Sixteen

I STEPPED OUT ONTO West 79th Street and pulled my jacket on as I headed west to Broadway where I planned to get a crosstown bus but changed my mind and headed uptown on Broadway towards Tea on Thames. Looking in the window, I saw two familiar girls wiping down tables—I went in, and there were Gwendolyn and Greta. They said they were there to hold me up or sit me down, or get me drunk—whatever my soon-to-be cloistered heart desired. They figured I’d head there after the Farewell Discourse, and they were right.

Gwendolyn liked to shock Greta with outrageous proposals. Greta finally agreed to the limo, but reneged on the string quartet playing “Climb Every Mountain” by the enclosure door. Gwendolyn had it all planned out. The limo driver would pick her up first, with her two boxes of Cloistered Crumb Cookies, already proving to be a big hit at the café. (They were black and white dough with a nougat center covered in crumb cake with a sticky sweet syrup in the shape of a cross or a Star of David. “Very popular on the Upper West Side,” she said). Then they would pick up Papa, and go crosstown to East 79th Street. I learned from them that Ruthie had wanted to go too, but Papa said not this time. I was happy she at least wanted to go.

May 31st. Our Lady’s Visitation to Elizabeth. Greta and I went to Mass at St. Vincent’s, and Fr. Meriwether brought us into the parlor of the priory afterwards. He had coffee and half a bundt cake waiting for us. He seemed very pleased, and both paternal and fraternal, which is hard to explain. He promised he would remain my spiritual director and would visit me bi-monthly, if not more often.

It was almost as difficult to say goodbye to him as to Papa. He was my other father in so many ways, and I wouldn’t be doing what I was doing without his having been there for me. His blessing was a great gift (such a blessing!), and I remember kissing his hands afterwards, something I had never done before. The hands of a priest…and he was my priest. I asked Greta to stay with him for a while longer as I wanted to go back into the church for just a few moments by myself, and I would meet her out front.

I was only going to Brooklyn, but it was a heartache to say goodbye to my dear St. Vincent’s Church. How could I ever say goodbye to it? Would I ever see the inside of these walls again? How mysteriously and wonderfully God’s grace touches our lives, I thought, as I pushed the heavy doors from the vestibule into the church. The familiar smell of incense and candles brought it all back to me—that Saturday morning when I first stopped in here to light a candle for Gracie.

I went over to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, High Priest, and lit another candle, for me, I guess, and I said a quiet goodbye, but knew that it wasn’t really goodbye because He was with me. And I knew the same Lord was waiting for me in the tabernacle and monstrance at the monastery. It made the leaving a little easier, but it was nonetheless sad, mixed with tearful gratitude. After one last glance at the statue of St. Vincent, still preaching, I hesitated, hoping maybe his bell would ring for me, but it didn’t…thank goodness!

Greta and I got back to the apartment before the limo arrived. I had only one large suitcase and two boxes of books, and another bag with photos, and my Sacred Heart statue and Perpetual Help icon, not sure if I would be allowed to have them (I purposely didn’t ask ahead of time, in case they said no). I also brought bedroom slippers and a six-month supply of Ipana, my favorite toothpaste.

Before we knew it we were zipping down FDR Drive, and our in-limo lingo was light and frivolous. Papa was exaggerating Ruthie’s disappointment at not coming with us, making us all laugh. Dear Ruthie, I thought. I would be missing her graduation in three weeks, and her running off to Europe with four other girls for the summer before she started New York University of Dramatic Arts. I don’t know how she got Mama to consent to her going to Europe with four girlfriends!

I would also be missing Br. Matthew’s profession, and Reba Schooner’s wedding (one of the librarians from work). The wedding was going to be at the Public Library Main Reading Room—how weird, but then, Reba was a bit strange. At least she chose the Reading Room, and not the stacks.

Greta was telling Papa and Gwendolyn about her as I watched the blocks of Lower Manhattan whiz by. Thank you, Lord, for letting me be born and raised in this marvelous city where I came to know You and love You…

The limo jerked to a stop in front of Mary Queen of Hope, the late morning sun painting the entire east wall of the extern chapel. The stone Gothic façade seemed to be absorbed in peace and quiet, even on the outside. I was pointing out to Papa the frieze of Our Lady of Hope over the entrance, when Sr. Mary Vincent came bursting out the door, as excited as if the Mayor or the Queen of England were arriving. Sr. Grace Mary followed suit, and the cookies and bags all seemed to disappear before we got ourselves inside.

