Sister Mary Denise with her father.The guest blog today is written by Sister Mary Denise, the Mother Superior of the Visitation Monastery, an order of nuns in Mendota Heights, Minnesota.
There were once 45 in her order, and now there are nine. As their leader, she often thinks of her late father (he was known as Wally, and he used to call her Dolly) for guidance. “Our monastery teems with estrogen, which renders my late father’s example an interesting counterpoint,” she says.
Sister Mary Denise with her father. Photo courtesy of Sister Mary Denise Villaume
Most of the guidance she needs is about how to save her convent. “Dad would admire our latest attempt to do that,” she says, in the form of a book that chronicles the life stories of the sisters with whom she works and lives. Called Extraordinary Ordinary Lives: Vocation Stories of Minnesota Visitation Sisters, it “explains who we are, where we’re from, how we got here and why we’ve stayed. It bursts with the kind of personal narratives Dad embraced.”
There is shy Kathleen Keefe who, after a rousing round of Kick the Can, drops beneath a starry sky and becomes mesmerized by the “cosmic ballet.” There is Edna Rose, the beautiful daughter of a wealthy family who trades her engagement ring for a black habit. There is Sister Mary Immaculata, who worries her cigarette addiction will keep her from the convent and, years later, feels unworthy of her religious name.
And there is Sister Mary Denise, who even though she is a Mother Superior, still finds herself missing her Dad.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wally’s Wisdom
By Sister Mary Denise Villaume
When I first entered the convent, it was cloistered. Years later I would learn that on the day of my Uncle Gene’s funeral, Dad yearned to spend time with me. After the funeral, he drove to the convent and parked outside just to feel near me. Despite the January chill, he stayed for two hours.
Dad passed on 50 years ago, but in the same way, I still remain close to him. When I face hard decisions, I invoke him. In the absence of a husband, Dad is the most influential man in my life.
It was he who taught me that generosity pays off. One summer night he told me he had donated to a new ambulance for our small town. The next day he had a heart attack and was raced to the hospital in that ambulance. It saved his life.
Dad taught me that humility is the hallmark of a successful businessperson. At a young age I knew he was president of the Minnesota Macaroni Company, and he looked presidential: a neatly-groomed moustache, salt-and-pepper hair and honest blue eyes. Yet he rarely discussed his accomplishments. As Mother Superior, I try to practice this. I’m most effective as a leader when I focus on the other sisters’ gifts and find ways to bring them out.
Dad taught me the role of silence and reflection in decision-making. He funded a Jesuit Retreat House and visited every year. And he showed me how to fully focus on the moment, a lesson I cling to in our noisy modern life. Every summer day when he came home from work, he slipped into the lake and joined me. I relished the one-on-one time, floating around, talking aimlessly about my day and showing off any new moves I had mastered. A compliment from Dad made me feel like a queen.
Dad easily could have been consumed by his own pressing needs and persistent concerns, yet he was always thinking of others. In 1951 the city of St. Paul flooded, and Dad rowed in to the macaroni building to help employees, families and friends move the flour off the first floor. He knew of a blind couple that lived nearby and summoned the Red Cross to help them leave their flooded home.
On a regular basis the Little Sisters of the Poor drove their truck up to the macaroni building, and Dad filled it with food. I once heard my mom ask if it was prudent to be giving so much when they didn’t know if they’d be able to put us kids through college. It wasn’t a hostile challenge, but an earnest question. Dad’s answer was unequivocal: help neighbors today, trust God with tomorrow.
He was hospitable to those whose families were distant or divided. It was not uncommon to walk into the kitchen and find a priest making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And every Sunday afternoon, Father Nick came over for chicken. Dad had many friends, who affectionately called him Wally. We claimed uncles through blood and others through benevolence.
I know there must have been a part of him that wept when he learned Daddy’s Little Girl was entering a cloistered convent, but I never saw his sadness. My decision to become a nun, he made it clear, had evoked his deepest pride and his steadfast support.
He wrote me newsy letters in his artistic cursive, dispatches from the home front. Somehow he obtained the convent’s skating schedule, so on his way home from work, he’d drive by and watch from a tall bank across the street. When I close my eyes, I can picture him standing there. I’d look up from the ice, spot him and wave. He waved back, a bright smile breaking across his face.
Physical distance, Dad taught me, does not preclude closeness of heart. All these decades after his death, that continues to bring me comfort. I think of Dad often as I lead this aging group of nuns. We face many challenges: our numbers are down, our members are frail and our troubles can be daunting. I know many others can relate, struggling to make the grade, keep the job, pay the bills, manage the mortgage and raise the kids. These are hard times.
Although it was not our intent, our convent has been a refuge to the broader community the way my childhood home was. We’ve housed immigrants, unwed mothers, even Mother Teresa. Every day we find new ways to share our unique spirituality. Of all the things Dad taught me, the most important is this: now is not the time to retreat, but to extend. When the waters rise, row in and help out. The oxygen you provide others just might save your life.[rc]
Copyright 2009 The New York Times Company
June 20, 2009
USA: A Mother Superior Remembers Her Dad
.
