I attended St. Patrick's School in Natick, Massachusetts from Grade 1 through Grade 8.  In 1st grade, where a child is supposed to be introduced to the world of knowledge and understanding, I had a traumatic experience due to the insensitivity of one particular nun.  This encounter set me up to struggle with very low self-esteem all the way through 7th grade.  I was six years old, had never experienced kindergarten, and was very excited about spending every day with other children my age in this new "learning" environment.  At some point, I will outline what happened that day, but for now, I would like to talk about another nun, who had a huge impact my life.

Her name was Sister Mary Helen Charles.  She was tall, slim, pretty and had the most wonderful smile.  When she walked into the classroom for the first time, I knew instantly that she and I were going to get along just fine.  For years, I had been under the tutelage of nuns who either ran their classrooms with an iron fist or were altogether without personality.  But Sister Mary Helen Charles was different.  She smiled, she laughed, and she understood that we were children.  Yes!  I believe that 8th graders are still children.

Sister Charles walked up and down the rows of classroom seats not to look for opportunities to correct and berate us.  She looked at our papers, pointed out where we might improve upon our skills, and smiled as she told us.  I couldn't believe it!  I just loved her to pieces, wishing every day that I could stay in the 8th grade forever!  Then one day, out of the blue, she slowly walked into the classroom with her head hung low.  The room was totally silent (as it always was), but everyone stared at her in disbelief.  Sister Charles walked to her desk and sat down.  Spreading her hands out across the desk, she looked up at us.  I waited for her to yell, or scream, anything that would break the awful silence.  Just tell me . . . what is it?  What have I done?  And then a tear rolled down her cheek.

Sister Mary Helen Charles had lost her closest and dearest brother.  He had died suddenly.  She was devastated, and I was too.  My heart broke for her as she tried to explain her loss and that she would have to be gone for a few days.  I remember crying with her, so touched by her emotion.  This was my first real experience with death.  Of course, I had no idea that I was being prepared for my own grandmother's death just a few short months later.

Before Sister left that day she called three of her students to the front of the class.  She invited them to accompany her to her brother's funeral.  I was one of those students.  It's impossible for me to put into words what I felt at that moment.  The closest thing I can compare it to is the pride one feels when staring down at her newborn child.  It's not an arrogant pride.  It's the feeling that you really count.  I had been the recipient of a friendship, a relationship, for which I did nothing to earn.  A blessing.  A gift from the Lord, Himself.  And I have never forgotten that day, nor have I ever forgotten the angelic face of my 8th grade teacher, Sister Mary Helen Charles.  I will always be grateful to her for reaching down into my soul.  She created in me the desire to learn again, not only about academics, but about what's really important in life and in relationships - kindness, gentleness and love.