'Take the leap, dear'

Every October, my community creates an "altarcito" in our chapel where we put pictures and holy cards of loved ones who've passed on, both family members and Marianist brothers and sisters who have died. Every time I gaze at their pictures during meditation, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for having known so many holy people. It's a privilege of religious life at this time, that younger religious get to know so many elders whose prayers continue for us beyond the grave.

Some of these religious have died only recently. This past August, I said goodbye to Brother Larry, a Marianist who was an expert on the order's history. I had the privilege of working with him for several years.

Lunchtime conversations with Larry were always an adventure. You could ask him anything about Marianist history or the French Revolution and he knew the answer right away. (And he usually told you a lot more than you wanted to know: One time I asked him where our founder went to seminary, and I ended up learning about how French coopers made wine barrels.)

He was matter-of-fact about aging in a way that was so refreshing; he rejoiced when he finally got hearing aids, marveling at their effectiveness. He was such a witness to kindness and authenticity.

I think, too, of Brother Mike, who was laid to rest just this past week. When I first met Mike, he was wearing shorts, a white T-shirt and white socks, standing in his community's kitchen with his hands wrist-deep in hamburger meat. He had a grumpy-old-man persona that I quickly learned was a put-on. When he saw me, he grunted hello and said, "Hope you like hamburgers because that's what we're having." I instantly liked him.

Later, I found out that he worked with men who were newly released from prison. Several later returned to prison, and up until his death, Brother Mike continued visiting the ones whose family refused to see them.

There are others I've known who passed on a while ago, like Brother Ralph, who had a big belly laugh and a permanent twinkle in his eye. He spoke fluent Spanish, having lived in Mexico for 20 years. Every Wednesday, despite his difficulty walking, Ralph would go to a homeless shelter, sit on a bench outside, and greet people staying at the shelter. He was a genuinely jovial man; the only time I ever saw him angry was when he talked about cruelty toward immigrants at the southern border.

I think of Sister Audrey, who, after years of beekeeping, cooking and baking at our sisters' retreat center, taught me how to bake when I was a 19-year-old college student. Her strong hands deftly braided raw dough into a beautiful loaf while I watched. When my pale, lumpy and wrinkly bread came out of the oven, she encouraged me to keep practicing.

Eight years later, this time as a novice, I visited her in her nursing home on her last Thanksgiving. I gave her a dinner roll I had baked myself and sat with her while she ate it. She died two days later. I think of her soft encouragement every time I bake, remembering the way she would talk about God as a bread-maker shaping us into fine loaves.