I AM WOMAN

"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me.

I am a free human being with an independent will."

- Charlotte Bronte, "Jane Eyre"

       I had a teacher in college that whenever talking about feminism, he would always say, "I AM WOMAN," in a deep voice, proclaiming in his own way, the strength of the woman. I would always laugh and think, well real ladies would never use a deep manly voice. She would use her dainty, lady voice and say, "Well yes, sir, I do appear to be a bit stronger than you." Today, on my adventure with my best friend, I could not stop thinking about Mr. Mooney saying, "I AM WOMAN." In fact, I may have even said it a few times myself. If there's anything that feels mighty liberating as a woman, it's being able to lift two kayaks out of the water and into a truck that I just backed down the ramp. Say what? Yes, I did that.

     I've been reading a book titled, "Rose Under Fire." This book is a companion book to another book I just finished, "Code Name Verity." Both are written by Elizabeth Wein and both are historical fiction. Now, a little bit of a back story for you before I continue. As a kid, I always loved reading historical fiction books, especially books that showcased young women as the main character. I don't know if you ever heard of the Dear America series, but I thrived on those. Each were a diary form book written by a young girl during a historical time period. Now, flash forward to present day me searching in the book store for a casual Young Adult Literature book to read on vacation. As Sister Marcille taught me, I went after the book that had the Printz Award label on the front. Turns out, it was a historical fiction book. I knew I would love it, so I bought the companion book, too. I just started the second book Thursday...I'm almost done. 

     When I first picked up the books, I thought, oh good, another historical fiction during the WWII time era; one I personally love studying. As I got started, however, I realized I was reading about quite a few hipster ladies. By that, I mean, young women who were breaking stereotypes left and right by doing amazing things. One was a Special Orders Pilot...imagine, a woman pilot, especially during that time period. Of course, her best friend was a spy and interrogator. I fell in love with the characters who not only stayed true to the characterization of women at the time, but also were insanely feminist and willing to go above and beyond what women normally did. The second book also features a female pilot and describes at length the women concentration camp that still to this day doesn't have too much written about it. It describes in insane detail the strength of thousands of women. I felt as if these women were my comrades, my fellow strong women. Of course, there was one scene that struck me in particular that I felt extremely connected with. 

     The scene takes place toward the beginning of the story when Rose, the female pilot, gets trapped between two German fighter planes. She eventually is requested to follow the fighter planes to a German airfield; she has become a POW in the air. When she lands the plane and is asked to remove herself from the aircraft, she steps out of the pilots seat, but still has her helmet on. They order her to take her helmet off and a stream of curly brown hair falls out from underneath. The men's mouths gape open and suddenly they are saluting her and clapping for her; she fielded an excellent landing. Of course, there is much irony in this scene. The young woman, first of all is a POW and an American one at that. These mean saluting her were German airmen. At first I thought, well good for her to get such a response to landing that plane. But then I thought, if it had been a man pilot, they wouldn't have done that. What made her landing so special other than the fact that she was a woman pilot?! Nothing. As absurd as it was, the scene struck accord with me.

      You see, so often I am mistaken for a weak person. People always offer to help me carry things and stuff like that. Sometimes I think it's because I am little; a whopping five foot. But other times, I think it's probably because I am a woman. Today, like I said before, my best friend and I went kayaking in the river. Imagine the scene: two young women riding high in a Ford pick-up truck with two kayaks in the bed. First of all, a little lady is driving the truck. Second of all, she's going to have to get those kayaks out of the back of the truck. As I pulled into the parking lot, I could already see the crowd of men staring at me. Yes, boys, I had just hopped out of the cab of this truck. Now, look away. I knew they were anxiously waiting to see how I would approach getting the kayaks out of the bed of the truck. Shocking to admit, but I did it with no problem. Of course, my best friend was there to get her kayak out of the bed of the truck, too. What a sight to behold, two ladies carrying kayaks down the river. 

     I started to laugh at the absurdity. I really didn't think it was that big of a deal that we had just done that. However, the end of the craziness was no where in sight. As we were pulling the kayaks down the river to put in a bit further away from all the mud, an older gentleman stopped us. He asked if I had ever put in there before. I answered yes. He then told me that I should be careful because the tide was changing soon. Shocking, but I knew this to be true. Of course, he mentioned a few more river facts, all of which I knew. And as I nodded my head, he seemed to get more and more shocked. I wasn't sure why actually, but later it hit me. I'm a lady. He was a kind man, but he definitely thought we had no idea what we were doing. I thanked him for his conversation and we were on our merry way. 