NEW YORK, Ny / The New York Times / Magazine / Motherlode / June 20, 2009
By Lisa Belkin
Sister Mary Denise with her father.The guest blog today is written by Sister Mary Denise, the Mother Superior of the Visitation Monastery, an order of nuns in Mendota Heights, Minnesota.
There were once 45 in her order, and now there are nine. As their leader, she often thinks of her late father (he was known as Wally, and he used to call her Dolly) for guidance. “Our monastery teems with estrogen, which renders my late father’s example an interesting counterpoint,” she says.
Sister Mary Denise with her father. Photo courtesy of Sister Mary Denise Villaume
Most of the guidance she needs is about how to save her convent. “Dad would admire our latest attempt to do that,” she says, in the form of a book that chronicles the life stories of the sisters with whom she works and lives. Called Extraordinary Ordinary Lives: Vocation Stories of Minnesota Visitation Sisters, it “explains who we are, where we’re from, how we got here and why we’ve stayed. It bursts with the kind of personal narratives Dad embraced.”
There is shy Kathleen Keefe who, after a rousing round of Kick the Can, drops beneath a starry sky and becomes mesmerized by the “cosmic ballet.” There is Edna Rose, the beautiful daughter of a wealthy family who trades her engagement ring for a black habit. There is Sister Mary Immaculata, who worries her cigarette addiction will keep her from the convent and, years later, feels unworthy of her religious name.
And there is Sister Mary Denise, who even though she is a Mother Superior, still finds herself missing her Dad.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wally’s Wisdom
By Sister Mary Denise Villaume
When I first entered the convent, it was cloistered. Years later I would learn that on the day of my Uncle Gene’s funeral, Dad yearned to spend time with me. After the funeral, he drove to the convent and parked outside just to feel near me. Despite the January chill, he stayed for two hours.
Dad passed on 50 years ago, but in the same way, I still remain close to him. When I face hard decisions, I invoke him. In the absence of a husband, Dad is the most influential man in my life.
It was he who taught me that generosity pays off. One summer night he told me he had donated to a new ambulance for our small town. The next day he had a heart attack and was raced to the hospital in that ambulance. It saved his life.
Dad taught me that humility is the hallmark of a successful businessperson. At a young age I knew he was president of the Minnesota Macaroni Company, and he looked presidential: a neatly-groomed moustache, salt-and-pepper hair and honest blue eyes. Yet he rarely discussed his accomplishments. As Mother Superior, I try to practice this. I’m most effective as a leader when I focus on the other sisters’ gifts and find ways to bring them out.
Dad taught me the role of silence and reflection in decision-making. He funded a Jesuit Retreat House and visited every year. And he showed me how to fully focus on the moment, a lesson I cling to in our noisy modern life. Every summer day when he came home from work, he slipped into the lake and joined me. I relished the one-on-one time, floating around, talking aimlessly about my day and showing off any new moves I had mastered. A compliment from Dad made me feel like a queen.
Dad easily could have been consumed by his own pressing needs and persistent concerns, yet he was always thinking of others. In 1951 the city of St. Paul flooded, and Dad rowed in to the macaroni building to help employees, families and friends move the flour off the first floor. He knew of a blind couple that lived nearby and summoned the Red Cross to help them leave their flooded home.
On a regular basis the Little Sisters of the Poor drove their truck up to the macaroni building, and Dad filled it with food. I once heard my mom ask if it was prudent to be giving so much when they didn’t know if they’d be able to put us kids through college. It wasn’t a hostile challenge, but an earnest question. Dad’s answer was unequivocal: help neighbors today, trust God with tomorrow.
He was hospitable to those whose families were distant or divided. It was not uncommon to walk into the kitchen and find a priest making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And every Sunday afternoon, Father Nick came over for chicken. Dad had many friends, who affectionately called him Wally. We claimed uncles through blood and others through benevolence.
I know there must have been a part of him that wept when he learned Daddy’s Little Girl was entering a cloistered convent, but I never saw his sadness. My decision to become a nun, he made it clear, had evoked his deepest pride and his steadfast support.
He wrote me newsy letters in his artistic cursive, dispatches from the home front. Somehow he obtained the convent’s skating schedule, so on his way home from work, he’d drive by and watch from a tall bank across the street. When I close my eyes, I can picture him standing there. I’d look up from the ice, spot him and wave. He waved back, a bright smile breaking across his face.
Physical distance, Dad taught me, does not preclude closeness of heart. All these decades after his death, that continues to bring me comfort. I think of Dad often as I lead this aging group of nuns. We face many challenges: our numbers are down, our members are frail and our troubles can be daunting. I know many others can relate, struggling to make the grade, keep the job, pay the bills, manage the mortgage and raise the kids. These are hard times.
Although it was not our intent, our convent has been a refuge to the broader community the way my childhood home was. We’ve housed immigrants, unwed mothers, even Mother Teresa. Every day we find new ways to share our unique spirituality. Of all the things Dad taught me, the most important is this: now is not the time to retreat, but to extend. When the waters rise, row in and help out. The oxygen you provide others just might save your life.[rc]
Copyright 2009 The New York Times Company
Sister Mary Denise with her father.The guest blog today is written by Sister Mary Denise, the Mother Superior of the Visitation Monastery, an order of nuns in Mendota Heights, Minnesota.
