My second grade teacher, Sister George, was the only woman I knew who had taken the name of a man. I never learned why. She must have been enamored to Saint George the dragon slayer?
Sister George confused me. Where Sister Mary was gentle in speech and movement, Sister George’s movements were brisk and economical. I can’t remember Sister George’s voice, but I know I listened when she spoke. She had a great understanding of the needs of a seven year old child, well…
At least the needs of a child like me.
Although I was “one of six” at home; at school in a sea of thirty kids in my class… she had time for me.
Sister George could see my talents and she introduced me to using my strengths to help others. She set me to reviewing Math skills with classmates who needed a little extra practice. She introduced me to the world of books, encouraging a ravenous appetite for the written word. She saw a budding artist and would give me greeting card artwork.
“You draw well,” she would say, “please draw this for me.” And then she would carefully place my offerings on her desk.
I can remember my absolute terror one afternoon when my mother was late in picking me up from school. Once a week my mother would walk into town to pick me up from school in order to walk me to piano lessons. That particular afternoon, my mother was late. My fragile world of security burst as I sobbed hysterically believing that I had been forgotten.
I remember Sister George’s efforts to soothe me. She walked me out into the hallway. I must have frightened the other children… this was no ordinary little kid meltdown. I clung to her skirts as her voice broke through my panic. “There, there, don’t be afraid, your mother will come. Besides, I would never leave you alone. I’m here; it will be alright.”
I nuzzled her arm covered with a black crocheted sweater, and waited.
These words spoken by a small woman who had committed her life to the Catholic Church were like the words of God to me.
If Sister said there was nothing to fear, then it must be true.
If Sister said I would never be alone, feeling so abandoned, then this also must be true.
Sister George said these things so this must be what God meant me to hear.
And I loved Sister George so much for that.
My mother did arrive, completely unaware of the storm that I had just traveled through. The comfort given, the warmth of kind words, the skirts I clung to, even the sweater sleeve I snuffled into were given via the holy Catholic Church as represented in its humble servant dressed in black.
A small woman, with a man’s name who had brightened the lives of hundreds of children during her lifetime.
© 2007, Loretta Kelly