     We enjoyed a paddle down stream and soon decided to head back. There were a lot of boats and jetskis out enjoying the Summer's last hoorah and so we often had to stop and change direction so we didn't tip. As we headed back, the river current got rougher and rougher and it was getting harder and harder to paddle back. Going against the current is the worst BUT it does build muscle mass. It was difficult but we continued. Suddenly, Mary Kate noticed some "fog" up ahead. Ironically, however, it wasn't fog, it was a downpour. We paddled for cover (because the last thing you want is a kayak filled with rain water) and took refuge under some kind peoples' dock. We made a video and then decided to head back out. We were only about half a mile away from where we put in. 

     The rain ceased as we paddled and the river current was much calmer, thus, easier for us to paddle. The boat ramp was in sight and the tide was coming in, so there would be much less mud to plow through. Of course, as we neared the boat ramp, another downpour. We laughed and this time, kept going. We were so close. We decided to take pictures, too, when we landed, because it was, after all, a monumental moment. There was one guy fishing who was enjoying the moment by laughing at us, but that soon changed when we hauled the kayaks up the ramp a bit. You see, it appeared that I was going to leave them there. But that was not the case. 

     I ran, still in the rain, to the truck, hopped up in the cab and reversed so I could turn around. Then I backed the truck down the ramp so that the two of use could swing the kayaks in the back and head home. We actually gained the attention of many as we did this quickly and efficiently. I smiled and laughed. As we drove home, I said, "Nothing is more liberating to me than being able to do things that people think women can't do...like handle her own kayak and drive a truck." My best friend just laughed.

     I am a feminist and often, I find it hilarious that women are always underestimated. Yes, I believe that there is such a feministic beauty in being genuine, caring, motherly, gentle. Those are the characteristics that make me a woman. But what also makes me a woman is my strength, both emotional and physical. To put things in perspective...my kayak weighs about 60 pounds. That's about the size of a toddler. Both of these facts enhances my feminism. As a woman, I may be expected to take care of children, babies and toddlers. I may be expected to pick them up and coo over them. Don't get me wrong, I loooooooove doing that. I love children and child-rearing is an amazing beauty all in it's own. But, if my toddler weighs 60 pounds, then why, when I pick up a kayak weighing about the same, is it a shock to everyone around. People, get a grip, I want to say. I don't, of course, because I'm a lady. I simply smile and behind my smile, I say, "Now, let me see you do that."

     I felt proud to be a lady today. Every day, I proud to be a woman, but today I felt especially proud. It wasn't that I already knew the things that our older man friend was telling us about the river. No, it wasn't because my Daddy had already taught me these things. And it wasn't that I got to drive Daddy's truck either (seriously...I NEED one of my own though). I learned to drive in that monster, so that was just taking the truck for a spin. And it actually wasn't the fact that my best friend and I paddled against the current in the pouring rain. That was just fun. What made me super proud was that all those strong men who were shocked when a lady hopped out of the cab of a pick-up truck and watched me as I lifted the kayaks out of the bed with ease, didn't offer an ounce of help. Now while that might make a few people upset (how dare they not help a damsel in distress), I enjoyed it. Why? Because they watched, they were shocked and they didn't offer help, because they knew I could do it. 

     I'm not always a radical feminist, but when I am, I lift kayaks out of trucks and paddle against the current in the pouring rain. Now I can't wait to see people's reactions when I do that as a nun. In the words of Mr. Mooney, "I AM WOMAN."

When God Was In College, He Was An English Major

"What knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, 

you wish the author was a terrific friend of yours

and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it.

That doesn't happen much, though."

- The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger 

     When was the last time you read a love letter? Or a poem that made you swoon over the beauty of the words? How about a children's book? Maybe even viewing a quotation on Pinterest, StumbleUpon, Instragram or Tumblr? Many of you know I love words so much. Sometimes I read certain words that make my soul and heart fill with so much emotion. I can read sometimes just a sentence and it speaks so much to me. They can make me breathless, sorrowful, loved and so much more. Words can also, when used correctly, give me the power to do the same for someone else. I can choose the most endearing words to flatter someone with true flattery, or I can express my sadness and make the reader cry with me. I could also make heads spin when I work puzzles of words around them when I feel like being cryptic. I can confuse a person, express my anger, and win any debate. When you can use words, you have so much power between your lips. I've often thought this was simply an English Major thing...but then, if it is, God must be an English major.