“There’s coffee in the guest dining room; Mother wants to meet with Mr. Feinstein in the Prioress’s Parlor in five minutes, alone, and then at noon, after the bells for the Angelus have stopped ringing, Rebecca, dear, present yourself at the enclosure door and knock lightly three times, then kneel. Mother will open the door and welcome you, so best to say your goodbyes before.” Sister grabbed Papa by the arm and off they went.

Greta, Gwendolyn, and I popped into the chapel to make a visit. Gwendolyn loved the guest chapel because it was small and cozy, like a “cozy” on a teapot. She looked especially cozy herself today in her flower print muumuu and yellow floppy hat. A rose color cotton jacket made it all modest; she sported brown Birkenstock sandals and a straw handbag, which had a vase of spring flowers embroidered on the side. No penguins, till we got to the guest dining room, and a little stuffed penguin with a happy face and yellow feet appeared out of her bag.

“You’ve got to smuggle Vicky in with you. She’s always wanted to be a nun since her husband died.”

Greta rose to the occasion and asked, “Dare I ask what Vicky’s husband was named?”

“Albert.” She spoke as if it were Vicky who was talking. “She’s all yours, darlin’, so you’ll never forget me.” Gwendolyn leaned over and gave me a huge hug and kissed the top of my head. “I can’t say goodbye, so I’m running down to the Promenade. I’ll be back at the limo after the bells stop.” And she ran off, leaving me with Greta and Vicky.

Greta, being much more composed, suggested I stick Vicky in my jacket pocket and not carry her in, and said that penguins like to burrow under pillows. So I did. She also said she would stay behind when it came time and would take care of Papa. She also told me that she did not intend to rent out my room. If it didn’t all work out, I had a room waiting for me. She hugged me too and said, “I shall remember you each day at Holy Mass.”

“We shall remember each other there. You’ve been a dear, dear friend, and I’ve been so blessed to know you. Leaving you and our apartment is a real part of my cost of discipleship.” I had never seen Greta Phillips shed a tear till that moment.

It seemed that Papa was a long time alone with Mother John Dominic. He’d spoken to her longer than I had! But finally he came out, delighted with his talk. “Such a fine lady, such a holy woman—you are going to be so blessed, my little Raf.”

I knew Papa would like her, and I was secretly grateful he didn’t meet with “the other one.” Papa saw that Greta and I had been crying, and he tried to make us laugh, God bless him! “Such a happy time to be so sad. You Catholics have no monopoly on that paradox, you know.”

Greta added, “You can say that again.”

“You Catholics have no monopoly on that paradox.” And Papa giggled at his own Vaudeville joke, and Greta giggled. All three of us began to chuckle.

“Such beautiful candles you have in that chapel; your Mama said I should knock you on the head with one and throw you back into the limo.” Imitating Mama’s voice, he added, “It would be such a blessing.” And we burst out laughing.

“You can say that again.”

“It would be such a blessing.” We roared; Greta was holding her side she was laughing so hard. And then the first bell rang. The Angelus. Greta kissed me quickly: “I love you”… and disappeared into the chapel.

Papa and I went to the enclosure door—my arm in his, and I hung on, and for the first time, didn’t want to let go. The bells were ringing and would soon stop. Papa held me close and neither of us could speak. I felt his chest heaving in sobs…the bells stopped…Papa looked into my eyes, tears freely falling from his own.

“May the Lord bless you, my daughter, and keep you. May He make His face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you, and always give you His Peace. Shalom, Rebecca Feinstein.” He kissed my forehead and moved away.

“I love you, Papa.” “I love you, Raf.”

I knocked three times and knelt down.

The door opened, and there was Mother John Dominic and all the sisters behind, holding lighted candles and smiling.

“Arise, my daughter, and welcome home.” I walked through the door into their smiling faces and never looked back. My heart was full of joy, and there in candlelight, beaming a radiant smile, was Sr. Catherine Agnes, nodding her head in welcome.

The chantress intoned Psalm 121, the Pilgrim Psalm:

I rejoiced when I heard them say, let us go to God’s House,

and now our feet are standing within your gates, O Jerusalem.

I was indeed home. Shalom.

Four months later, on the feast of St. Thérèse, something very special happened. She sent me a bouquet of roses that day in the form of many graces. Mother John Dominic called me and Sr. Catherine Agnes into her office that morning—together. That in itself is unusual; I was sure I had done something grievously klutzy, and Sr. Catherine Agnes was marching me into the principal’s office—that’s how it felt. But Mother was all smiles and embraced me when I entered. No principal ever did that!

