HOLDING ON TO HOPE: Margaret and Mother Teresa
CHAPTER ONEMy Left Hand
IT WAS MORNING, but I was so jet-lagged, I wasn’t really sure. I had left Sunday from San Diego, and here I was landing in India. I had traveled over eight thousand miles in three days. Or was it four? I had lost track.
From San Diego, the first stop was Los Angeles, then off we went across the Pacific Ocean.
It was a beautiful thing to see the ocean where I had spent so much of my life swimming, walking, and wading.
Then, finally, we landed, and I was as close to my almost lifelong goal.
Calcutta and Mother Teresa.
I would finally meet in person the woman who had changed my life when she answered the letter of an eager eleven-year-old girl.
As the plane cruised to a stop on the tarmac, I peered out the window, looking for her. I had no idea what she looked like, but in my imagination, I had pictured her a hundred times.
She would be tall and fair, with a kind, almost beautiful face. She would be almost saint-like in her presence. And she would open her strong arms and embrace me into the order. As the crew rolled the stairs to the airplane door, all of the passengers stood, almost pushing one another to get out before the others.
Not me.
I wanted to be the last one out of the plane so I would have my moment with Mother Teresa without anyone else around. I couldn’t wait to say the Hindi words I had been practicing for days.
“Namaste, Mother Teresa. Main number sau hoon.” Roughly translated, it was, “Hello, Mother Teresa. I am number one hundred.” Which was the number she reserved for me when I was just sixteen, four long years ago.
At the bottom of the stairs, the passengers were greeted by friends and family or guides. Off to the side, I saw her, the woman I had envisioned for almost ten years.
She was dressed in a clean white sari that was edged with three blue stripes. Father Anderson had told me that the stripes were for poverty, obedience, and service to the poorest of the poor. She was tall, from what I could tell from the plane window. A stray wisp of blond hair escaped from the headwrap. She was exactly as I had imagined.
Next to her was a tiny woman. I wondered how someone so small could do the work that Mother Teresa had described to me and that Father Anderson himself had witnessed when he visited India a few years ago. I was grateful that I was strong and sturdy and ready to do the work necessary for the poorest of the poor.
I stood at the top of the stairs holding one small bag. Inside were a change of clothes, a fresh notebook for journaling, and the medical notes I had compiled during nursing school and my work at Mercy Hospital.
The heat and humidity hit me, almost like a slap in the face. I had never felt this kind of atmosphere growing up in San Diego.
There was also a smell that was somehow familiar and unfamiliar. I couldn’t place it, but it was there, hanging over me. I hoped it wasn’t me. I hadn’t had the chance to freshen up or change my clothes for the last leg of the flight.
I fought the urge to run my hands under my arms to check.
Soon, the other passengers had cleared away, and I made my way down the stairs to Mother Teresa and the other woman, probably her assistant. That Mother Teresa was there, herself, to welcome me reassured me that I had made the right choice.
I put my hands together as I had seen in the National Geographic pictures and bowed my head.
“Namaste, Mother Teresa. Main number sau hoon,” I said and looked up at the fair-skinned nun who looked back at me with a mixture of confusion and what seemed to be embarrassment. She stepped aside and looked down at her assistant, a small woman with dark eyes, olive skin, and a face marked by sun and hard work.
“Welcome, Number One Hundred.” She looked at me with a wry smile. “We speak English here.”
“Hello,” I said, mortified. I snuck a glance at the other nun who fought back a laugh at my discomfort and gave me a comforting wink.
“I’m Sister Andrea,” she said, her eyes dancing.
“The car is waiting,” said the tiny little thing who I now realized was Mother Teresa. Without waiting for a response, she headed off the tarmac into the terminal. “Let’s get to the convent so I can return the car before dark.”
For such a small woman, her stride was long, and she moved as quickly as a bunny. An intimidating bunny. She marched straight through the terminal with Sister Andrea and me trotting along behind her. Busy though the terminal was, the crowds seemed to part for her without her having to say a word.
