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A recent trip to Russia has inspired me to recount some stories of my encounters with a Russian immigrant to Canada, Catherine Doherty (a.k.a. “B”), foundress of Madonna House.
***
One evening—I think it was around 1973—we had a special treat for supper: homemade pizza! Each table in the dining room received a large metal tray of it, hot from the oven. I decided to sit at Catherine’s table for the occasion.
She played the gracious hostess for the five of us sitting with her, cutting each of us a good-sized piece, and saying to me, “I bet you like pizza, don’t you?”
I answered yes and dug in, emptying my plate in a flash.
Soon seconds were being handed out, and everyone seemed to be enjoying this rare (in MH) taste sensation. I cleaned out my second slice in an instant, and Catherine, noting that I must be hungry this evening, served me a third slice.
I confirmed that yes, I was very hungry, adding, “I’m not sure what it is, but for some reason pizza just doesn’t fill me.”
“How can it not fill you?” our hostess replied. “It has lots of crust, cheese, onions, tomatoes, even some meat!”
“I don’t know,” I replied, undaunted. “All I know is that after three pieces, I’m still hungry.”
What I didn’t notice was that by then everyone else at the table had finished eating, their forks and knives neatly lying across their plates.
“Would you care for another slice?” B asked.
“Please!”
She gave me a fourth piece, which promptly disappeared where the other three had been laid to rest.
“How is that?”
“Great! But I could still eat another slice.”
There were leftovers available from other less ravenous tables, and a fifth slice was duly found.
At that moment, I had a revelation: there is actually food in my stomach! Aaah! What a great feeling to a hungry 21-year old!
“How is that?” asked Holy Mother Foundress.
“Great!” I replied.
“Well, sweetheart, I’m glad you enjoyed that pizza, but while you were doing so, did you have a thought for the people of Biafra who are starving in the war there?”
I admitted that despite knowing about that tragic situation, I had not given them so much as a thought in the last thirty minutes or so.
“Well, just remember the next time we have pizza or any festive meal, enjoy it! But keep the less fortunate in mind. Then you will eat neither too much nor too little, for the poor will always be with you and you with them.”
***
In January 1974, I became an applicant, that is, a person in formation to become a member of Madonna House. Among other things, this particular time in my life was marked by mysterious infections—two in my right hand, one in my left eye.
These infections appeared at significant liturgical moments: Epiphany, the first week of Lent, and Holy Week, respectively.
By the time the third one hit, I was getting very discouraged, since I didn’t know why they were occurring, and there seemed no end in sight. Once again I returned to bed, went on antibiotics, and was generally discontented.
I was drained of all notions of identifying with the suffering Christ in my neighbor or sharing in his Cross, even if it was Holy Week.
Come Holy Thursday, it was suggested I try getting up for a spell and come to the festive supper before the evening liturgy. I did manage to make it for the meal, when B was told about my sad plight.
Sure enough, sometime during that repast, she came by with her mother’s old icon of Our Lady of Smolensk and blessed my eye. I kissed the icon when she offered it to me and then went promptly back to bed, exhausted.
Good Friday was a warm, sunny day that year, but I remained miserably ensconced at the farm, to which I was newly transferred with the hopes I would be trainable as cheese-maker. However, milk flow was low, so there was minimal work at first.
Concerned for my plight and my morale, one of the men at the farm suddenly had an inspiration: “He can’t fast; he’s too sick! Quick! Let’s fry him up a steak and some potatoes!”
To my astonishment, on the Church’s most solemn day of prayer and fasting, I was feasting without qualms on meat and fried potatoes! Then for whatever reason, I was moved to a private room in the basement of the priests’ house, Vianney House, where I promptly went to sleep.
Somehow or other, before that, word reached me that someone told Catherine that I was still sick despite the blessing, to which she was said to have replied: “Not yet. A little longer.”
On Holy Saturday, my recent pattern of discouraged listlessness returned. Finally in the early afternoon I cried out to the holy Mother of God, “Mary, if you don’t do something about this, I’m finished!”
I didn’t specify as to what, because there was no time between that last word and what happened next: instantly, the infection near my eye burst, the wound was cleansed and in no time, my energy returned.
I happily joined the community for the Easter Vigil. The mysterious infections never returned, and in a few weeks, I made my first batch of Madonna House cheese.
***
In August of that same year our class made its first promises, thus becoming members of Madonna House. When we returned from Our Lady of the Woods chapel to the dining room for brunch, we were instructed to go directly to Father Eddie Doherty, Catherine’s husband, who was already seated at the head table.
By then old and frail, Father Eddie blessed our crosses. We were the last class that he was able to do this for directly. He became seriously ill in the spring of 1975 and died on May 4th. He was the first of the founding generation to die since Grace Flewelling back in 1951.
Catherine danced at his funeral and sang alleluias, but she also missed him terribly and was grieving for quite some time. However, she carried on with her duties in a still young and growing apostolic family.
These duties included the Monday evening summer seminar, when she and Father Bob Pelton would take any and all questions from the guests, while many of us staff would eagerly listen in.
On one of those occasions, she spotted me among the listeners and said to Father Bob, “Oh, look who’s here. He’s destined to take Eddie’s place. I think I’ll give him a pair of Eddie’s shoes.”
Shocked and confused, I responded, “Those are big shoes to fill, B.” “Yes,” she replied. “You’re right.”
She never did send me those shoes, but nine years later, when Father John Callahan, her spiritual director who had replaced Fr. Eddie as editor of Restoration, died suddenly on April 7, she made me editor of this newspaper with the words, “I trust you completely.” Somewhat in a daze, I took on a new and unexpected responsibility.
to be continued
