The footpaths that crisscross college campus always make for interesting encounters.
Think of the classmate met during orientation — the first friend (well, almost). On previous passes, polite greetings were exchanged. But last time she didn't respond. A snub, perhaps? Is a "hello" no longer warranted? Weeks pass. By October she has forgotten your name entirely.
There is the professor who still doesn't know your name, even after four weeks. And likely never will.
How about The Ex, that two-month symbol of a bad idea?
Some time ago, while strolling across a Catholic college campus with my (now) girlfriend, I had an unexpected encounter. Despite many years spent walking such footpaths, I never expected to come upon a religious sister — and not just any religious sister, but an elderly, diminutive nun, walking ahead of us gingerly, in full habit and with a slight limp.
Those ahead of us extended their greetings as they passed her. Some stopped briefly to chat, but the conversations appeared introductory, lasting no more than a minute.
As we approached, I pondered what to say. Maybe extend a polite greeting and remark about the beautiful weather?
"Hello, sister," I said. My girlfriend echoed the greeting. We then were met with an unexpected response.
"PRAISE BE TO GOD!" she replied boisterously, with arms fully extended and bright, cheery eyes. "What a beautiful day!" An Irish accent traced her words.
We couldn't help but hug her.
She turned to my girlfriend. "What year are you?" she asked with delight.
"A junior."
"Wonderful — almost finished!"
We told her our names. "I'm Sister Lourdes," she replied. "That is the name my superior chose for me. I wanted Brigid, named after St. Brigid of Ireland. But my how I was delighted to be named after the Blessed Virgin!" Then she paused to look at each of us. "Guess how old I am."
"Fifty," I offered, respectfully.
"Ninety-three!" she replied. As if we weren't already impressed, she added, "And I have a twin sister back in Ireland. We write to each other still — I always say she's my better half; and she always responds that I'm her better half."
She then switched topics and looking at me intently inquired, "Do you carry a rosary in your pocket?" Her "o" rang with that Irish accent.
"No," I replied, sheepishly. I tried to atone: "But I have a picture of the Sacred Heart in my bedroom."
Her eyes lit up. "That is wonderful," she said. She pointed to my girlfriend. "Is this your sister?" she asked.
We both smiled. At first, I hesitated, then said, "No, Sister, that is my girlfriend."
The conversation shifted to the school and her arrival there many decades ago. She described a Catholic world that neither of us knew first-hand: one where encountering religious sisters on an afternoon walk was a common occurrence; where the community was clear in its worship and in its love for the Faith.
Standing there talking to Sister Lourdes, I felt a sense of loss and gratitude all at once. But, for that moment at least, I had to share my gratitude with her.
"Sister," I said, "we are very grateful for your many years of service to us and our Church."
Her expression changed. Her eyes lit up (as if they could get any brighter than they already were).
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you," she repeated.
But if she was grateful for the words, we were inspired by her presence. One could see the depth of love in her eyes and hear the joy of the Spirit in her voice. A ten-minute conversation, if that; yet one that touched me in such a profound way that writing about it seems only a fraction of the attention it deserves.
"Keep me in your prayers," Sister Lourdes requested as we said good-bye.
We promised her, and then went on our way.
"So I'm your girlfriend now?" my girlfriend (half) joked, giving me a slight nudge as we walked away.
I smiled. Whatever fear I had carried of that verbal commitment had dissolved. "Yes," I said.
Months later I would recognize that encounter with Sister Lourdes as my first public pronouncement that the girl I had been dating was indeed special enough to call my girlfriend. A simple "realization" of something I had already realized, yet for some time prior could not quite verbalize. All it took was an encounter with faith — and there she stood, all 4'10" of her. She walked with a slight limp and appeared physically frail. To many, her habit may have looked awkward, almost out of place in this "modern" world of ours. But perhaps that's the essence of faith: humble, public witness in the unassuming figure of immense beauty whose eyes reflect the love of Christ.
After we left, we walked over to a beautiful chapel to say a prayer for Sister Lourdes. And I prayed for her again at Mass the next morning. I will continue to pray for her — and I hope all of you will, too. Pray for her, and all the men and women who have dedicated their lives in faithful service to us and our Church. If the chance arises, stop, say hello, and thank them for their courageous witness.
And carry a rosary in your pocket.
