Reading The Tablet’s article featuring tributes to religious sisters triggered a fond memory for me. While I was reading the part dedicated to the Sisters of Charity and the work they did among the poor, under the direction of Mother Seton, I noticed the article mentioned one of the places they had in Brooklyn, St. Joseph’s Hall.
Growing up, my father took our family hiking and fishing almost every Saturday. My mom, big sister, golden retriever, and I happily packed into the old Buick station wagon for Dad’s adventure. With a picnic basket full of goodies and the dog’s drool splattering across us in the backseat as she excitedly stuck her head out the window, the Buick crossed the George Washington Bridge to Seven Lakes Drive or further to the Catskill Mountains.
We recently observed Memorial Day, a day of remembrance for those who did not return from their service in our nation’s various wars.
It was a warm summer evening on the night of July 10, 2014. I pulled up to the parking lot of Jesus of Nazareth Retreat Center, where the Women’s Cursillo #274 was being hosted. I remember arriving and feeling a sense of apprehension. What was I doing here?
A novel that was required reading for students beginning in the 1940s was “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” by Betty Smith. In it the character, Francie, loves her neighborhood and refers to a tree that is growing out of the concrete as the Tree of Heaven.
If you enter a church and find the sanctuary decked out in red flowers, chances are that, unless it is Christmas, the parish has just celebrated confirmation. This is particularly true in spring when so many such celebrations take place in the wake of Easter.
We always drank beer from stemmed glasses in Farrell’s Bar and Grill. We were college kids, hair creeping down our necks, and we would meet in the crowded, gleaming bar in Brooklyn’s Windsor Terrace to plan the evening or our lives.
I had a break between my morning classes at Hunter College one day during the spring semester last year, so I walked to a nearby Dunkin’ for a coffee and doughnut. Walking back to school, breakfast in hand, I stood on Lexington Avenue waiting for a green light when I turned to see a man with half his body in a garbage can, apparently rummaging to gather food.
When she needed it the most, Sister Ave Clark believes that a stranger brought the light of an angel into her life.
No memoir of a priest or Christian can truly touch on their journey without referring to some stories of their interaction with others “on the Way.”