This was my lesson that day. Don’t judge anyone’s power by their size.
The three of us climbed into the back of a large white car. The Indian driver was dressed in a uniform of some kind, very fancy.
I was a little shocked at the richness of the car, and it must have shown on my face.
“Dr. B.C. Sen often allows Mother to use his automobile and driver when she needs to go long distances,” Sister Andrea explained. “The Sen family was one of the early benefactors to the Missionaries of Charity.”
That made sense. From Mother Teresa’s letters, I knew her work depended on the generosity of people who believed in it.
The driver eased into traffic, and we began the hour-long drive to the Mother House. An hour of silence, which was not something I was used to. Back home, someone was always talking—usually several people at once.
I glanced at Sister Andrea, who kept her eyes downward, her breathing rhythmic, but she was not sleeping. A quick look at Mother Teresa showed me that her hands were busy with her rosary and her lips moved in silent prayer.
Maybe I should pray, I thought, but I was fascinated by every sight and sound on our drive to the convent. I had so many questions.
How far away was the convent?
How many other postulants were there?
When would I begin to work with the lepers and others who were in need?
Would I wear a sari right away or would I have to earn it?
Would I work with the children or the sick?
Should I learn Bengali?
What would happen if I made a mistake?
But the silence of Sister Andrea and Mother Teresa was not to be disturbed. After about forty-five minutes, Sister Andrea tapped my arm and startled me awake. I hadn’t realized how tired I was from the journey. Somewhere along the way, I had fallen asleep.
“We will be at the Mother House in about fifteen minutes.”
I started to speak, to ask questions, but she stopped me with a gentle lift of her hand.
That single gesture said more than words. Mother Teresa was praying her rosary and seemed unaware of my concerns or that I wanted to speak. But I understood. This was not a time for chatter; this was a time for her to pray.
As we made our way through the winding city streets of Calcutta, the driver dodged rickshaws, bicycles, and other cars. I couldn’t tear myself away from looking through the car window to take it all in.
I was stunned by the noise and the crowds of people, the makeshift “homes.” Hundreds and hundreds of them. Babies. Small children. Teenagers. Adults. All living in the streets as if it were an ordinary thing. I had never seen anything like this kind of poverty. I tried to ask Sister Andrea about it, but the words caught in my throat. I didn’t know whether I wanted to cry, pray, or look away.
What if I discover I am not strong enough?
But then I thought with true conviction, God will make me strong enough.
When we arrived at the convent, the driver stopped in front of a two-story building squeezed in between other buildings. We got out of the car and watched the driver move back into traffic and disappear. Mother Teresa nodded at me in a silent welcome and walked through the doors, leaving me alone with Sister Andrea.
The sights and sounds were almost overwhelming. The shouting of conversations in languages I didn’t understand, cries of children, and car horns blasted in from the streets. Acrid, sharp odors drifted from outside the convent and mixed with the smell of cooked rice and harsh soap from inside.
I looked around and saw this wasn’t a church, at least, not a church I would have recognized from home. There were no statues, gardens, or bell towers. What I saw was a simple, plain building aged by dirt and the weather.
Sister Andrea led me through a narrow passage and to a small courtyard that had no flowers or comfortable chairs. It was not a place of luxury or extravagance. Lines were strung from poles and freshly washed saris danced in the hot breeze. A narrow staircase led up to what I assumed were the living quarters.
I looked up at the windows, doors, and the open walkway that encircled the area. Compared with the street outside, the courtyard was quieter, but it was filled with activity.
Nuns in their white saris with the blue stripes moved with purpose. Some carried buckets. A couple had baskets of laundry in their arms. Two more hurried past me with their arms full of metal bowls and cups.
When I had imagined myself here with Mother Teresa, this was nothing I had pictured.
It was smaller. Plainer. Hotter. But full of life and purpose.
I’m not here for a vacation, I reminded myself. I am here to serve God.