“Sr. Rebecca, the Council met yesterday afternoon and we decided unanimously (Sr. Catherine Agnes smiled) that you are ready, if you so petition, to begin the novitiate. We are thinking of December 8th. You will have completed six months’ postulancy, and while our normal time these days is nine months to a year, we do not want to hold you up (She paused to let this sink in). There is also, I’m sorry to say, another reason to consider. Your father, dear, has taken a turn in these last weeks. He is still able to move about with help, but the doctors, according to Gwendolyn, do not give him much time beyond the new year.” Mother paused again to let me absorb this news little by little. She had crinkly eyes at times like these, and her smile was ever so gentle and reassuring.

“We know what a sacrifice it has been for him to have you enter here—a joy and a sacrifice, that mysterious paradox, to quote your father. He and I have spoken often since your entrance (I didn’t know that!). And he accepts in such a faith-filled way that you are to be a Bride of Christ. He even uses those words.”

“I know, Mother,” I broke in, “he’s been greatly influenced by The Sound of Music.”

Mother crinkled. “Yes, I know, dear. He thinks I’m Peggy Wood in person and is afraid I’ll ask you to leave to climb every mountain with some Captain von Trapp.” We both laughed, except for old Sr. Catherine Agnes, who didn’t get the allusion.

“He’s quite endearing, as you no doubt know, and I know your dear mother does not share his joy at your ‘nuptials,’ shall we say? But we both want his remaining weeks and days to be full of hope.” (I didn’t know if we meant my mother and her, or she and I, and I didn’t ask.) Mother shifted slightly in her chair and leaned forward towards me, like she was going to tell me a nunnery secret.

“As you know, the custom of wearing bridal gowns at the clothing ceremony has been discontinued since just before Vatican II. We haven’t done it now for almost ten years. But Sr. Catherine Agnes has suggested that we might make an exception in your case since all your father can speak about is your wedding day. It’s quite moving, I’d say, since he’s not even of the Faith. So what do you think of that?”

I couldn’t tell her my immediate reaction was one of shock that it was Sr. Catherine Agnes who came up with the idea. I think I looked at her with a softer emotion from that moment on. I collected my thoughts for a moment and then told Mother and Sr. Catherine Agnes that I was very touched by their consideration of my father, and it would bring great happiness both for him and for me.

Sr. Catherine Agnes actually smiled, and seemed very pleased with my approval of her idea. Who were these women, and what depths of soul lived hidden beneath that veil and wimple? I knew it was an experience of God’s love for me in such a real and familial way.

As it turned out, Papa’s condition became much worse in the next weeks. The doctors now did not think he would see Thanksgiving. It’s difficult to explain what happens to one in the face of such a dooming future and a newly found sense of powerlessness in helping. This whole monastic structure and dynamic, I learned so early on, was held together by common agreement, much of it written down, following established precedents or establishing new policy or rule. I wanted to love my new life and to give myself to it fully. It killed me not to be at home with Papa, and yet I knew he wanted me to be right where I was and to be a part of it. That awful disease was making it all impossible, and I didn’t know what to do.

Mother John Dominic was not a woman to be outdone by the powers of death. Nor was she a nun to be blinded by observances which were meant to transform our lives, not paralyze them. She had authority to serve the needs of those under her charge, and she would do all she could to let the Sister experience life at its most poignant moments within the exigencies of our life. I say all that in retrospect of course. I only knew how devastated, confused, and powerless I was feeling at the time, only a beginner in the life here.

Mother contacted the Bishop immediately and requested a canonical dispensation for “time”—counting my previous visits, if necessary. And she got it. I was to receive the habit on All Saints’ Day, November 1st. It was to be a quiet affair: my family and a few close friends. I told Mother that my family would not attend, to which she informed me, “Your father and Ruth will be here.” She always seemed to know more than I did about things!

I invited the obvious friends: Gwendolyn, Greta, and Br. Matthew, who couldn’t come. I also invited the Prices, including Gracie’s brother, William. Fr. Meriwether would be here with our chaplain, Fr. Antoninus, and that was better than having the Bishop.

So that’s how I got the hand-me-down 18 and a half wedding gown and pillbox veil. A platform was placed by the grille for my father’s geri-chair. He was thin and very pale, but quite alert. He insisted on being dressed in a suit and tie—his old tuxedo was too big on him now. He was propped up on pillows and well attended by Gwendolyn and Ruthie.

