the Novena Prayer to Our Mother of Perpetual Help again. I had “borrowed” the pamphlet we had in our pew.
I told Ezra that I would meet him at church and that he should save a seat for me. I wanted to be at the funeral home in the morning to say my final goodbye before they closed the casket. I left before the others did, and walked over to the church. In about the fifth row on the right side was Ezra and a strikingly beautiful woman in a black muumuu, none other than Lady Gwendolyn. She even had a black lace handkerchief tucked in her bracelet on her right wrist. She had a large, black, floppy hat, with a silk hat band, and a stick pin with a miniature penguin! I had forgotten to get a nice hat—did I even have a nice hat?—so I wore a silk bandanna, one which Gracie always admired. It was a wavy design of muted grays and blues, nothing flashy.
The Funeral Mass was another wonderful turning point for me. I told Ezra afterward that if I had not had a religious conversion months ago, I would have during that Mass. There were a lot of people there, many from television because of Mr. Price, and Gracie’s (and my) old high school. I think there was a contingent of students from NYU where Gracie had had only one semester.
Fr. Kelly, the pastor, came out to meet the coffin at the front door of the church. He wore black vestments with gold brocade that matched the funeral pall they placed over the coffin. They processed up the aisle while the small choir sang the Latin Requiem. Gracie’s family followed; Mrs. Price looking very stoic, but I’m sure she was just holding it all in tightly…some of us learn how to do that quite well.
In his sermon, Fr. Kelly spoke of the Lord’s tremendous love for us, stressing that the Lord loves us even more than we do ourselves. He pointed out how the Lord had a special love for the poor and for children. Let the children come unto me, for to such belongs the Kingdom of Heaven. He tried to make the point that the Lord loves Gracie more than we do; He is her Creator and her End; the Lord loved her so much He couldn’t wait any longer to bring her home to the Beatific Vision of Heaven…and so He called her home.
I don’t know what that means for really old people, but I understand what he was trying to say, and I think it was a consolation to Gracie’s family. But then, just like he did at Christmas Midnight Mass, he zeroed in on the profound truth of who Jesus Christ is—a Divine Person who took to himself a human nature, so that our human natures could become divine in Him. And this begins with baptism. My ears perked up. He said we began Holy Mass by draping the coffin in this black and gold pall praying “that as Grace put on Christ in her baptism may she now be clothed with Him in glory.”
It was a beautiful meditation on baptism and Heaven—the final fulfillment of that first sacrament. He also reminded us that we needed to pray for Gracie’s soul and for any remnants of sin she may have in need of being purified. The Catholic funeral Mass is certainly sobering and solemn. My heart ached at Communion time for the day when I would be able to receive Him so intimately. Oh, I almost forget to mention, it was the first time I realized that Gwendolyn was a Catholic, and I watched her more than anyone as she knelt at the Communion rail, and when she returned to our pew, she knelt immediately and put her face into her hands and didn’t move for probably five minutes. It must be such a wonderful moment, I thought to myself, such a wonderful moment. What a blessing it must be.
The next week Ezra took me to speak with Fr. Rayburne and to get signed up to take instructions. His class would begin on Shrove Tuesday, the evening before Ash Wednesday, and go for the forty days of Lent, plus some. It was only then that I realized there was a schedule conflict with school. The one and only evening class I had was on Tuesday and by time I got here, even by cab, the class would be half over. However, he mentioned that a Dominican priest at St. Vincent’s across town offered convert instruction classes on Monday and Thursday evenings. If I would like, he would call him himself and introduce me before sending me over.
“Monday nights would be perfect!” I exclaimed, already planning in my head my course of action. I could pray in St. Vincent’s before. And so it was all arranged. Fr. Aquinas Meriwether, O.P., would be instructing ten of us in the large parlor of the Priory beginning at 6:30 p.m. until 8:30. He was not waiting till Lent began, but was beginning immediately; actually, they had already begun, but I could catch up. He also asked to meet me Saturday afternoon for an hour to get acquainted and to have a tour of the church. He said he liked to begin in the church proper and introduce the students to the correct etiquette for entering and leaving the church. I told him I would meet him in the Priory at 2:00 Saturday afternoon and that I had been in St. Vincent’s many times already.
Sally was coming up from Philly that Sabbath weekend for some kind of sorority reunion and would be home for Friday night Shabbat supper. I decided that would be as good a time as any to tell everyone. Whenever I said that to myself or Ezra, my stomach did a flip flop. How would they take this news; what if they kicked me out of the house; what would I do; where would I go? All the worst scenarios played in my head till I told myself, “Stop it. You don’t know how they will take it, but the Lord will give you the grace.”
I knew that, I believed that, but I still got clammy palms when I tried to rehearse how and what I would say. I don’t recall anyone in the Feinstein family becoming a Christian. I had a distant cousin in California who became a Buddhist, and nobody seemed to blink an eye at that, so what was to worry?
Friday evening arrived. Mama lit the Shabbat candles and prayed. I silently prayed too, to my other Mother. If I ever needed help it was that night! Papa suspected something was up, as he could always read me. He wanted us to remember my friend, Grace Price, after he prayed the blessing for the challah, which was so kind of him.
My cue came when Sally unceremoniously asked across the table, “So, Becky, what’s new in your life, what’s going on?”