There were once 45 in her order, and now there are nine. As their leader, she often thinks of her late father (he was known as Wally, and he used to call her Dolly) for guidance. “Our monastery teems with estrogen, which renders my late father’s example an interesting counterpoint,” she says.
Sister Mary Denise with her father. Photo courtesy of Sister Mary Denise Villaume
Most of the guidance she needs is about how to save her convent. “Dad would admire our latest attempt to do that,” she says, in the form of a book that chronicles the life stories of the sisters with whom she works and lives. Called Extraordinary Ordinary Lives: Vocation Stories of Minnesota Visitation Sisters, it “explains who we are, where we’re from, how we got here and why we’ve stayed. It bursts with the kind of personal narratives Dad embraced.”
There is shy Kathleen Keefe who, after a rousing round of Kick the Can, drops beneath a starry sky and becomes mesmerized by the “cosmic ballet.” There is Edna Rose, the beautiful daughter of a wealthy family who trades her engagement ring for a black habit. There is Sister Mary Immaculata, who worries her cigarette addiction will keep her from the convent and, years later, feels unworthy of her religious name.
And there is Sister Mary Denise, who even though she is a Mother Superior, still finds herself missing her Dad.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wally’s Wisdom
By Sister Mary Denise Villaume
When I first entered the convent, it was cloistered. Years later I would learn that on the day of my Uncle Gene’s funeral, Dad yearned to spend time with me. After the funeral, he drove to the convent and parked outside just to feel near me. Despite the January chill, he stayed for two hours.
Dad passed on 50 years ago, but in the same way, I still remain close to him. When I face hard decisions, I invoke him. In the absence of a husband, Dad is the most influential man in my life.
It was he who taught me that generosity pays off. One summer night he told me he had donated to a new ambulance for our small town. The next day he had a heart attack and was raced to the hospital in that ambulance. It saved his life.
Dad taught me that humility is the hallmark of a successful businessperson. At a young age I knew he was president of the Minnesota Macaroni Company, and he looked presidential: a neatly-groomed moustache, salt-and-pepper hair and honest blue eyes. Yet he rarely discussed his accomplishments. As Mother Superior, I try to practice this. I’m most effective as a leader when I focus on the other sisters’ gifts and find ways to bring them out.
Dad taught me the role of silence and reflection in decision-making. He funded a Jesuit Retreat House and visited every year. And he showed me how to fully focus on the moment, a lesson I cling to in our noisy modern life. Every summer day when he came home from work, he slipped into the lake and joined me. I relished the one-on-one time, floating around, talking aimlessly about my day and showing off any new moves I had mastered. A compliment from Dad made me feel like a queen.
Dad easily could have been consumed by his own pressing needs and persistent concerns, yet he was always thinking of others. In 1951 the city of St. Paul flooded, and Dad rowed in to the macaroni building to help employees, families and friends move the flour off the first floor. He knew of a blind couple that lived nearby and summoned the Red Cross to help them leave their flooded home.
On a regular basis the Little Sisters of the Poor drove their truck up to the macaroni building, and Dad filled it with food. I once heard my mom ask if it was prudent to be giving so much when they didn’t know if they’d be able to put us kids through college. It wasn’t a hostile challenge, but an earnest question. Dad’s answer was unequivocal: help neighbors today, trust God with tomorrow.
He was hospitable to those whose families were distant or divided. It was not uncommon to walk into the kitchen and find a priest making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And every Sunday afternoon, Father Nick came over for chicken. Dad had many friends, who affectionately called him Wally. We claimed uncles through blood and others through benevolence.
I know there must have been a part of him that wept when he learned Daddy’s Little Girl was entering a cloistered convent, but I never saw his sadness. My decision to become a nun, he made it clear, had evoked his deepest pride and his steadfast support.
He wrote me newsy letters in his artistic cursive, dispatches from the home front. Somehow he obtained the convent’s skating schedule, so on his way home from work, he’d drive by and watch from a tall bank across the street. When I close my eyes, I can picture him standing there. I’d look up from the ice, spot him and wave. He waved back, a bright smile breaking across his face.
Physical distance, Dad taught me, does not preclude closeness of heart. All these decades after his death, that continues to bring me comfort. I think of Dad often as I lead this aging group of nuns. We face many challenges: our numbers are down, our members are frail and our troubles can be daunting. I know many others can relate, struggling to make the grade, keep the job, pay the bills, manage the mortgage and raise the kids. These are hard times.
Although it was not our intent, our convent has been a refuge to the broader community the way my childhood home was. We’ve housed immigrants, unwed mothers, even Mother Teresa. Every day we find new ways to share our unique spirituality. Of all the things Dad taught me, the most important is this: now is not the time to retreat, but to extend. When the waters rise, row in and help out. The oxygen you provide others just might save your life.[rc]
Copyright 2009 The New York Times Company