The chapel was so beautiful that morning, with two dozen white roses by Our Lady’s statue, a gift from the Price Family. I could see Papa and Ruthie by the grille. Ruthie gave a short excited wave when she saw me. It was her first time here, and she looked lovelier then I remembered. I think she had her hair done and was wearing mascara…the ex-European drama student from NYU.

I don’t know if Papa had ever attended an entire Mass before—perhaps a wedding or funeral at one time or another—but he was most attentive, and only dozed off a little by the Agnus Dei (or so I’m told). To my great delight, Fr. Meriwether preached the sermon, which we’re now calling the homily.

After the homily, I came forward to a chair set beside the grille and knelt before Mother John Dominic. It was Mother who gave me my new name, but Fr. Meriwether who announced to me and all present, that Rebecca Abigail Feinstein would be known in religion as Sr. Mary Baruch of the Advent Heart. I was surprised and pleased, and just a little disappointed.

After Mass, I met with Papa, Ruthie, Gwendolyn, Greta, and William Price in the large parlor. They were all thrilled to see me, as if it had been years! And I think they were even a little awestruck at seeing me in the Dominican habit, with its full sleeves and soft white veil over the coiffure that covered even my neck. Gwendolyn said I looked “holy, and ten years younger,” and where could she get one in powder blue?

Ruthie was amazed by it all and had a thousand questions, and more than once said that “Mama should’ve seen this.” She put a small box on the parlor turn, and said, “It’s from Mama.” It was a lace and linen handkerchief embroidered with tiny blue flowers and a Star of David. I recognized it immediately. It was Mama’s from her wedding day. It was the best gift I ever received, next to Papa being there in his navy blue suit.

“Sister Mary Baruch Feinstein,” Papa said, as if he were trying it on for size. “Baruch is a fine name for a Feinstein.” He gave his old endearing giggle.

I remarked immediately, “Ruben would have pleased me more, but I’m happy because Mother John Dominic chose Baruch for me.”

Ruthie got into the name game: “Does it have to be a man’s name?” She was no doubt thinking of Sr. Vincent and Mother John Dominic.

“No, not at all, it can be either a man or a woman’s name, as long as they are a saint or an Old Covenant holy man, or woman, like Ruth!” I thought that would please her. I could see her thinking ahead of me speaking…

“I would want to be Sr. Laurence,” she announced.

“After St. Lawrence?” I was almost astounded at her hidden knowledge.

“No,” Ruthie proclaimed, “after Sir Laurence Olivier.”

Gwendolyn actually got in the last punch: “Well, that’s better, my dear, than Lawrence Welk!”

Greta thought Ruthie’s wanting to be named after Laurence Olivier was the funniest thing she’d heard in a long time, and she and Ruthie struck it off from then on. Ruthie and Gwendolyn, of course, had been friends for years. But Greta had actually read a biography of Laurence Olivier and knew all about him.

Not to change the subject, which Ruthie was fond of doing, she said, “I saw that handsome monk friend of yours at Gwen’s place.”

“Ezra? Really? How is he?”

“I think he was with his girlfriend.” Gwendolyn quickly jumped in.

“That’s not his girlfriend, silly. She’s just a friend; she’s a friend of Becky’s, I mean, Sr. Mary Baruch’s too.”

“Who could that be?” I was wracking my brain thinking of the friends from Barnard whom Ezra would have known too…

“You know, the woman from St. Vincent’s who went to Massachusetts with you.”

“Oh, Barbara Parker, I didn’t realize they had become friends.” I think I had just a twinge of jealousy, not because I thought of Ezra—Br. Matthew—in a romantic way, but because I was his friend who had tea at Tea on Thames with him. It was where we had first met.

Poor Papa didn’t have much of a chance to get a word in, but he sat contented to listen to us and to kind of gaze at me, in amazement. Our parlor visit wasn’t very long, as the Angelus was ringing and calling me to the refectory. I could have had a couple hours in the afternoon, but Papa was really tired. We touched fingers through the grille, and told each other we loved each other. I told him to “kiss Mama for me, and tell her I’ll cherish her gift forever.”

It was the last time I saw him.

Being a novice, I was now under Sr. Mary Trinity, the Mistress of Novices. I also got to see Joanne more, who was Sr. Anna Maria of the Sacred Heart. There were two others ahead of us, Sr. Thomas Mary, and Sr. Rosaria Mary. We made a lively little group; it didn’t seem like I was a little schoolgirl anymore, more like a university sorority sister—just without drinking, smoking, boys, or hours on the phone! We were given more responsibility while still learning all the different ways we did things and the monastic vocabulary.

