Dishroom Grace
One of the best parts of convent summertime was meeting more of the professed sisters. These sisters came home to the Motherhouse at Christmas, but in the summer, we sometimes had opportunities to talk or work with them.
One younger professed sister who stood out in particular was Sister Peter*. She was on the shorter side, with orange-red hair, freckles, and clear blue eyes. Before meeting Sister Peter, I thought Sister Lucia and I were the convent’s most energetic and fidgety sisters. But this spritely sister had both of us beat. When it came to pure, fast efficiency, nobody could surpass Sister Peter. She had made it into something of an art form.
During the summer months, Sister would enter the dish room, roll up the sleeves of her habit, and start stacking, spraying, and loading with mesmerizing accuracy and skill. I can still see her, whipping those plates, cups, and coffee mugs through Hobart at record speed.
Brr-rit, clang, clankity-clank, clang! sang the dishes and cups, as Sister loaded them onto large plastic trays. Whrr—swish, roared our Hobart dishwasher, filling the room with steam. Sister zipped between either side of Hobart, loading and unloading, until all the glasses, plates, and mugs were stacked on the four-wheeled trolley.
She has way more physical energy than me, but she’s a professed sister, I thought, as I hauled the loaded trolley back into the kitchen. How does she do it?
I admired Sister’s boyish energy, but even more her ingenuity, in finding a way to make religious life work for her. She'd probably worked out this arrangement long ago with her superior. She had a lot of energy; the Motherhouse had a lot of dirty dishes. Surely there was some way she could use her gift to help the sisters?
Her example encouraged me. I struggled every day to meet my daily needs: a well-balanced diet, strenuous cardio exercise, and social time with my sisters. Many, many times, I couldn’t meet all three in the same day, which left me restless, light-headed, and miserable. Although I offered those days up to the Lord, I needed to find a way to meet my needs within the context of religious life. Who would serve the Lord better: an irritable, lethargic, distracted sister, or a cheerful, well-fed, clear-headed one?
Sister Peter had found a way to be herself while also supporting the community and being obedient to the Rule.
Maybe I can turn my weaknesses into strengths, too. Maybe I can be like Sister Peter.
The Race
I soon had my opportunity to follow in Sister Peter’s swift footsteps. On the Fourth of July, Sister and I competed in a speed-walking relay race around the Motherhouse.
Since Sister Peter was by far the fastest sister in the community, her professed team put her in the fourth and final spot of the race.
I was in the last position for my postulant team, too. Moving extremely fast in a straight line? This I could do.
I took the baton from Sister Margaret, then sped towards the finish line with all my formidable nervous energy. My blue apron slapped against my postulant skirt, and my sneakers squeaked on the slick asphalt. The steady rain dripped into my eyes, obscuring my vision.
Sister Peter sped-walked ahead of me in first place, maybe three or four paces away. No matter how hard I pushed myself, I couldn't seem to shorten the distance between us.
But as we neared the end of the course, a road split into two possible paths. Sister Peter chose the left path, which was a little shorter.
“No, Sister, it’s the other way!” shouted one of the sister moderators.
As honest as she was fast, Sister Peter retraced her steps and returned to the designated course.
By then, I had caught up to her. My legs ached wonderfully as we walk-sprinted towards the finish line together. Would I make it there in time? Or was she fast enough to make up the distance?
“Come on, Sisters! You can do it!” someone cheered.
The finish line was three yards away. I ignored my other competitors, the cheering sisters, the drizzle pelting my face and frizzing my ponytail. I blocked out everything but those final steps.
One.
Two.
Three...
Victory!
Victory!
I raced across the finish line, raising my arms in triumph. As I turned around, Sister Peter zoomed up just behind me.
“We won, Sister Mary Joan!” called Sister Margaret from the sidelines. “We beat the professed team, too!”
“YES!!!" I cheered and embraced my sister teammates.
"This is awesome!"
"We even defeated Sister Peter," one of my teammates whispered, giggling in the rain.
“I can’t believe this!" The rain was soaking my clothes, but I didn’t care. I would have stayed out and raced all day, if I could.
A moment later, Sister Peter came over to shake hands.
“That was an amazing race, Sister,” I said. “You are so fast!”
“Thanks.” I thought maybe she looked a little disappointed about losing, but I couldn’t be sure. “Congratulations, Sisters!”
She sped off to the shelter of the back awning, to join the professed crowd. I watched her go. Although we had won the race, it was really only because of a technicality. Sister Peter was still the fastest Nashville Dominican—at least in my book.
Fourth of July Feast
Our supper that evening was a fitting feast for our postulant victory.
Sister Lucia and I delighted in the spectacular Independence Day fare: fresh, juicy watermelon slices, buttered corn on the cob, sweet, tangy pickled cucumbers plucked straight from the sisters’ garden. Burgers and dogs—a real, traditional American barbecue. And, to top the meal off right, our pick of soda or beer.
“This is probably the best fourth of July I’ve ever had,” I confessed to Sister Lucia, as I cracked open my hard cider.
“I love American holidays,” she said, bouncing in her seat. “They’re so cheerful and fun.”
“Yeah, just like you, Sister.” I smiled and leaned back in my chair.
Outside, a fine summer thunderstorm was brewing, turning the skies a deep slate grey. Inside the refectory, however, the electric lights were cheery and bright, and the room was filled with lively conversation.
After dinner, we went to a special celebration in honor of Sister Frassati*, whose patron saint's feast day was the Fourth of July.
Later that night in the Dorms, we heard the loud crackle of fireworks outside the Motherhouse. They came after profound silence. We were supposed to be sleeping, or at least resting in our beds.
Still, I wasn’t the only sister peeking over the curtain-tops that night. The fireworks burst before us in shades of red, white, and gold, visible through the south windows overlooking Nashville. A true feast for the eyes.
Fourth of July in the convent, I thought with a grin, as I watched the grand display.
Thanks be to God.
#
*Names changed.
Thank you so much for reading! Join me in July for more postulant/novice adventures!🎆
Also, in case you missed it, here is the link to last week's Life After Convent post: