Story One: Hallelujah! Happy Easter!!

One of the many jobs my father had as a young man was working for the Little Sisters of the Poor in Kansas City. The sisters ran a Catholic nursing home and charity, and my father had a number of tasks ranging from the menial daily chores of cleaning and laundry to the more adventuresome tasks of taking the sisters on a road trip and picking up a charitable donation from a well-known mafia boss.

Yet perhaps my father's most memorable moment at Little Sisters of the Poor came on an early Easter morning in April. My father had laundry duty which began before the sun came up. Now, I need to note that my father is not a morning person. In fact, he's the farthest thing from it. My mother's morning mantra around my father's grumpiness was, "Well, it's morning." So here was my father, not a morning person, walking through a darkened parking lot toward the nursing home, shoulders hunched against the cold of an early morning, grousing about work and early and Easter morning. Out of nowhere, the silence of the pre-dawn is broken by a voice from above calling out, "Hallelujah! Happy Easter!"

My father stopped in his tracks and looked around. Although he wasn't quite awake yet, he didn't think he was delusional. And, he couldn't imagine a divine messenger braving a cold Sunday morning to send a message for him. Just as he was about to shake it off and move on, he was suddenly knocked off his feet by something big and plumpy. Lying on top of him on the concrete, was a big, cotton laundry bag filled with sheets ready for the day's wash. My father pushed himself off the ground and looked up for the source. There, above him, her black robes billowing around her, was Sister Isabella, the austere matron of the Little Sisters of the Poor. Hands on her hips she called down to my father in her "I mean business" voice--"I said, Hallelujah! Happy Easter!!"

Needless to say, my father quickly dove into action. "Hallelujah, Happy Easter!" he called up to Sister Isabella, at the same time swinging the twenty pound laundry bag over his shoulder and scampering in the back door.

Although I never met Sister Isabella, I see her every Easter morning calling out from that rooftop. And that's what a good story can do. :-)

Sara