“Oh, I’m taking three courses this semester, including one on Shakespeare; my best friend, Grace Price died a week ago; I lost three pounds this week; and I’m taking instruction to become a Catholic.”
If Sally had worn dentures, she would have blown them across the table. Instead she kind of sprayed us with a mouth full of coleslaw. Mama dropped her fork with a great clunk on her plate. Ruthie exclaimed, “I’m right, I’m right, I win! I bet Bridget Murray that you’re becoming a Catholic.” Papa very quietly quieted her: “Quiet, little one. Please God, it is something you have been thinking about for a long time, and it is not just an aftershock from Grace Price’s death and the beautiful Mass for her?” His voice was soothing. He did not appear startled or visibly upset. Mama, on the other hand, was a bit beside herself.
Mama couldn’t contain herself: “Such news you drop on this table when we’re eating challah? I knew that boy was a bad influence on you, such a schmuck to lead you away like he did.”
“Mama, I’ve been thinking of this since before I even met Ezra. He’s been a great help in many ways, but the decision is totally my own. Not even Gracie had an influence.”
“Well, I think it’s ridiculous and disrespectful,” spake the coleslaw sprayer. “How do you know your mind at 19 or 20? You’re just mesmerized by the art and music in the Catholic Church, but really, Beck, how can you submit yourself to the Pope, and believe that Jesus is God, and all that? I think it’s just a phase that will pass; it’s those books you’re reading. Pass the chicken, please.”
“It’s not easy for me to articulate all this,” I began, “but as circumstance would have it, I have come to know and believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God. I have always loved my Jewish faith and heritage, and even more now, as I see how it comes to completion in Jesus of Nazareth. I’ll have more Mogen David, please.” Mama sat still, unable to eat, which I’ve never seen before. Even when we got the news of Josh’s death, she ate. It was Papa who passed the wine after filling his own glass, and telling Mama to drink a little. It was like Mama was incredulous. Sally wouldn’t let it rest.
“Well, I know you young people are the generation who are rebelling against the establishment. Just look at the hippies and the drugs and drinking and…”
“Sally, darling,” broke in gentle Papa again, “Rebecca is not a hippie or on drugs; she’s not rebelling against us or her Jewish heritage, she’s thinking about the deeper things of life, and has opened her soul to a relationship with the Almighty, may His Name be blessed, which many young people are not doing today. I do not know if I can give my blessing to it,” he looked directly at Mama, “but I can give my blessing for the search. If your mother and I have instilled anything in you, I hope it’s that you are children of God and free in your souls to pursue the path or paths on which the Almighty leads you. Pass the challah!”
“Thank you, Papa. I would never do anything to disrespect you all. I’ve been dying to tell you this for months, but was afraid. I’m not so afraid anymore, knowing that I have Papa’s blessing to search, as he said.” I took a big gulp of wine, grateful for the sweetness and the aftertaste which tickles your nose.
Mama and Sally were silent and picked at their food. Ruthie raised her hand like she was in school: “May I say something now?”
Papa nodded, “Of course you may, Ruthie, this is not a school. But be kind.” Ruthie took a ladylike sip of her wine, reminding me of our tea parties at Horn’s. “If Becky becomes a Catholic, does she cease being Jewish?”
No one answered her, sheepishly looking at each other. It was Mama who broke the silence: “Of course not, look at Jesus.” And we all burst out laughing. After helping with the dishes, Ruthie was off to her girlfriends to, quote unquote, “do homework.” Sally was off to see some other sorority sisters, Papa was embedded in the paper, and Mama was quiet, putting some flowers on the table with the candles for Shabbat, lost for a moment in their flames.
I gave Ezra a call to tell him that it all went well, thank God. “They haven’t kicked me out yet! I want to celebrate—can you meet me at Tea on Thames? My treat.”
It was a bitterly cold night with flurries off and on, but it felt good just to walk over to Broadway and hop on the uptown bus. The cold didn’t seem to keep people from going out for dinner, of course. It was Friday night. I got to Tea on Thames and had to wait in the area by the front door till a table was free. Lady Gwendolyn waved from behind the register while two others waited on tables; Columbia students, I figured.
Ezra arrived before a table was clear, but we soon crowded into one along the side wall. We ordered two pots of Earl Grey and a high tea plate, which was a triple deck dish with assorted pastries and cakes. It was like a meal in itself. I dropped a little saccharine pill into my cup before devouring a cream-filled petit four. I recounted the exchange at our dining room table, except for Mama’s compliments about him. He was excited to hear it all and even more excited to hear about my classes with Fr. Meriwether.
Her Ladyship stopped by after the crowd thinned out and said, “You two look like you’re celebrating something special?” I think she was trying to see if I had a ring on my finger.
“We are,” I half whispered. “I begin my instructions to become a Catholic on Monday, and I told my family tonight during supper.”
Gwendolyn got all teary eyed: “Well, darlin’, I think that’s so marvelous. I wondered if and when that would happen, not that I’m eavesdropping over your conversations the last five months!” We laughed. “I thought something was up with you, Miss Feinstein, since Gracie’s funeral. I’m a Yorkshire Catholic myself, you know, and I’ll tell you it’s been the singular grace in all my life. We’ll be praying for you, darlin’,” and she leaned down and kissed me on the cheek.
The little tea shop became suddenly quiet, as most the people there listened and were probably a little stunned. “It’s lovely,” announced Gwendolyn in her best Yorkshire accent. “It’s lovely.”