by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 22.07.2022
Last week someone came into the kitchenette in our office area and took a tea towel. I say ‘took’ although I am tempted to say ‘stole’. I was mad, furious, and beside myself at the injustice of it. How could they! I had bought these with my own money, labelled thm with a permanent marker, and was beginning to feel pride in looking after our common area. I was strongly tempted to march into another kitchenette and steal one of their tea towels. Before I go any further, I am pleased to say I resisted the temptation.
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 22.07.2022
Last week someone came into the kitchenette in our office area and took a tea towel. I say ‘took’ although I am tempted to say ‘stole’. I was mad, furious, and beside myself at the injustice of it. How could they! I had bought these with my own money, labelled thm with a permanent marker, and was beginning to feel pride in looking after our common area. I was strongly tempted to march into another kitchenette and steal one of their tea towels. Before I go any further, I am pleased to say I resisted the temptation.
Why am I telling you this story? Because these kinds of incidents happen to us everyday and often our emotions are stirred up, but we go on with our lives without really reflecting on what these emotions are doing to our ‘inside’. Not that there is anything wrong with emotions. They are neither good nor evil, just something to be acknowledged and accepted. I find if I don’t recognise that I am all stirred up, God help the next person who crosses my path! I will take it out on them although they have nothing to do with the affair! I can get despondent, discouraged and at worst, fall into depression, because I have not looked at the underlying anger.
The same thing happens with larger social problems. I can get irate with the injustice of war, with global hunger, with the climate crisis. The problem is not the fact that I feel strongly, but what action am I going to do, rather than just react?
So today I sit with my missing tea towel. What am I going to do about it? First, get a sense of proportion. A missing tea towel is not the end of the world. I can go and buy another. I can use an old one. Or, I could make a scene and make myself and everyone else miserable. We all have choices. Today I pray for a sense of balance – and a sense of humour – to see things in their proper perspective.
by Sr. Margaret Anne Meyer MMM U.S.A. 20.07.2022
Poetry has, until recently, been a mysterious garden where words blossomed like wildflowers. They looked lovely but what was their meaning? How come the ending words did not rhyme but carried me to a different world?
It all began three years ago when I met Damien in the hall of the residence of the Little Sisters of the Poor. He was seeing the place where his mother, Alice Sullivan, was going to reside. “You should meet her,” quipped Mother Maureen, as she met me walking past Damien. Alice had gone to Nigeria in the 1970’s to 1990’s to study Anthropology in the University of Lagos. It was an excellent opportunity to make friends and welcome Alice into the residence. Mother Maureen, a Little Sister of the Poor, knew we would have a lot in common through our love for Nigeria and the people.
We really enjoyed each other’s company and, lo and behold, Alice soon took me under her wing to encourage me to join the poetry class led by Andrea Read. Alice, who was then ninety-three, had won several poetry contests and was very keen on learning more. I reluctantly gave in, and I am so glad because it has brought me to a greater understanding of what poetry is all about.
Fast forward to last week, when Alice would receive first prize at age 96 in the Senior division of a poetry contest organized by the West Roxbury Library. Our activities director, Gina Bozzi, had obtained a cord which when attached to my computer and the smart TV could fit the zoom call on the large TV Screen. This enabled other members of the poetry group to watch the prize winners in various categories recite their poems.
The narrator, Mary Pinard, is a published poet who explained how the judging of the poetry was based on the imagery, texture, sound, figurative language, similes, metaphors, and meter of the chosen words. I could not believe the high-quality level reached by fifth graders and all the way up to high school level. I am still deeply touched by the masterpiece of the high-school student, Bruno Kim, who wrote “I am a banana.” The banana referred to his yellow Asian skin which people saw and shunned because of his representing bringing Covid to the United States. He begged for a chance to let him peel off the layers to show his true American self and his plea to be regarded as such. The words were beautifully intertwined to weave a delicate insight into the suffering of being someone different. My heart went out to him to try and assuage his pain.
Alice had her hair coiffed beautifully and looked elegant for all her 96 years. Her poem was called” Symmetry” and spoke gracefully about the different faces of love and compassion she encountered during the pandemic from those caring for and living with her. She dedicated her poem to an extremely resolute staff member who died recently and had meant a great deal to all of us. As we listened to the recitation of the poem, vivid recollections of what we experienced, and the unremittent care and concern given came alive. It enkindled our thankfulness “Surely God is in this place, and we did not know it.” cf. Jacob wrestling with God. Genesis 28:16.
Now I would like to ask you to read these two poems so you, too can unfold their petals.
I am a Banana
by Bruno Kim
Please do not misunderstand. I do not mean the tropical fruit. It is a commonly used colloquialism, defining the cultural schism in people like me. A bright yellow skin, my Asian exterior, but peel back the layers and you’ll find a pale white inside, how I feel most of the time.
I am not what people see. I’m American as blueberry pie on the fourth of July. I watch football more than I watch soccer, but I feel like a tight-rope walker, balancing on a fraying beam, between, knowing I can’t fall.