     Sometimes I am feeling the need for love. So, I take my bible off my book shelf and gently open it. Where I have placed rose petal after rose petal, the pages open to Song of Songs 2:16 "My lover belongs to be and I to him." I swoon for a second, and then read on. It is a love letter from God, written to me (and so many others). It is the most beautiful love letter I have ever read. I never tire of reading it. In Isaiah, only a few books away from SOS, God tells me that "though your sins are like scarlet, I will make them white as snow" (Isaiah 1:18). Next Book, Jeremiah, He tells me,"For I know the plans I have for you" (Jeremiah 29:11). Even in Lamentations, He gives voice to the suffering, the broken-hearted. Friends, we didn't even get to Psalms, Proverbs or Hosea, yet, much less the NEW TESTAMENT. If I were to actually quote all the beautiful words the Bible has to offer me as the most beautiful piece of literature, I would essentially be quoting the entire Bible. Instead, I just whet your taste buds for the beauty that is the Bible.

      I have always thought that the Bible was God's truest, deepest, best work of Literature. However, I never really thought of the possibility of God being an English Major. No, that didn't happen til last week when I was in Theology class and we read a section from the Gospels about how Jesus essentially owned those Pharisees in a gentle debate. He not only didn't give them the chance to argue, but he stuck the truth straight to their hearts. Like I said, English Majors can really get to the hearts of people and make them feel. Jesus did that not only with the Pharisees, but with his disciples, his followers, his mother, everyone he spoke to. He was quite the orator, if I say so myself. In fact, he was so great, that someone should have written a book about him. Oh wait....

     Anyway, like a good English Major, I am always reading and increasing my personal Canon. Anyone can tell you that when I read, I read with a writing instrument. Whether it's a pen of varying colors, or pencil, or marker, or crayon, I always have it near by. There are so many words that just jab at my heart or make me feel so much emotion in my soul, that I have to highlight them or write them down somewhere. You can my favorite books from the amount of markings in them. There are plenty of folded, leafed corners and cracks in the spins. My books are well-loved. 

    Often the words I find in my books, I feel as if God, Himself were speaking them to me. Take, for instance, my favorite Children's Book, "Where You Are, My Love Will Find You," by Nancy Tillman. It is a book written from a parent to a child and yet, when I sat in Barnes and Noble reading it to my Sister, two Christmasses ago, I knew immediately why I was meant to read it: God wanted me to feel loved. I felt as if God Himself was reading the book to me. Of course, there are my other favorite books like "A Prayer for Owen Meany," "This House of Brede," "The Shack," "The Alchemist," and so many more....all of them highlighted, underlined and written in, pages leafed and spins cracked. In all of them, I found God's voice. Wow, God. Just wow.

     Suddenly, last week  it hit me. God gave us the most beautiful work of Literature in the Bible, but he also gave us countless authors and illustrators to give us countless books. And so, essentially, He gave voice to these people and what they write are the words He gave them. He is in every word that I read and it is beautiful. God is a writer and a beautiful, creative writer at that. He loves to send those words straight to our hearts. God seriously must be an English Major. What do you think?

Learning How To Fall Into Solidarity - A Reflection on Wes Moore

"Are you going to partner with someone because you know them? 

Or because they are fellow IU students?

Or because they are fellow human beings?

You're more similar than you think. "

- Professor John Church

      One little known fact about me is that from the moment I turned 15, I wanted to earn my pilot's license for small aircraft. Whenever I'm asked during an icebreaker what superhero power I would love to have, I always say to fly. There is just something so great about being able to fly OR having the wind at your face. The goal to earn my pilot's license came as a result of a few reasons: First, I could have a pilot's license before a driver's license. Second, two of my uncles are licensed pilots. Third, something about growing up to being a sister who had her pilot's license was enticing. And fourth, it coincided with another one of my goals.