“Are you ready, Margaret?” she asked me, a question that made me smile. Those three words came to me the morning I left San Diego for India.
“Yes,” I answered. “Yes, I am.” I needed to believe, to know those words were true.
“Excellent.” She began to walk away, and I followed. “Let me show you where the bathroom is.”
I had to move quickly to keep up with her. It was becoming clear to me that there was no strolling here. Every step was to get us where we needed to be, and to get there quickly.
The first thing Sister Andrea did was take me to the bathroom. Or what substituted for a bathroom here in India.
There was no toilet—at least not a toilet I had grown up with. Instead, there was a basin set into a cement floor that had a dark opening in the center. Next to it were two raised places for my feet. Against the wall, there was a dented metal bucket and a small brass cup.
I looked at the set-up. Then I looked at Sister Andrea. Then back at the hole in the floor.
“Um, Sister Andrea, where’s the toilet paper?”
“Right there,” she said and pointed at the bucket and the cup.
“I don’t understand,” I said, completely confused.
“This hand is for eating.” She raised her right hand.
“I see,” I said, although I didn’t.
She then raised her left hand. “This hand is for using the bathroom. You use the water in the bucket to clean yourself.”
I looked at the bucket, at the hole in the ground, and back at the bucket. Then it hit me. I understood exactly what the bucket was for.
“Oh. Okay.”
I stood for a moment, trying to take it all in.
“Would you like some privacy to use the toilet?”
Suddenly, I no longer had to go to the bathroom.
“I’m fine for now. I used the bathroom on the plane.”
She nodded and indicated that we should move on. Again, I followed her, but not before taking another quick look at the “facility.”
No one told me about that!
The evening meal was already over, but Sister Andrea found me a bowl of rice, a cup of lentil soup, and some cooked cabbage. I was happy when she sat with me at a long table in the common room, and we shared the meal.
I had so many questions, but the long journey was finally catching up to me. All I wanted was a pillow and sleep. I tried to hide a huge yawn behind my hand, but Sister Andrea noticed.
“I think it’s time you went to bed. Tomorrow will be a long day for you.” Again, I followed behind her as she led the way down a corridor and to what looked like an unused storage room. Inside there was a thin pad on the floor and a white chemise hanging over a rickety chair in the corner. “Put this on, and put your own clothes in that,” she said, indicating a small wicker basket. “You won’t be needing any of your clothing, so they will be given to the poor.”
I glanced at the basket. Until that moment, I had not understood that giving up my old life included every dress and blouse I owned. To think that for the rest of my life, I would be dressed as the other nuns were dressed, in the white sari with the blue stripes, gave me a feeling of accomplishment. I had worked so hard to get here, and now, here I was.
“Thank you.” I took off my clothes, except for my underwear, and Sister Andrea folded them and put them in the basket.
As I was putting on the chemise, she stopped me.
“All of your clothes, Margaret.”
It took me a moment to realize that she meant my bra and panties. No undergarments at all?
I hesitated, my hands resting at the waistband of my panties. Then I reminded myself why I had come. I removed them, folded them with my bra, and handed everything to Sister Andrea.
“Welcome, Margaret,” she said, and seemed genuinely happy to have me here. “I am so happy to be able to call you my sister in the Lord.” She left, and suddenly, I was alone. Many people would feel that aloneness, but I didn’t. Since I was a little girl, both of my parents had worked two jobs, and I was by myself much of the time. It wasn’t neglect. It was necessary. It made me strong.
Minutes after Sister Andrea left and I had put on the thin cotton chemise, I curled onto the thin padding on the floor and closed my eyes.
***
“Margaret?” I felt my body shake. “Margaret, it’s time to get up.”
Why was Mama waking me up before the sun rose? Was Papa sick? I quickly sat up and opened my eyes. Where was I?
“It’s four-thirty. Time to get the day started,” Sister Andrea said softly, holding a single candle. Next to her was another nun who held what looked like a white sheet.