Sometimes I just feel, disenfranchised, and alienated by each side. I am the fruit my American side used to gentrify, to justify the big lie. When I answer Asian on the census, I find that I ‘m still the consensus to blame for the “China virus.” I try and talk to my Korean relatives, but I find I’m not desirous, they keep saying, I’m too far gone. I am not one.
People who don’t know me, people who can’t see me, just a yellow sheen that I keep saying isn’t me. I don’t want to walk the line, I don’t want to be between, an unseen minority, stuck in limbo, waiting by the window. Until a time I can be more than one side. Until then, I have to toe the line. Until then I am a banana.
Symmetry
by Alice Sullivan
Dedicated to Carolyn Gillis- employee. Died January18,2022
A curl of the lip, a smile-
Without a face to read you lose
Essential clues, human intimacy-
Would we be lesser than before?
On a certain day-ah, that day
We became faceless. A new world-
A vortex-locked up, not by choice,
As death stalked in the nursing home.
Brave workers arrived every day
Masked, wearing face shields, gowns,
Glasses gloves, with closed doors,
Banned socialization- solitary confinement.
Ethiopian Aster, her face framed by tattoos,
Stately, her beautiful aura gave us assurance.
Linda, a local with 45 years of service, at 70 years
An inspiration survived Covid and a stroke.
Marie and Christina from Haiti,
Each worked several jobs at a time, for years,
To bring their families here
Their gentleness soothed our torn world.
Among our residents were missionary nuns
Who had delivered babies, saved lives
In many parts of the world, retired now,
Grateful for food and shelter
A month into the lockdown, Andrea
Sent a packet of writing materials
A volunteer poetry teacher, she saw a severed connection
And healed it by virtual monthly workshops.
A nursing home permeated by death,
Yet held together by the kindness
Of scattered faces of the world
That turned the utter darkness to light
Somerville, MA
by Sr. Margaret Anne Meyer MMM U.S.A. 20.07.2022
Poetry has, until recently, been a mysterious garden where words blossomed like wildflowers. They looked lovely but what was their meaning? How come the ending words did not rhyme but carried me to a different world?
It all began three years ago when I met Damien in the hall of the residence of the Little Sisters of the Poor. He was seeing the place where his mother, Alice Sullivan, was going to reside. “You should meet her,” quipped Mother Maureen, as she met me walking past Damien. Alice had gone to Nigeria in the 1970’s to 1990’s to study Anthropology in the University of Lagos. It was an excellent opportunity to make friends and welcome Alice into the residence. Mother Maureen, a Little Sister of the Poor, knew we would have a lot in common through our love for Nigeria and the people.
by Sr. Chinyene Lumenze MMM England 18.07.2022
A young man once accompanied his dad to see a friend called James. When dad and son arrived at James’ home, they exchanged greetings. James stooped to the boy’s level and said, “Hello, I’m James” The little boy responded with a “hello, I am Marcus” Then James said, I am a constructor. And to the boy, he asked, “What do you do?”. The little boy said, “I go to school.” James gave him a warm smile and said, “Do that well,” and the little boy said, “Sure.”
The above story reveals the power of education, evidenced in confidence expressed by the little boy. Education, they say, is power. Educate a child, and you have educated a nation. Education for me is not limited to classroom learning and being taught but to how the knowledge is applied. A formal education without good family values that spring from informal education in the family may not be powerful.
by Sr. Prisca Ovat MMM Kenya 16.07.2022
Bees, as many of us would have become aware, are numbered among great pollinators of over 75% of global leading crops. Many MMMs and friends would recall the sweet honey often given away by the MMM sisters in Makiungu. They valued bee farming and, as a result, many become beneficiaries. Little wonder our African ancestors, in their illiteracy, and even among the classroom-uneducated of our time, are in the fight for bee preservation.
Now, listen to this story.
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 14.07.2022
The other day I was in the car as a passenger, commenting to the driver about the other cars as we bowled along the motorway. “Did you know”, I said, “That cars from the North of Ireland have the letters X,Y or Z in their number plates?” Some one gave me that information a few years ago. . And then I said, “That is a useless bit of information for you”.
by Sr. Noeleen Mooney, MMM Ireland 12.07.2022
My favourite piece from our MMM Constitutions is:
“Wherever you are,
whatever you do,
let there be in your heart
a space for others to be,
so that, unafraid,
they may experience themselves as loved
and so be healed”
Over the years I have had several experiences of migration (meaning moving from one place to settle in another) and of transition. This is the life of a missionary and it has enabled me to look at the experiences and to what it has done to me as a person.
by Sr. Cecily Bourdillon MMM Ireland 10.07.2022
A few days ago, I received a message from a member of staff of Kasina Health Centre in Malawi telling me of the death of our mutual friend, Yohane. May he rest in peace. The message added that his mother thanked God for answereing her prayer. Yohane’s mother had asked God to take Yohane before calling herself. She knew that she was the only person who could or would care for him.
by Sr. Kerisfon Clement Ekanem MMM Republic of Benin 08.07.2022
I had a visit from one of our young women thinking about joining MMM, Fidelia Lawin. She and her younger sister visited me in School. I welcomed them and presented them with water and some snacks. She commented, “In School as in the Community”. I sought to know what her comment meant.