       Honestly, when I was bout 15 years old, I made a list of 25 life goals. Some were a little crazy like "swim with polar bears or some other 'dangerous' animal" and "live in Africa." But others were a little more reasonable like, "get my pilot's license" and "jump out of a plane." Yes, I've always wanted to go skydiving. Now, of course, I wouldn't do both things at once, that is, fly the plane, then jump out of it. But, I wanted to do those crazy things. However, those were the dreams of a naive teenage girl and I had since put those dreams to the wayside. Until last Thursday.

        One of my many roles on campus is an First Year Experience (FYE) Mentor. This means I "co-teach" a class of new students once a week with a faculty member. During class we cover all types of subject matter such as school policies, academic success, time management and the common reader. The common reader is always my favorite part. The whole class of 2016 (and every new class coming in) has to read a book. This year's book was The Other Wes Moore by Wes Moore. In addition to actually reading the book, the students have to write a reflection paper on the book and attend a faculty lecture on the book. My job's easy, I just have to read the book. And maybe attend a faculty lecture. Ok let's be honest, I'm a literature dork, so of course I'm going to attend probably all of the faculty lectures! I started with the first faculty lecture this past Thursday. 

        The lecture began by Professor Church telling us how to jump out of a plane as a paratrooper. Professor Church is not only a wonderful English Professor, but also a retired member of the US Marine Corps. So when he speaks, he doesn't speak, he yells. I love his energy. Over 110 new students, in addition to many FYE mentors, and some other faculty members were present. I'm not going to lie, if I was a new student and had never met Professor Church, I probably would have been scared out of my seat. He told us all to link arms and so we did; all of us. Then he kept shouting "six minutes," "five minutes," "one minute," "thirty seconds," and he had us all standing up, linking arms, swaying back and forth, shouting back his commands. All of a sudden, I felt like I was really jumping out of a plane. But, right before he should have shouted, "Jump!" he calmly said, "Sit down." 

        Having not read the book yet, I had no idea why this played any role in Professor Church's lecture. Regardless of this fact, he easily wove it into so many beautiful and wise statements. Lucky for me, I started and finished the book yesterday while at work. It was the type of book that I was so into, I couldn't put it down. Whenever the phone rang at work, I didn't answer until I finished the paragraph. And when the book ended, I openly shouted, "What? It's over? It can't be over." Yes, I want a sequel. But the truth is, there can't be a sequel; it's a true story. And right toward the end of the book, one Wes Moore goes through his first jump out of a plane as a paratrooper, while the other Wes Moore is being chased by the police for the murder of a police officer. Both experiencing adrenaline, but of two different sources. 

        Finally, I had the connection between the paratrooper exercise we did at the faculty lecture and the book. But really, there was so much more with which I could connect. It was a story of solidarity and of understanding. Of two different people realizing so much similarity between themselves. For many it's hard for us to imagine poverty. Even if we don't have time for a job between classes, or take a vow of poverty, or don't have a car. But the truth is, we are so rich; I am so rich. I have a roof over my head, a family who loves me, and a hot meal every night for dinner. I go to school, I go to the store, I go to the gym with ease. I don't see any gunfire, or heroine use, or severe alcoholism. Not when I'm here at school. However, only a few steps outside my hometown, all of that poverty is right before my eyes. Every scene that Wes Moore described in his Baltimore City or The Bronx, I've seen before. I know it's real. I see it all the time.

        Professor Church covered all types of things in his lecture about poverty and solidarity. He said, "If we just took the time to get to know each other, we'd find that the more we know about each other, the more similarities we find." That really hit my heart. It's so true. There might not be that many differences between myself and the homeless teenager I see walking down the street when I'm home. Yes he might be younger than me, and a young man, but maybe his favorite color is yellow, maybe he likes the Phillies, maybe he has two sisters, maybe he likes to paint, maybe, just maybe, he's not that different from me at all. And that's what both Wes Moore and Professor Church were trying to make young people like myself understand. It all goes back to the paratroopers. We can't stay in the plane, we have to jump, but we have to jump together. Am I willing to "partner" with someone who appears so different? Am I willing to take the chance? Am I willing to risk my own life, maybe, by reaching out to them?

