The most peaceful day I’d spent in years…
At 23 years old and a brand-new Catholic, I asked my friend Fr. Pat McNulty, “Is there anyplace left on earth where Christians still live in community and serve others like they did in the Acts of the Apostles?”
Three days later, he handed me a bus ticket to Combermere, Ontario, Canada, two ham sandwiches, and a dime for a phone call.
“I haven’t told you much about Madonna House,” he said, “but you’ll see for yourself during the month you’ll be there.”
A few miles outside of Fort Wayne, I started wondering why I had turned down a fall teaching job in Ohio to travel to another country in search of God and a way of life I wasn’t convinced existed anymore.
The bus rumbled along the highway all night. At noon the next day, I changed buses in Toronto.
The new driver scratched his head. “Hm, I’m new, and I’ve never heard of Combermere. But don’t worry, we’ll find it.” Five hours later, after passing dozens of tiny villages nestled in tree groves along the highway, I was the only passenger left on the bus. Panic seeped into my heart.
“Hey!” The bus driver swerved off the road. “This is it!”
My heart pumping, I thanked the smiling driver, picked up my small suitcase and Dad’s old Navy duffel bag, and walked toward the lone phone booth outside the little, white-walled post office.
Call Madonna House when you get to Combermere. I put my dime in the slot and dialed.
A woman answered. “Wait there. I’ll be right along.”
Soon, a blue station wagon pulled up beside the phone booth. A normal-looking gray-haired lady got out and introduced herself. “Hi, Echo. I’m Mamie Legris.”
I half-grinned and shrugged my shoulders. It was good to hear my name and to know for sure that Combermere, Ontario really existed.
Supper had already begun when we reached Madonna House, but Mamie had saved a space for me at her table. I was grateful for her thoughtfulness but was too tired from my 24-hour bus trip to eat much.
After supper, dishes, and an Emily Bronte movie shown on the dining room wall, Mamie packed me off to the women’s guest dorm to get some needed sleep. In the morning, I stumbled into my jeans and, with the other women guests, headed back to the main house. In the little chapel above the dining room, we had morning prayer. I was careful to stand, sit, and kneel when everyone else did.
At some point in the service, a girl prayed “for B and Fr. B, away on visitation for the next month.” They must be leaders in the community I’ll never meet, I thought. By the time they returned, I would be gone.
After breakfast, I worked with Laurette in the kitchen. She asked me to scrub corners with a tooth brush. Really? Shaking my head, I did as asked.
That evening, tired and hungry, I went to supper. A plate of potatoes sat on the table. “You’d better grab one,” somebody said. “This is Friday fast night, and it’s all there is.”
I put one on my plate. The first cold, pasty bite reinforced my growing desire to get out of this crazy place. Where else would a person get up at dawn, labor on their knees cleaning corners with a toothbrush all day, and get a cold potato for their efforts?
In the middle of “supper,” a priest walked into the dining room carrying an almost life-size statue of a figure I realized must be Mary.
“Here’s Father Pat Moore,” someone said. All hundred or so people in the dining room clapped and stood up. Learning that Fr. Moore traveled around the world in airplanes, carrying that statue, I almost forgot about the cold potato. Here was a new and much bigger reason for leaving this place!
During evening tea, another guest came over to where I was sitting. The newcomer told me that at 10:00 p.m. Fr. Moore and the women from St. Germaine’s (the women’s guest dorm) were to make a candlelight procession to the dorm with the statue. Once inside, everyone would kneel and pray the rosary. Yikes! I didn’t know how to pray the rosary, and now I was sure I never wanted to learn.
At 9:45, I slipped away, ran to St. Germaine’s, whipped into pj’s, and hid under the covers.I stayed there until everybody finished praying and Fr. Moore left.
In the morning, nobody would loan me money for a bus ticket home. “Stick around for another few days,” they said. “You’ll get used to it and even learn to like it here.” I didn’t believe them, but couldn’t leave until my summer check from teaching arrived in early July.
A few days later, I got assigned to work at the farm. We hoed weeds in the strawberry patch all morning and all afternoon, until it was time to leave for Mass and supper. The sun had shone all day, and in the van that carried us volunteers the five miles back to the main house, it stunned me to realize that this had been the most peaceful day I’d spent in years. At the house, a letter from Fr. McNulty awaited me.
“There’s a difference,” he wrote “between the institution of Madonna House and the real Madonna House. The problem is that only the people who risk staying around the institution of MH for a while will ever get to the real MH.”
At evening teatime, still wondering what he meant, I landed at a table with Vivian, Michelle, and a few other guests. We started talking, and I realized their friendliness toward me and their positive views about Madonna House seemed honest.
“But what about all the other confusions and contradictions I keep running into here?” I wanted to know. Michelle suggested that the only way to clear them up was to meet them straight on. She suggested sticking around an extra few weeks to see if anything started to make sense. All things considered, I thought, why not?
I had come to Canada in search of God and a new way of life, and Madonna House was beginning to look like a good place to continue the quest.
[Photo: Echo with a new foal at St. Ben’s Farm, Madonna House]
