At the Tomb

 

I keep thinking about Sister Margaret Helena.

"Sister" was my teacher and guide when I entered religious life in 2000.  She was 96, crippled with arthritis, with Coke-bottle glasses that made her looks really mean something.  She was not a gentle, meek nun; she was a tough cookie, brooking no compromise with the Rule, and restless and frustrated with her limitations.  She was a perfect match for me, as I was pretty tough, and I wanted to live the life in its fullness, and I'm always restless and frustrated by limitations.  Her fierce love kept me in the convent in the early times (and not-so-early) when I wanted to flee.  

She died on October 30, 2003, five days before her 99th birthday and four months after I made my first vows.  We had the full old-fashioned burial, with vigil lamps around the coffin, the offices of the dead and the requiem mass.  

The night before the funeral, I sat vigil at her coffin.  I cried.  I sobbed, really.  And I told her: "Sister, I don't think I can do this without you."  She would not have wanted to hear that, but that's how it felt.

I'm remembering her today as I think about what that Sabbath day was like for the disciples.  Their beloved teacher, the one they pinned their hopes on, was dead and buried.  He had said things about rising again, but they had no idea what he meant.  There was nothing to do but sit.  And I imagine many of them said in their hearts, "Jesus, I can't do this without you."  

Jesus wouldn't have wanted to hear that.  He was training them to be more than disciples; he called them friends, he sent them to teach and heal and serve.  He didn't mean for his death to be the end of their roads.  But on that day, it probably felt that way to them.

Well, I was right on that vigil night.  I couldn't do it without her, in the way we had hoped for.  Six years later I left that community, bereft.  I knew the seed was in me, I treasured my vows, but I couldn't live them out in that way.

And yet, I was wrong.  God had not stopped working in my life.  Out of my tears I found my way to companions who shared the dream of a new community.  I brought my experience to the mix of what we were creating.  Over the years I've had to let go of some of that to make way for new forms of monastic life, but some lives on.  Sister is still with me.  More, Jesus is still with me.  If I will take the time to listen, Jesus still guides me.  If I will take the chance of following through, the Holy Spirit upholds me.  

Today I sit at Jesus' tomb, with my companions.  And I remember all those I've buried, all those who have tried to teach me and strengthen me.  I grieve this day, but I know, I know, that my Redeemer lives.   That is enough for today.