         Right before I got to college, I took a few ridiculous goals off my list, revised a few old ones and   added a few new ones. I always wanted to teach, but going to college made that a reality. So what? What did I want to teach?  Who did I want to teach? Where did I want to teach? Why did I want to teach? Originally I wanted to teach Theology, but somehow English squeezed into the picture. I think it all makes sense now. I want to teach students, from all different cultural backgrounds and in the inner city of Philadelphia's poorest neighborhoods. Why? Not to save these students from some type of crime, gang life, or drug and alcohol addiction, but to feel solidarity with my fellow human beings, my brothers and sisters in Christ. I want to live what they live and work for a better world in solidarity with all people. That goal is more like a dream, a dream formulated by so many, including both Wes Moores and Professor Church.

Coffee, Monks, Books and Sashays...A Story About Grace

           Word on the homefront has been...quiet, si. But not because I have nothing to say. When do I ever have NOTHING to say? Even in my sleep, I talk (awkward). Truth is, I've been monking, reading and sashaying this past week and achieving much grace because it. How? Keep reading.
           When you work for Campus Ministry, you can almost always assume (alliteration!) that you will, in some way, be roped into everything Campus Ministry does or guilt-tripped for it afterward. And so, I was a student leader for our Annual Freshmen Retreat. Having gone on the retreat last year, I knew exactly what was supposed to happen...so I thought. After finally agreeing to leading it, my three friends and I, questioned what on earth we had gotten ourselves into. It was a hectic three days before the retreat actually took place with multiple shopping runs, binder making, speech writing and so much more. By Friday afternoon, I was just about ready to quit, I was so stressed. But then, two of my best guy friends pulled in the Coffee Shop, made me get out and get a coffee. The moment the warm, fuzzy elixir rolled into my stomach, things started looking up. PRAISE GOD. Coffee can seriously do wonders. As soon as the coffee was in my system, I was ready. I was ready of a weekend of renewal.
             What always surprises me is not how much the leaders affect the retreatants but vice versa. My small group was absolutely amazingly inspiring. These students made things so real for me. And not only that, it was amazing listening to my peers as they gave their speeches. As best friends as we are, we all hold secrets and those secrets tend to come out when you bring down those walls. Needless to say, I know my friends a lot better now. And then there's our group leader, my work study nun. The nun who became more real to me on this trip than any other. She stole our s'mores right out of our hands like our crazy aunt, she tickled our feet like our loving mother, she uplifted us like our favorite teacher and made beds with us like the perfect nun would. Can you guess which one of the leaders she made the beds with? Yep, OCD me. Being on this retreat, at the quiet abbey, waking up the steady tolling of the Lauds bells, opened my eyes more than any experience so far this year.
               Ok, so retreat was excuse number one. Now for number two. Classes started this week. Can I tell you that I'm taking SEVEN classes and FIVE of them are on Monday. And since all but two are English courses, I've had book upon book upon book piled on top of me! So far, I'm going to be reading four books a week. So...I've been reading and doing homework.
              And finally, the Sashay's. I just came from my Phys. Ed class where we learned to Cuban Cha Cha and Sashay. Truth is, I was a bit disappointed because my best friend was supposed to be my dance partner and the teacher told us, we weren't doing dance partners...but I loved it. Tons of hip moving, cha-cha-ing and sashaying.
              But how does grace play into this? After my Young Adult Literature course, the sister who teaches it (and my FAVORITE English Nun), stopped me after class. She knew that I would be going to the March for Life and since I had her Spring Semester 2011, she said, "You're doing it to me again, Becky." "Yeah, sorry, Sister." To which she replied, "But really, good for you. Good luck!" As we walked out of the classroom, she asked about how break went and surprisingly asked if things were good with my soul. It was surprising because, she's not the type to rope religion into a regular conversation NOR does she know too much about me. Yet, she read me like a book. Things every so often, do get rough. Those are the cons of the life I lead. Sometimes, we all get lonely, sad, or gain the feeling of the desert. I never once mentioned the desert storm of my soul last semester to sister or to anyone really, but she knew. She read right through me. And she left me with this: "Grace will come, Becky. That I can promise. I don't know when it will come, but it will. It will come when you least expect it and most need it."
              Later that night, I auditioned for her children's theater drama production of Charlotte's Web. As a new member of Cue and Curtain, I should have had to perform a monologue, but I didn't. She just smiled, thanked me for my note and put me on the stage. There is something about her, that as intimidating as she can be as a teacher with her grades, puts me in awe of her. It's like from afar she watches me to make sure I'm doing alright. She doesn't mention anything to me unless we are caught in a situation with the two of us, which is rare. Yet, some how, she always has that wink in her smile when she sees me. As if maybe she's an angel in disguise and is watching over me. Or maybe...maybe it's just GRACE!

