The Broken Nun

I knew it the moment my daughter said, “Oh, no, Mama...”

She was washing her hands in the kitchen sink. I didn’t hear it crash... I heard nothing but, “Oh, no, Mama...” and my heart sank.

The little “tchotchke,” hung on our family Christmas trees for as long as my memory serves. A little nun, dressed in an old fashioned habit, and holding the sign, “God Love You,” was my mother’s favorite ornament. It reminded her of her beloved sister, Catherine, who was given the name “Ignatia Mary” when she entered the Sister Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary at Marywood in the 1930s.

The little nun took a prevalent place on the tree every year until two Christmases ago, when I chose to keep it out and place it on my kitchen windowsill. I wanted the little nun to be a part of my everyday life. It was lovely to have her greet me during my morning coffee. And she reminded me not only of my aunt, but of all the religious women who had an influence on my life.

I knew it wasn’t the safest place, but I didn’t worry too much about her falling and breaking. Of course, she did. I knew my daughter was just as heartbroken as I was because she understood what it meant to me. I dried my tears quickly and told my daughter to wrap the ornament in a paper towel and not worry about it.

Sister Ignatia was a gentle soul, and not long after professing her vows, she became ill with tuberculosis. She lost one lung during that time, and never completely regained her health. She suffered many debilitating and painful illnesses, including heart disease, yet she taught for forty years, even while the heart disease was progressing. She never complained. We didn’t even know how ill she was. When she died, there was standing room only in the chapel at the Motherhouse, filled with her former students—all wanting to honor her with their presence and tell stories of her kindness and influence on them.

I understood. I was educated by nuns. They were strict, but as an adult, I realize they helped me through difficult times during an unhappy childhood. Some of them believed in me when I didn’t. I didn’t know it then, but they were my advocates. They nurtured my soul; they cultivated my faith. I wonder how many of them faced adversity that they never let us know about while teaching us.

Through my work, I’ve had the good fortune of researching the founders of different religious orders in the United States. Without exception, they were progressive social thinkers, strong women and determined to do the right thing.

Like Mother Mary Francis Bachmann, the founder of the Sisters of Saint Francis of Philadelphia, a German immigrant left with three children and pregnant with a fourth when her husband was killed. She went on to found the order, open schools, oversee orphanages, and build the first hospital in Philadelphia that cared for the poor and homeless.

Another widow with children, Marguerite D’Youville, founded the Grey Nuns of the Sacred Heart and since that time, her sisters have been educators, healers, and missionaries throughout the world.

We all know of the work of Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta, selfless, indomitable, compassionate work. And Mother Angelica, the handicapped, strong-willed woman who not only founded an order of nuns and brothers, but the Eternal Word Television Network, in spite of knowing nothing about it.

Catherine Drexel...Elizabeth Ann Seton...there are too many religious women to list who made a difference in this world. They were nuns; they were deeply rooted in the Catholic faith, but they were women that all women and men can admire and imitate. They saw a need and they addressed it—often with little or no education, money, or business acumen—but always trusting in the love of God.

All of these religious women were broken at times, some fell to pieces, like my little ceramic sister, but they pulled themselves back up, allowed God to mend their broken parts, and went on to serve Him by serving His people in abundant ways.

My husband glued my little nun back together almost as good as new albeit with cracks. She sits on my windowsill again, reminding me that although we fall, break and bear scars, we can heal. We can be strong, even in our brokenness. Her delicate smile reminds me of the many women who have done so, courageously bearing the Spirit of God, and looking up...always up to Him...carrying the message God Love You.