I suppose one learns an esoteric vocabulary in every profession. Just learning how to put on the cap, bandeau, and two veils, using only that silly postcard-sized mirror, often made for giggles when we’d arrive in choir for Lauds. More than a few times, my bandeau was down below my eyebrows, and if I sneezed I was afraid it would slip down and cover my eyes. One also got used to puncturing one’s head with these huge straight pins—ours had white tips on them which helped, as they were not always straight or holding things together. One learned not to turn one’s head too fast, lest you wound up staring at the side of that coiffure that we thought didn’t turn with you. Our fifteen-decade rosaries in those days were all chain and beads, unlike our quieter ones now, made with linen cords and wooden beads. I don’t know how I managed it, but I was forever getting mine tangled in knots or caught on something like door knobs and choir stall folding seats. Sr. Rosaria once caught hers in the seat and the chain broke and the beads went flying all over the floor. She uttered a little word of exasperation, and the novices were all horrified, but the older sisters took it all in stride without missing a beat in the psalm tone.

Poor Sister Rosaria was mortified and had to kneel out in the refectory. We teased her for a while after the incident, calling her Sr. Broken-Rosaria, but she didn’t think it was very funny. I guess it hurt her feelings. I was always extra careful after that to make sure my scapular was wrapped around my rosary whenever I sat down.

Our scapulars were to be spotless and folded and ironed to make six “rectangular squares.” How can you have rectangular squares? I learned early on it didn’t help to question such things; just do it. Learning to iron my habit was a major project for me to begin with. I hated to iron anything because I had never really had to do it; my mother did it, Greta did it, or I had it dry-cleaned and pressed. I prayed not to be given that charge.

Of course, one has to learn how to eat all over again when you’re all in white and dreading a dribble of tomato sauce. Sleeves were a special challenge, as was maneuvering on the refectory bench with a full skirted tunic, an under-slip, a scapular, and a rosary. Our refectory benches are just that, benches, without any backs. Sr. Catherine Agnes was forever giving us postulants a signal to “sit up straight.” No resting the old elbows on the table either, something I was grateful Mama had formed us not to do in since childhood.

Being a novice, I was grateful not to be under the eye of Sr. Catherine Agnes, whose full attention was now devoted to intimidating two aspirants who arrived the week after my clothing. They were to be here till after the new year. I don’t know how they managed that, but we weren’t allowed to ask. I became guardian angel to the second arrival, named Rosita. She was Puerto Rican and didn’t speak English very well, although she had lived here in Brooklyn for four years. And I didn’t know Spanish and was just getting to know how to pronounce Latin when sung—so Rosita was my challenge. It also meant Sr. Catherine Agnes had one eye on me…still.

Funny, isn’t it! I got to like Scar (Sr. Anna Maria and my secret name for Sr. Catherine Agnes Russell)…it turned out that she really liked me and believed in my vocation, and so she had intentionally made it difficult. It turned out—years later—that I found her to be one of the funniest and kindest sisters in community.

Sr. Anna Maria had a terrible time being a guardian angel. Her aspirant was, according to Sr. Anna Maria, either dense, dumb, or plain belligerent. She didn’t want help arranging her books in choir, but then Anna Maria got in trouble for all the confusion and distraction that caused, page-flopping, which raised Scar’s blood pressure! Her name was Elsa, Elsa from Yonkers, who we decided (Sr. Anna Maria and I) was spoiled most of her life and used to doing things her way. One is not supposed to argue with your guardian angel; she is there to help you do it right and avoid the wrath of Scar. Not Elsa—her way was better, quicker, more practical, less trouble, what have you. “It’s not practical,” was her mantra.

Her breaking point came when Scar gave her a toothbrush and a pan of warm water and a can of Clorox to scrub the corners of the tiles in the refectory. A good old-fashioned rag-mop could’ve done it in five minutes; the toothbrush method, which also required one to be on hands and knees, took an hour! I’m sure there were other problems, but after the afternoon with the toothbrush, Elsa went elsewhere. Sr. Anna Maria was not disappointed and rejoiced to brush the tiles herself all afternoon.

