A Story of Faith
A Momento from Sister Monica
Sr. Monica was young and frail. She had been at St. Mary’s for two years, teaching seventh grade. The only thing we students knew about her, besides the fact that she was kind and gentle, was that recently she had become very ill.
One spring day, she kept four of us boys after school to make up an assignment. When the assignment was finished, she asked me to clean the erasers. Spring beckoned through the open windows. The last thing I wanted was to clean erasers, but with no excuse not to, I agreed and got to it. I opened the door, leaned out into the spring warmth and beat the erasers together two by two until all six of them were free of chalk dust. When I finished, I turned to leave, but Sister Monica motioned to the desk facing hers.
“I understand you’re moving,” she said.
“Yes, Sister.”
“Where?”
“Chicago.”
“Ah,” she replied, “You’ll probably like it.”
No probably about it. I knew I’d like it. I had spent a week there visiting an uncle and aunt. I couldn’t wait to plunge into the adventures I knew awaited me in that huge city.
“Well,” she said, interrupting my reverie, “Don’t forget us at Saint Mary’s.”
I shrugged, unsure of how to answer. She opened her desk drawer, reached inside and pulled out an envelope. Handing it to me, she said, “Open it.”
I opened the envelope and pulled out a thin chain from which hung a Miraculous Medal, in those days a visible affirmation of faith for Catholic boys. I didn’t have one, and I was thrilled to receive it. Sister Monica smiled softly as I draped the chain around my neck.
We moved to Chicago when the school year ended. The adjustment wasn’t easy. None of the adventures I expected materialized. When school began, I was just a new kid from a small town. Boys whose acceptance I craved showed me contempt and disdain. The huge city frightened me. Often I reached for that medal hanging around my neck. I felt reassurance from clutching it.
When the school year ended, my family returned to our home town, to visit cousins, aunts, and uncles. As soon as I could, I visited our old neighborhood, where I learned that, not long after we moved, Sister Monica had died.
That was over fifty years ago. The medal has gone the way of all things. The faith I needed to visibly affirm has had its transformations. In fifty years, everything has changed save one: The memory of that spring afternoon in a seventh grade classroom when an angelic nun, facing the final steps of her life’s journey, paused to teach an adolescent boy about the connection between compassion, memory, and faith.
Today, Dominic Martia is 69 years old and enjoying his retirement in Sarasota, Florida. He has never forgotten Sr. Monica’s message of faith.