Catholic Nuns: ‘They’re Special … Because They’re Our Teachers’

You know the adage about how we all eventually “become our parents”?

Those of us who’ve reached a certain age know it’s true. (Warning to others under a certain age: It’s coming for you, too.)

Today, I see how, in various ways, I’m a lot like each of my parents (in quite distinct, individual ways, of course).

One example: I’ve started reading the obituaries (semi-regularly, for now). But rather than it stemming from becoming my parents, I suppose it simply might be from growing older. Nevertheless, it’s saddening whenever, every few months or so (fortunately not more frequently — at least not yet) I come across the death notice of someone I once knew.

The discoveries sometimes cause me to gasp. It’s not so much out of shock (the deceased’s age often doesn’t call for that response); rather, it’s a combination of surprise and sadness. Most recently, it happened a couple weeks ago upon reading that my second-grade teacher — a Catholic sister — had died at 86.

Growing Up in ’60s/’70s American Suburbia (Great Time to be Alive)

My two older siblings and I attended a new, small Catholic primary school affiliated with an attached church less than a quarter-mile down the road from our home. I remember the year etched onto the building’s cornerstone — because it was the year I was born. Before a merger, the adjacent school originally housed grades one through six (my brother went there for all six years, my sister for four; I attended it for only three years).

The priest had gone to the same high school as my dad; and the nuns were friends with my aunt (herself a Catholic sister). So, although we, as kids, generally were too young to realize it (to us, it was just “school”), it’s hard today to imagine a better setting for grade school.

One of its nuns was Sister Mary Marvin. Both my sister (a year before me) and I had Sister Mary for second grade. My brother missed out because Sister Mary hadn’t started teaching there yet when he was in Grade 2 (for me, it was another “perk” of being the youngest!).

I cannot recall the last time I saw her, but it might’ve been more than 50 years ago. Prior to last month, however, I had known she was still living. I remember “Googling” Sister Mary’s name a couple times in recent years — usually after recounting to someone the story about a class field trip to a dairy farm somewhere “out in the country.”

The farm: Marvin Farm, a 178-acre working dairy farm in Macedon, Wayne County, N.Y. — around 25 miles from the school. It’s where Sister Mary — one of 11 children, including a twin sister — was raised (an older brother, James, became a Catholic priest).

Even though it has been more than a half century since that class trip (and I was only around 6 years old), I have vague memories of the excursion. (It’s almost enough to lament not having phone cameras to document every experience in those days. But, on second thought, I’m glad we didn’t have cellphones — allowing us simply to live in and enjoy the moment.)

‘Young’ Nun (But Who Knew?)

When I had Sister Mary for second grade (and my sister had her the prior year), she was only around 30 — relatively young. Not that we knew it at the time, however. Though I’m sure we perceived her as slightly more youthful than a few of the other nuns we encountered, who could tell the difference back then? After all, some of the sisters still wore habits (or veils, at least; but even that was starting to change by the early ’70s).

As mentioned, Sister Mary was friends with our aunt (my mother’s little sister), also a Catholic nun (and who, as the last of five siblings, was the youngest among my aunts and uncles). So, Sister Mary, like our aunt, had enough youthful vigor to host a group of rambunctious Catholic grade-school pupils on a trip to the dairy farm “out in the country.”

Plus, there was … Sandy — Sister Mary’s beach-colored dog.

Most of the time Sandy lived in the convent, next door to the school. But on rare occasions Sandy somehow would find her way into a classroom — to the pure delight, of course, of students. With tail wagging, she would make her way up and down rows of desks to greet anyone reaching out to pet her.

A few other nuns lived in the convent with Sister Mary, but it was known to all: Sandy belonged to Sister Mary (further endearing her to us — the fellow dog lovers, at least — I’m sure).

Undoubtedly influenced by her having been raised on a farm, Sister Mary’s classes also hatched chickens each year. In retrospect, it’s truly wonderful how she shared herself — her life, really — with her pupils.

My sister recalls Sister Mary teaching her to play the guitar (Sister Mary also led the music at guitar Masses — definitely a “’70s thing”). The two reconnected at a high-school fundraiser, in Florida, a few years ago.

And it was Sister Mary’s second-grade class that presented a Nativity pageant, in the small classroom, to an audience consisting mainly of parents and grandparents. I played the role of St. Joseph. Some six years later, I would select Joseph as my confirmation saint (I can see more of those threads that I wrote about in my prior post).

For years afterward, I considered Sister Mary my favorite teacher.

‘They’re Special … Because They’re Our Teachers’

When my aunt (the former Catholic sister) died, in 2017, I gave a eulogy at her funeral Mass. I described her as a “special aunt” — in part, because all the nuns, as our teachers, were exceptional to us (as Catholic school students). “The nuns were our teachers,” I said. “They were — and are — very special.”

My aunt, therefore, was no “regular aunt”; similarly, Sister Mary Marvin wasn’t just any grade-school teacher.

I also said of my aunt: As a teacher and nun, she belonged to all of us.

The founding pastor of my childhood parish (the one attached to the school we attended) died more than 20 years ago. As the only one still living locally, I represented our family at his funeral Mass. Last month, I did the same at Sister Mary’s funeral — signing the guest book: “Representing the family and the second-grade class” (meaning mine, of more than 50 years ago, but also my sister’s and possibly others, too, from the little neighborhood school in the woods — as a collective “Thank you”).

Of course, my presence was made possible only from knowing of Sister Mary’s passing … from having “become my parents.”

Sister Mary Marvin, RSM (1939–2026)