“Oh!” I rubbed my eyes and remembered where I was.
“This is Sister Celine. She will help you dress and then take you where you can wash.”
When she was gone, Sister Celine smiled and held up what looked like a white sheet. It was my sari.
“Another sister or I will help you put this on until you learn how to do it yourself. It seems complicated, but it’s not.”
Still wearing the thin chemise, I paid close attention as Sister Celine wrapped the cloth twice around my waist. Then she gathered the remaining material into narrow folds and tucked them securely at my waist.
“That doesn’t feel tight enough,” I said, afraid it might fall off.
“You will see that you need it just like this. Tight enough to stay on securely, but loose enough that you can move.” She gave the folds one more tuck. “You must be able to work.”
There was still a long flap of cloth hanging by my side. She pulled it across my chest and over my head. The blue-striped edge framed my face.
“I didn’t know that dressing would be quite so complicated,” I said with a laugh. “I don’t know how I’ll ever do this on my own.”
“Practice,” she said, smiling up at me. “Now, the bathroom.”
I followed Sister Celine through the still-dark hallway, which was lit only by the flickering candlelight. She led me to the bathroom. This one was a little bigger than the one Sister Andrea had shown me yesterday.
Yesterday!
My body quickly reminded me that I hadn’t been to the bathroom since getting off the plane. I started to feel a sense of panic. There were the two little blocks for my feet and the hole. Right now, it looked like nothing more than a gift.
“That bucket over there is for—” Sister Celine began.
“Oh, I know what it’s for,” I said and held up my left hand. “I’ll be fine.” If I waited much longer, I’d have to change from a newly soiled sari into a fresh one. Not exactly the first impression I wanted to leave with her.
I waited for her to step outside so I could close the door. Then I realized there was no door.
Sister Celine stepped out, but before she left, she reached up and unhooked a thin white curtain that barely covered the opening.
I didn’t care. All I cared about was lifting the folds of my sari and relieving myself before I exploded. I will spare you the details. I gagged a little, but I did it.
When I was done, I looked around for a sink of some kind to wash up in. That’s when I saw another bucket with a cup off to the side and a small drain on the cement floor.
“Well…okay then.”
Minutes later, I joined Sister Celine, who walked me around the outdoor corridor that overlooked the courtyard.
“It’s very quiet, isn’t it?” I whispered, afraid I’d wake up anyone who might be sleeping.
“Yes. Half of our order is in the chapel in prayer while the rest of us are in the laundry washing clothes.”
“Oh.” I realized then that getting up at four-thirty didn’t mean a leisurely breakfast.
“When prayers are finished, the two groups switch their tasks.”
“I see.” I hoped she didn’t hear my stomach growl.
“You will join the prayers and then move to the laundry,” she said with a smile, as if she were inviting me to coffee and donuts.
She led me into the chapel. I didn’t expect what I had grown up with in Immaculate Conception. But I thought it might be more like the crying room. A small room with a small altar, simple stained-glass windows, a statue of the Virgin and a cross with Jesus.
Instead, what I saw was very plain and very simple.
Long wooden, backless benches stood in two rows of four. The walls were plain and whitewashed, and the bare floor was cement. I noticed what looked like empty burlap bags in front of each bench and quickly realized the sisters used those when they knelt on the floor.
A simple wooden altar was covered with a white cloth. Behind it, on the wall, was a large painting of Christ on the cross, with the words I Thirst painted beside it.
Very quietly, Sister Celine and I slipped into the bench at the back of the chapel and joined in the prayers.
Praying with my rosary, following the familiar Latin prayers, kneeling and asking for guidance comforted my heart.
This was an unfamiliar world with customs, languages and people who were strangers to me. But I also felt that, at last, I had found a real home.
I would work hard and offer that work to God as prayer. Nothing would shake me. I had crossed the world certain that I was ready.
Before long, I would learn that being ready and being prepared were not the same thing.