My Rosita, on the other hand, was generous and hardworking, but also overly pious. She was given the chore to dust the choir stalls and dust mop the floors in choir. She would spend fifteen minutes dusting the Blessed Mother’s statue like a Lady’s Maid getting her mistress ready to go out for the evening. She would talk quietly in Spanish to Mary, who never blinked an eye. She loved dusting all the statues, which was not in her job description (just the stalls and the floors).

She was very sweet and sensitive, and cried easily, especially if Scar reprimanded her (she was supposed to dry mop the choir floor, not lie prostrate for ten minutes to say a decade of the Rosary!). Poor Rosita became stressed out over the choir books after several weeks, and one evening, in the middle of Vespers, she couldn’t find the Common of Martyrs and threw the book on the floor and ran off to her cell.

That was the last time I saw Rosita. We never received any information about who, why, or when anyone was leaving. Their napkin and cup were gone from their place in the refectory and life went on. Anna Maria and I were both happy to be relieved of guardian angel duty for awhile.

There was also lots of laughter and simple joys at recreation. We recreated separately from the professed, but once a week or on big feasts we were invited to join the professed sisters, like for Mother’s Feast Day. We went into pre-production casting for the MPP: Monastic Production Players. It was great fun. Most of us, being New Yorkers, knew how to put on a show!

Four of the solemnly professed sisters had a barbershop quartet; they called themselves the Sister Mary Adelines and would sing popular barbershop songs, sometimes with new made-up lyrics. They were very clever, even wearing costumes, like brown derby hats and clip-on moustaches and striped jackets with arm garters. They were my favorite. I always hoped Ruthie would get to hear them, but they were very much “inside the actors’ studio.”

Correction! I would have to say they were my favorite group. My very favorite single performer was Sr. Gertrude of the Sacred Heart. She must’ve been in her fifties or early sixties—I could never guess their ages, and a novice would never ask. She was a tap dancer, and an actual old hoofer in her younger days. Before entering the monastery, her big dream had been to be in a show on Broadway; something like Forty-Second Street, with lots of tap dancing. She knew Tommy Tune, who visited her once in the parlor. She never made it to the lights of Broadway. As she puts it, “The Lord of the Dance asked for my dance card,” and she’s been dancing with Him ever since.

She told me that at the first recreation I went to with the professed after receiving the habit. I’ll always remember her telling me, “Let Him lead, regardless of the beat, whether rhythm or blues.”

So you can imagine my surprise and joy when Mother’s Feast Day Show, the following June, premiered in the community room, and the novices were invited. The lights went off except for a single spot (we actually had a theater spotlight), and the tape began: “Give my regards to Broadway”…and out came Sr. Gertrude in full habit, hiked up to her shins, wearing a top hat, gloves, and swinging a cane. She had on her own real tap shoes, hoofing it across the community floor.

The sisters all exploded into instant applause, which gave her all the extra energy she needed to keep going. Then, a small chorus of six sisters, also wearing top hats and carrying black canes with white tips, came in behind her singing:

Give my regards to Mother; A Happy Feast Day from us all.

Tell all the nuns above in Heaven, that we’ll be there ere long.

Whisper a prayer of yearning, to meet St. John and all the saints;

Give our regards to Mother John Dom, and thank the Lord for all our sakes.

Hats off, arms extended…and Sr. Gert would “break.” I think I held my breath that she would get through it, and she did. The grand audience, of course, went wild! Sr. Gertrude and the Backup Girls took their well-deserved bows.

I’ve been to more than a few Broadway shows, but never have I seen an audience so with it. There were (and still are) several beautiful singers among us, and they would always have a number or two prepared.

Sr. William Mary and Sr. Beatrice came out with hobo jackets on and sticks with a bundle on the end. Sr. William wore a sign: “Mother John Dominic,” and Sr. Beatrice, a sign: “Sr. Beatrice, Bursar,” (which she was) and they began to sing:

We ain’t got a barrel of money, maybe we’re

ragged and funny, but we’ll travel along,

singing our song, side by side.

They sang the whole song through, accompanied by Sr. Sarah at the piano. I was amazed how the lyrics fit the monastic life so perfectly—at least in my 13 months’ experience of it.

Sr. Mary Bruna was our “poet laureate.” She always had an original poem to recite, which over the years I came to appreciate, even if the meter was somewhat, shall we say, original.

Mother’s Feast Day Show ended as it began, with Sr. Gertrude, who had had plenty of time now to catch her breath, soft-shoeing to “Me and my shadow, strolling down the Cloister Walk.”

