If I tell you that my friend who died recently was 88, I worry that people will immediately picture someone old, frail and possibly dependent.
Not that there is anything wrong with dependency or frailty, but it just does not fit my friend, who was an engaged, warm and wise individual who cheerfully conquered the art of decelerated ageing.
She liked people, and they loved her. Her ability to maintain deep contact with dozens if not hundreds of individuals and families was a source of endless amazement to those who may struggle to keep up to date with the people with whom we share a house.
She revolved apparently effortlessly through WhatsApp, texts, emails, phone calls and good old-fashioned handwritten notes. Until Covid clipped her wings somewhat, she had a social calendar that a qualified personal assistant might struggle to juggle.
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So if you can see why I think mentioning her age might give the wrong impression, you will see why I might be resigned to the sound of minds clanging closed when I tell you that she was also a religious sister.
My friend, Sr Norah O’Connor OP, who spent nearly 60 years as a Dominican, was philosophical about the contemporary animus towards religious sisters.
Norah saw it as an inevitable reaction to a time when there was unhealthy deference to people in religious life. That was not good for anyone, she believed, and the subsequent loss of trust when some priests and religious were revealed to have betrayed their ideals in despicable ways was more than understandable.
While I agreed with her analysis, I was never so philosophical. I see the demonisation of all religious sisters as a kind of quiet martyrdom of the good women who were trailblazers, who modelled leadership for generations of young women at a time when so few women were visible in public life.
Positive impact
I worry that when the history books are written, these women will be quietly erased, their positive impact forgotten, their stories consigned to the memory hole.
There are still lots of people around who have experienced the self-effacing goodness of women and men in religious life. But when Sr Norah died suddenly on July 10th, it marked the end of an era for Dominican College, Muckross Park, the school to which she gave so much of her life. She was the last sister actively involved in the school, having been a teacher, principal and during the last 12 years, a chaplain whom the girls could not have loved more.
The convent in Muckross was closed and the sisters dispersed in 2019. She never really got over the loss of her home but was grateful for the welcome she received in Sion Hill.
She still travelled as often as she could from Sion Hill to Muckross. She was particularly good at unobtrusively identifying and supporting students who needed extra care. She took particular delight in finding anyone connected to past pupils.
Her attention was not confined to students and parents. As chaplain she saw the care of the staff and indeed senior management as vital. She could not be physically present in the school for two years due to Covid restrictions, and still, current and past students, parents and staff came in droves at the heart of summer to stand witness to a life well lived. Some 120 students came in full uniform in the July heat to form a guard of honour.
People person
She was an astute Kerry woman, who worked in the Department of Industry and Commerce after leaving school. It gave her meticulous lifelong habits of organisation. Aside from a full, active life as a pioneering educator in Muckross, she also worked with vocational candidates in the Dominican Order, spent time in Rome and 10 years in the pastoral theology department of the Milltown Institute. In later years she poured energy into the Active Retired Association in Donnybrook.
It’s an impressive CV but her greatest strengths were with people. Norah could talk for Ireland but unlike most people who love to talk, had an unparalleled ability to listen that allowed people to find their own way to insights and solutions. I know she spent hours in prayer, so perhaps that gave her a depth that allowed others to breathe more fully in her presence.
She was non-judgmental, wise and kind but also loved a laugh — especially at any joke made by a man. Her female friends rolled their eyes and teased her mercilessly about her general bias in favour of the less fair sex, but it was such a transparent, lovable fault. Her family of origin were central to her life but they know better than anyone that “Norah nun”, as they affectionately called her, stretched the concept of family to include many, many friends.
We cannot allow the good done by religious in Ireland to be buried with them, remembered only by their grateful families and friends. An honest history must include both the darkness and the light, and in the case of Norah O’Connor, the light was radiant indeed.