When Marcel was at Midland Hospice in Topeka, the chaplain there was Sister M.G. I believe she is still around. She was accessible, real, kind, direct, and no-nonsense. Very tall--close to my height, and I'm 6 feet. Technically, biologically, she was well into senior citizenship then. But she strode around with strength and purpose, and with the vigor of someone much younger.
I'm writing this ten years later, and my memory is foggy sometimes. But to the best of my ability, this is how I remember Sister. She told me that she had been in a terrible car wreck. A wreck that killed her friend, and left Sister on a ventilator for months. And after that, she went through her own battle with cancer. It was hard to picture her in bed recuperating. If I was Cancer, or some other Evil Thing, I wouldn't want to mess with Sister, because with one well-aimed swift kick from her, I'd be in the corner whimpering. Down for the count.
I converted to the Catholic church as an adult, so I am not exactly in the know about all the terminology about what Sisters wear. Sister M.G. didn't wear a big formal black and white habit, but she did wear something that identified her as being a nun. I remember it being more like a khaki skirt, and some kind of headgear. The headgear made her seem even taller. She was so very down-to-earth. Closing my eyes and imagining her leaving her house in the morning, in my mind I'd picture her striding out the door, only to have to hurry back in. "Oh, yeah. Gotta put that thing on my head", I'd imagine her saying, as she plopped it on and ran back out to help people.
One day as I was leaving the hospice house, Sister was arriving, and we stood under the shade trees in front and visited. I shared with her a story about not liking the way someone treated me in a particular instance that week. She looked at me blankly for a second, then more sternly. She pointed her index finger at me. "Well, if you are going to tolerate being treated like that...then you're the carpenter of your own cross." And then she strode off, leaving me standing there, probably with my mouth wide open.
Marcel was fond of Sister M.G. They had regular conversations, and she was a tremendous comfort to him. Around that time, the hospice house got a dog. It was good for morale, and if patients wanted, the dog could come around and visit them. I heard later that Sister and the dog were great friends. And that Sister fed it scraps but she wasn't really supposed to be doing that.
The night that Marcel died, and after my friend Linda left, Sister sat with me. She told me that out of all the people she'd ministered to in hospice over the years, she found it a challenge to help me. She explained that she thought I was on track, and that I had it together, and there wasn't much she could offer.
I appreciated her confidence in me. But I have to disagree; I've never really had it together. And actually, she offered me a lot: even a decade later, if I need a smile, all I have to do is think about her. It makes me happy to think she is Still Walking Around. But in reference to Sister M.G., it seems more accurate to say she is "Still Striding."
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