Maura

A Brooklyn girl, raised
   by uncles after her mother
   died and her father remarried,
   she hoped to be a teaching
   sister of poor children.
Instead, she was chosen
   to introduce collegiate girls
   to poetry.
          She also wrote
   books of poems, which read
   like prayers at play.
Faith had
   its place, but evangelicals
   bored and annoyed her.
Yelled at by one to listen
   to the voice of Jesus in her,
   she answered, “The Jesus in me
   doesn’t talk like that.”
She
   and a friend once counselled
   a student who was six feet
   five inches tall and wore flats
   to appear shorter with men
   her age.
“Liz,” they said,
   “you’re not marrying mankind—
   one man will solve your problem.”
The man Liz married stood
   six feet and ten inches high.
When a literal lawyer asked Maura
   if she used a Bible in class,
   she said, “I prefer The New Yorker.”
She rejected administrative posts
   because she believed they destroyed
   friendships.
When a young mother
   asked if her son could take
   her picture, Maura’s blue eyes
   said yes.
The boy took five
   pictures.
Each one captured
   a fraction of Maura’s forehead.
The mother apologized.
Maura
   kissed the boy and said,
   “What a beautiful sky!”
Retired in her nineties, she sat
   by herself and spoke only
   when needed.
      The nurse said,
   “She’s waiting for God to call her.”
Maura might have added, “He’ll
   be unexpected and late as usual,
but the waiting will be worth it.”

Sister Maura Eichner, 1915-2009