Tender Portraits

She wasn’t wearing a habit like one would expect of a nun. If my mom hadn’t sat down on a park bench to fix her camera for what seemed like the hundredth time that trip, we probably wouldn’t have even noticed her.

We met Sister Irene at the Auguste Rodin museum in Paris, home of “The Thinker.” My younger sister Karen and I had wandered from Mom’s technical difficulties to take goofy pictures of ourselves with the other sculptures. We circled back to find our mother sitting next to an older Indian woman, deep in conversation. The woman wore a very colorful sari and had her graying hair tied in a bun. Karen and I were immediately skeptical.

Ages 16 and 18 at the time, we thought the woman was a panhandler; one more of the ever-present threat our friends had warned us about, which we had already encountered many times on the trip.

The three of us had been in Paris for two days. We were on our long-awaited European vacation, but not of the Griswold-family variety. Paris and London were enough to satisfy a palate that knew only stateside tastes. After staying with a friend for a week in London, we were fending for ourselves in Paris without the comforts of a travel guide. We were doing well on this day, having traipsed around the Louvre, the Seine River and various markets. Until learning of Mom’s new acquaintance, I was feeling confident our trip that afternoon to Versailles 30 miles outside of Paris would be pie.

 “You guys think I’m crazy for talking to her,” Mom said, “but I know a nun when I see one.”

Even if Sister Irene hadn’t shown the medallion on its heavy chain around her neck that depicted the order she belonged to, my mom says she knew she was the real thing; after all, Mom went to a Catholic school for 12 years.

Holding a prayer book, Sister Irene explained to my mom she was a nun from a convent in India and she was on her way to the motherhouse in Belgium for convocation. She wanted to visit Versailles that day, but was afraid she wouldn’t be able to find her way. My mom, a firm believer in paying it forward, offered us as escorts. Upon hearing this plan, Karen and I reminded our mom of the warnings, saying this small, sweet-looking old woman might take us for all we had, leaving us penniless and desperate in a foreign country.

“I think it would make a good story if a woman posing as a nun turned out to be a criminal,” Karen said.

Mom was heedless to our whining, so we took a train to Versailles with Sister Irene in tow.

When we got there, Mom bought our lunches outside the palace from a vendor who spoke neither French nor English. To add to our stresses of possible robbery, I was sure we were going to get food poisoning from our $5 tuna salad sandwiches.

But Sister Irene became less of a threat as the day went on. My mom insisted on buying her ticket for the palace tour, and she was very grateful. Despite the chaos of hundreds of other tourists, we exchanged stories; Irene described how she’d come from a very educated family in India and at one time had met Mother Theresa. Mom told how a year prior to our trip, my dad had died of a brain tumor and it was then that we decided to accept a friend’s offer and visit her home in London.

“We’ve been through a lot in the last two years, and this is a time for us to be together,” Mom said to her.

Irene seemed a grandmotherly figure to me, and I noticed that she spoke in the same manner to my mom as she did to me, as if age was not a factor in our interaction. She asked me what my plans were for the next year and I told her I planned on attending college. She acted pleased by that, saying education is very important.

We also bought her train ticket for the way back. The train was pretty crowded, so Karen and I stood as Mom and Irene found a seat next to a middle-aged couple.

The couple had heard my mom calling Irene ‘Sister.’ When they realized she was a Catholic nun, the man struck up a conversation with Irene and my mom. After hearing about Irene’s travels, the man tried to give her some train money. She refused.

“You will take it,” the man said. “We won’t tell anybody.”

Irene finally accepted it and thanked the man profusely.

When we got back to Paris, we exchanged hugs with Irene. She said she would pray for our family. She went on her way, and Mom, Karen and I thought about her for the remainder of our time in Paris.

The next day we rode a train back to London for more sightseeing. When we arrived at our friend’s, she had a message from my older sister Laura, who was housesitting for us while we were gone.

“All Laura had said was to call back immediately,” Mom said.

What she had to say when we called back was not good news. A toaster in the kitchen had caught fire from its electric cord when no one was around. Laura noticed the smoke and burnt wall and cabinets in the house. When the fire department responded to her call, a firefighter said it appeared as though the fire had put itself out.

It had happened at the same time Sister Irene traveled with us.

“It’s very hard to believe a fire that did that much damage could’ve extinguished naturally,” Mom said. “That was no coincidence.”

The skeptic in me didn’t win this one; it was easier to imagine our friend Sister Irene had something to do with saving our home from a fire that day.