I read a piece linked by Frank Walker on Canon212 today. The story was about how the Discalced Carmelites of Buffalo, NY had announced their imminent move to St. Augustine, FL.
I am saddened by this development. You see, my wife and I have been friends for many years with a woman who was for about 20 years a member of that community. Over the course of her time in the Buffalo Carmel we would visit throughout the years whenever we could. Initially, we lived in New Jersey, about a six hour drive. Then we lived in Virginia, about a nine hour drive. Then we moved to Texas.
My wife and I honeymooned in the Finger Lakes of Western New York and Niagara Falls. This took us right through Buffalo. We stopped in for a visit. A year later when Sister took her final vows, we went to visit. Then, we had to travel upstate for a wedding and my wife made the mistake of calling the Carmel to let them know we were coming. We were informed that, although this time it a visit would be allowed, in the future, we should simply show up. “Mother will not say no. However, if you ask in advance there may be a reason to halt your plans,” she said to us. So after that, we never called. It was neat in the sense that our friend never knew we were coming and then we would just show up. And we were always allowed a few hours in the courtyard to visit with our dear friend. And then a trip to Tim Horton’s for me and the kids was in order.
But there was one visit in particular that stands out in my mind. In January of 2016, my oldest brother died after a brief battle with pancreatic cancer. He died on a Friday morning and there was an ominous winter storm approaching the East Coast. All flights were cancelled. We would have to drive. More than that, we would not be able to drive straight through along the normal route we would take. Being the weather junkie I am, I was constantly checking my weather maps. I knew that the best route to avoid the storm was to travel far north to Buffalo and then trek across the New York Thruway and drop back down into New Jersey. Late that Saturday night, my wife called the convent to inquire whether their Sunday Mass was open to the public. Our friend was the one who answered the call so my wife explained the reason for our travel. “Uh, let me call you right back,” she said and she hung up the phone.
Five minutes later as we were driving through Cleveland on a bitterly cold night in midwinter, my wife’s phone rang. It was Sister. “I spoke to Mother,” she said. It’s all arranged. Mass tomorrow is being offered for your husband’s brother and you will be our guests.” What a blessing! My wife thanked her and mentioned that we would try to find a hotel on the north side of Buffalo so we could get to Mass in time.
“No,” said Sister. “You will be our guest. Haven’t I made it clear?” she asked. “Mother insists that the four of you stay in the guest quarters.” I was floored at the generosity of this group of women. And so we spent the night – my wife, our two children (at the time 7 and 6 years-old), and me – trudged through the omnipresent Buffalo snow and up the walk to the guest quarters. It was an apartment accessible to the outside world but not to the cloister and yet still attached to the main building. It was lovely. We slept soundly. And in the morning when I stepped into the shower and realized that the water was not much warmer than the 20 degree air outside I yelped and exclaimed to my wife through the wall, “These nuns do love a sacrifice!”
Although I have not been there in several years, I will miss the Buffalo Carmel and I will be forever grateful for their kindness on that winter night.
Harvey Millican's Blog: Musings of a Trad Dad 