We ended with “Now Thank We All Our God,” which everyone sang together, and Mother was given a bouquet of flowers and made a speech. Such a blessing, I thought, as Mama would’ve said, to have her as my first prioress. Papa knew that the day of my entrance. Such a blessing.

I needed that first Feast Day show more than Mother, I think. My first year as a novice was so happy and so sad. It was a joy each day, and many times a trial. It wasn’t all Broadway lights, but more like the single light that is left on the stage in Broadway theaters when all the other lights are out, and the house is empty. I can remember lying on the low, hard bed in our cell at night, staring at the wall and thinking my Comedy/Tragedy masks would fit very well on that wall. How mysteriously the Lord’s love is forged through it all, without our knowing it, and even sometimes with our resisting it. To believe I am loved by God…a haunting meditation that has been with me through all my years.

The joy of my wedding day, as Papa loved to refer to it, was so full because I felt like I had really given myself to Christ, whom I had learned to love beyond anything I ever imagined. I knew more and more what St. Thérèse meant when she said, “All is grace.” I didn’t do anything extraordinary to come to know the Lord except go to daily Mass, of course, and receive Him every day in Holy Communion. I loved reading the Mass readings in my new St. Joseph’s Daily Missal. Working at the library and having Greta to talk to and share books with was so enriching too, but the Lord filled me with a deep sense of His abiding presence. I wanted everybody to know Him, and wondered at times, like St. Thérèse did, whether I should maybe be a missionary or a teacher. Those thoughts would come and go for some time, even after entering, and especially at night, staring at the wall. At least I knew that when I was going through a difficult time and I would think I should be in Africa or South America, or teaching in a Catholic school in Manhattan, of course, that it was my escape hatch from not accepting something going on—almost always dealing with my own willfulness.

When I accepted the situation, those thoughts kind of disappeared and I wanted nothing more than to be a cloistered nun. I couldn’t believe how good God was to call me to such a unique and intimate hidden place with Him. If I could have, I would have written St. Thérèse’s words in huge block letters on the wall of our cell: I WILL BE LOVE IN THE HEART OF MY MOTHER, THE CHURCH. Of course, that would’ve gotten me the next subway to Manhattan, so I wrote them inside of me, in my quiet hidden place.

Thanksgiving was coming the third week after my clothing, and I was feeling not homesick, but left out. I could be terribly distracted thinking about Thanksgivings past, and the drama which ensued every year in Mama’s kitchen. I was also left out on any news about Papa. We weren’t permitted to receive phone calls or to make them without permission. The week after my receiving the habit, I asked Sr. Mary Trinity for permission to call my father just to see how he was doing—or at least to call Gwendolyn, whom I knew was keeping an eye on him for me. And Sister said, “No. It’s not necessary. If anything happens you will be told.”

That was one night when I had my whole itinerary planned for opening a mission school in the Congo…or Greenwich Village. This life was inhuman and infantile. I was twenty-six years old and had used my own phone in my room, by my bed, and at work, for years. And now I couldn’t have permission to call someone! It was difficult after that to get in the swing of making table decorations for Thanksgiving. We novices spent our entire morning making turkeys out of apples, toothpicks, and colored construction paper.

But on Thanksgiving Day, the refectory was a glorious sight to behold! In the center of the room, on a table, was a huge wicker cornucopia spilling forth colored Indian corn, yams, and bumpy gourds which I had never seen in my life. It was lovely and looked like it could’ve come from a window display at Bloomingdale’s or Lord and Taylor.

The tables were covered with real linen tablecloths with matching napkins. Each table also had an autumn arrangement in wicker baskets, with dried flowers and autumn leaves and sprigs of wheat. Several real pressed autumn leaves surrounded the base of the wicker basket holders. And the final, eloquent touch—candles of various autumn colors.

Our apple-bodied turkeys stood at each sister’s place, guarding her napkin and a yellow paper cup of Planters Mixed Cocktail Nuts, without the cocktails. We did have a small wine glass, and a sister came by serving a dry Chablis for those who wanted a glass. I missed my Mogen David!

We sang our grace to the melody of “Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow.” The decorations were an apt setting for the meal that followed: a truly all-American turkey dinner with stuffing, sweet potatoes, wild rice, and homemade bread.

The weekly reader read the gospel of the day, and then we dined in silence with the New York Philharmonic playing a medley of Americana, with full orchestrations over our refectory PA system. It was magnificent!

