I walked up to the microphone at the front of the ballroom, holding my notebook in the crook of my arm. It was Saturday, July 6th, the second full day of the North American Ursuline Convention at the Crowne Plaza in Cincinnati, and ideas were continuing to buzz through the room. Since 1992, the convention has taken place every three years. Its mission: “[To gather] the daughters and sons of Angela to celebrate our Ursuline identity in bringing the Gospel to the world.” This year’s theme was Angela’s Radical Gospel Vision: Expanding the Circles. I was grateful that the circle had expanded to include me.
Until this weekend, I had never been to Warren, Ohio before. As I turned off of 422 and onto the unfamiliar local roads, I followed the directions on my GPS and spotted the tall steeple of St. Mary’s Church in the distance. “The sisters are downstairs,” the nun at the door told me, and I followed the direction of her gesture to a room full of people I didn’t know. I was so relieved when I found Sister Norma and Sister Julia amidst the crowd, and as I gave them each a hug, I felt welcome in this new place. I knew I had a group I belonged to.
One Saturday night in July, I went to a Western Dance party organized by the members of the Lordstown SCOPE. I didn’t recognize many of the songs the band played, but since I enjoyed going to dances in college, I couldn’t resist getting myself out on the dance floor and having a good time. Among the other dancers was a white-haired woman named Dorothy who came dressed for the event, complete with Western boots and a fringed shirt. I noticed she was looking for a dance partner, so I offered to join her, and I was quickly able to learn her step. A good-humored man named Frank tried to follow along with us, and he’d slump his shoulders in exaggerated defeat whenever he made a mistake. Whenever he’d start to get the hang of it, he’d smile to his spectators seated at the table to assure them he had figured it out, but at some point he would slip up again. When Dorothy and I finished dancing, she gave me a hug and said that we made a good pair. She asked me how old I was, and then when she told me her age, she added, “See, age doesn’t matter!” Despite the years that separated us, we’d found our rhythm.
Over the past few weeks, Sister Dorothy and I have gotten into the routine of saying prayers together in the evening. I have learned to navigate my way through the various parts of the prayer book, and the routine has become a relaxing way to end the day. On one particular evening, I found myself falling into the routine, and when it came time to say the “Our Father,” I clasped my hands together as I’d been taught to pray from a young age. As I unfolded my hands, Sister Dorothy mentioned that she prays the “Our Father” with her hands open, whether raised in church or laying on her lap in private prayer. It’s a way to show that you are open to giving and receiving God’s love rather than holding onto it too tight. Ever since that evening, I have made sure to pray the “Our Father” with open hands and let the rest of my being follow, and I am still amazed at how different the words feel when I let myself go.
When I was in elementary school, I remember my PSR (CCD) teacher once saying that faith is not something that you can pick up when you go to mass on Sunday and then forget about the rest of the week. While I had found occasional ways of integrating my faith into the course of a week, I was still locked into the routine of distinguishing Sunday from the days when I did not attend mass. As a part of the faith community at the Motherhouse, however, the routine of a faith-filled life gives me the feel that every day is a Sunday, and time itself seems to take on a different rhythm.
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