- Feb 5, 2002
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In a time of prejudice and social tension, a single afternoon with a group of Franciscan sisters offered an unexpected lesson in the things that truly endure.
My mother and father regarded priests and nuns as individuals who sacrificed much in their lives, and secular Catholics like us should show our gratitude to them in a tangible way.
Since we had invited our beloved pastor, Father John Dronzek, for several dinners, my parents announced that they would invite the 10 Polish American Franciscan nuns who taught at St. Michael’s Elementary and Junior High School in West Lynn, Massachusetts.
We lived during the last years of World War II in a rambling Victorian home in Swampscott, Massachusetts, that accommodated my extended family. It consisted of my parents, two older siblings, an eccentric bachelor uncle, my aunt, two cousins, and a part-time housekeeper, who spoke with a raspy voice, the result of a saber slash from a Russian soldier that damaged her vocal cords.
It was a magnificent home perched on a rocky escarpment overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Thanks to my father, who cultivated a beautiful garden with an assortment of flowers dominated by roses, and a small orchard of apple and cherry trees, the backyard offered both beauty and privacy, an ideal locale to fill the space between words.
Continued below.
www.ncregister.com
My mother and father regarded priests and nuns as individuals who sacrificed much in their lives, and secular Catholics like us should show our gratitude to them in a tangible way.
Since we had invited our beloved pastor, Father John Dronzek, for several dinners, my parents announced that they would invite the 10 Polish American Franciscan nuns who taught at St. Michael’s Elementary and Junior High School in West Lynn, Massachusetts.
We lived during the last years of World War II in a rambling Victorian home in Swampscott, Massachusetts, that accommodated my extended family. It consisted of my parents, two older siblings, an eccentric bachelor uncle, my aunt, two cousins, and a part-time housekeeper, who spoke with a raspy voice, the result of a saber slash from a Russian soldier that damaged her vocal cords.
It was a magnificent home perched on a rocky escarpment overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Thanks to my father, who cultivated a beautiful garden with an assortment of flowers dominated by roses, and a small orchard of apple and cherry trees, the backyard offered both beauty and privacy, an ideal locale to fill the space between words.
Continued below.
What I Discovered When 10 Nuns Came Over for Dinner
COMMENTARY: In a time of prejudice and social tension, a single afternoon with a group of Franciscan sisters offered an unexpected lesson in the things that truly endure.