My lousy mood was easily dissipated in the luxury of such beauty and warmth. The elderly nuns seemed to appear almost youthful in the glow of candles and with “O Shenandoah” filling the room. Not talking is not a burden, even when we’re feasting. One can wander off in one’s memories of holidays in years past, and I wondered, “What’s going at the Feinsteins’ on West 79th Street, and who’s there? Where are Greta and Gwendolyn today?” And my thoughts naturally turned to Papa, but not in a sad or homesick way. I wondered if he was wondering about me and trying to imagine what our Thanksgiving dinner was like, and did we watch the Macy’s Parade and the football games (the answer to both of which was no).

We did have coffee and dessert in the community room, and were free to chat with each other. Sr. Grace Mary and I gabbed our heads off over pumpkin and mincemeat pies (a sliver of each, thank you very much). The downer of course was all the cleanup and dishes, of which there seemed to be twice as many as usual. The novices were allowed one phone call each in the afternoon, and I called home, of course. David answered and was pleasant enough and said Papa was not well. He was home, but resting in his room. They were arranging for nursing care. Mama was in the kitchen with Ruthie, and he called to them.

Mama sounded tired and sad, but said they missed me. Sally hadn’t made it either (as if I were free to come for dinner if I so chose) and was going to Paris for Christmas with Bobbie. There was no special emotion in Mama’s voice about that, and I didn’t inquire more about it. Ruthie got on and made the most fuss that I wasn’t there, and wanted to know if we had turkey and who cooked it? She seemed almost manic, but she was young and excitable and loving school. She had also baked her first pumpkin pie, and was sad I wasn’t there to eat it.

I didn’t get to talk to Papa, but Ruthie and Mama promised to give him my love. That night we had turkey soup and bread and cheese, and Sister read a Thanksgiving message from President Nixon.

‘Twas a lovely day, as Gwendolyn would say. Compline is always very peaceful and perhaps my favorite hour of the Office, but that night it seemed even more peace-filled, and a quiet gratitude settled into my poor heart.

The next Sunday would be Christ the King, and then Advent would begin the following Sunday, and we wouldn’t be able to write or receive any letters till Christmas. I was prepared for that emotionally, but I was still expecting that an exception would be made in my case, regarding my father. But it wasn’t. I had to trust that the powers that be would let me know of any developments. All I could do was pray, and so I did. I dedicated my first Advent to praying for my father.

I knew St. Joseph was the patron of a happy death. I think Greta actually taught me that. I didn’t really have a devotion to St. Joseph; I can say now that I had no devotion to St. Joseph at all. I decided to do a novena for Papa beginning on Christ the King. St. Joseph was Jesus’ Jewish, albeit foster, papa. Realizing that warmed me to St. Joseph. A holy death…what does that mean? We have a lovely statue of St. Joseph in the choir and also in the cloister, in what is called St. Joseph’s corner. At the base of the statue is carved: Ite ad Joseph. And so I did. Advent is my favorite season of the Liturgical

Year, maybe because in every Jewish heart there is a longing for the coming of the Messiah, but also it marks the transition from autumn to winter. There was a real chill in the air now, and it was dark at Vespers. Brooklyn Heights seemed to get quieter in Advent. It may also simply be because Mother John Dominic gave me the title of the Advent Heart.

This was certainly the Jewish heart, and the heart of every Christian watching for and yearning for the coming of Christ, and for me, it includes all human beings searching for God, however that manifests itself in each one’s life. Of course, this magnanimous heart wasn’t reflected on that first First Sunday of Advent…we have to give our hearts time to expand or shrivel up, get softer or harder.

I was still a toddler in the Faith. It would take a few sunrises and sunsets to realize that we wake up each morning with Advent Hearts before the day unfolds, and in a sense, we go to bed each night waiting for the Lord to come again tomorrow. The Advent Heart is Blessed Mary’s Heart, as she carried the Incarnate Word within her and pondered on all that had happened to her. It was the Heart of Mary, Queen of Hope.

And in a unique way, the Jewish People are the Advent Heart awaiting the coming of the Messiah and the redemption of Israel. And is not all of life a waiting for the Lord to come at our Passover to Eternal Life? So I’ve always been grateful to Mother John Dominic for this title. And thus, my very first Advent in the monastery was filled with this kind of meditation and thoughts of Papa and how much my vocation was realized by him. He had an insight into it which many Christians never arrive at. He had an Advent Heart although he probably never said those words in reference to himself. I could do nothing for him now, but I placed him in the Immaculate Heart of Mary…take him, dear Mother of God, as your own little Ruben.