Sisterly Sacrifice...Nun-Tastic Day 2

     When you ask certain people what their meaning of sacrifice is, you will most likely get mixed answers. For some, sacrifice is merely giving up mustard on their sandwich so that someone else can have the last squeeze, but for others it's giving up half a sandwich for the other homeless guy sitting next to him. The same goes for when you pose a certain question to people asking them if it's a sacrifice. Like if you ask a normal college student who is on Christmas break if getting up at 6 am is a sacrifice, they will most likely say YES and don't do wake me up til after 12. But for me, I really don't think twice about it. Now see, right now, most of you reading are thinking I'm talking about getting up early for Mass. Well, wrong. Usually, at home, going to daily Mass means sleeping in til 8:45. So WHY was I up at 6 am? To begin the saga of the missing school shoe. That's right, I was looking for my little sister's school shoe. LOOOOOOOOOONG story short: on her last day of school before break, she got changed in the car and left her shoes there. They didn't leave the car until I decided to clean it out. However, in cleaning the car out only one shoe made it in the house. And so, this morning, at the crack of dawn (literally), I was on my hands and knees, scouring the car for the lost shoe. And when I finally found it, I placed it with my sister's uniform and said nothing about it. My sister said nothing about it, either. And yet, while some might get really upset at the fact that their sister even woke them up, much less have to LOOK for the shoe and THEN, to get no thanks in return? Psh, the nerve. But really, that whole fiasco was something that, as the oldest, I was supposed to do. And in my family, especially, many might call the numerous things I do, sacrifices. But for me, that's daily life. And it's not a sacrifice at all. So, after the saga took place, I got to thinking (in the hour that I still had before actually having to do anything), what do I consider sacrifices? And today's nun-tastic adventure has plenty of examples.
     First things first. After Mass, I headed straight to a volunteer job I randomly picked up at the request of a friend. The volunteer job seemed easy enough; taking inventory in the book store. It seemed that way until I got there. First, it didn't look like a convent at all. Then I came to learn that the book store got sold because the community couldn't afford it anymore so it was now in their garage. THEN, I came to learn that their little tiny teeny chapel is in their basement. As I learned, I took it all in and thought about the sacrifices these sisters made. Finally, we headed to take inventory...in the garage. I might add that today was the coldest day this winter so far and the garage is outside. Luckily, the sisters have been blessed with semi warm winter weather (alliteration!!) but today and tomorrow, when the one able-bodied sister solely will be working on the inventory are the coldest. NOW THAT, my dear, is sacrifice. Braving the frigid, winter, air just to count so that the community can have an income. Sacrifice.
    Secondly, I headed to one of my favorite shrines inbetween nun hopping today: Katharine Drexel. She was my first saint influence and visiting her shrine always, always makes me feel secure in my vocation. I love to look into the display case of her habit, the real one she wore, and find myself in it. We were the same five foot, you know. I look at her shoes and see my feet in them and then I see her ring, the same size as my finger. So many imagine her as tall and strong and mighty, but I know, she was petite, and humble, and gentle. She made so many sacrifices for her sisters, especially for her own personal self. The shoes she wore, she hand sewed every time the leather teared. They were her only pair of shoes her whole convent life. And her pencils; used to the very stub. She is my perfect sacrificing model.
     Thirdly, I went back to visit my High School nuns who just continually sacrifice their time for me. I'm telling you that those sisters are the busiest people I've met and yet, they barely stress out and always give me the time of day. Tonight was yet another saga of finding my nun in the school, actually my nun to sit down, planning a trip to the pet store, actually finding the pet store, buying a fish tank heater, installing said fish tank heater, learning how to hang bird feeders in trees from windows with a stick (oi), planning crayon melting art days with my AE, dropping office book insides all over Chapel, eating supper, watching the news, reading People magazine, complaining about school AND finally walking to the car in the FRIGID AIR. Yep, this woman made an awful amount of sacrifices for me today. And that's how I know I'm family. By sacrifice.
     I mean, I "sacrifice" for my sister at 6 am, the sister from the book store sacrificed for her sisters, Katharine Drexel sacrificed for her sisters, and my nun, sacrificed for me, her sister. I guess that's the common theme of the day: Sisterly Sacrifice.