Sister Margaret was gifted; she wrote poetry and song lyrics, and was working as a Director of Religious Education in Parkton, Maryland, when I moved to our Motherhouse in 1982 to serve as director of that facility, where a total of 84 of our sisters were in residence. Many were older, some retired, some ill, some young and in formation. I was rather young myself (for that job) and quite untrained and inexperienced in such a role.
One day as I sat at my desk, Sister Margaret came in and handed me her car keys. “What’s this all about?” I asked. Her reply, “I’ve been riding around the beltway for the past two hours because I couldn’t remember where to get off. I can’t drive anymore.” She didn’t.
Fast forward to yesterday: June 6, 2023. I was in an “adaptive car” driving ever so cautiously round and round in a cemetery (Moreland Memorial on Taylor Avenue) trying to get the feel of such a car, because henceforth, if I were to drive at all, I’d have to have the “adaptations” that made my feet (source of the trouble) no longer necessary. That adaptive equipment included a knob for turning with my right hand, and a bar for accelerating with my left. My brain was NOT adapting very well, and I was praying to Sister Margaret for help – not help to drive, just help to know if I shouldn’t learn a new way after 50-some years of doing it “the old way” or give up and quit trying before I killed myself or somebody else.
My supervisor told me to pull over so we could trade places and she would take us back to Good Samaritan Hospital, where the driving program was headquartered. As we settled into our seats, I told her that I knew I’d never be able to learn a new way of driving. I was not going to try any more. I felt at peace with that decision—my clue that, for me, it was the right choice. I knew we had staff who would get me to necessary appointments, and others who could take me to where I wanted to go—other sisters and friends who would accommodate my wishes at their and my convenience.
Sister Margaret got me that grace, I’m certain, and inspired the editor of this book to call me this morning to ask if I were planning to contribute to this project. In short order, as I told her that I’d just given up driving, she came up with the title, “When to Say When,” for this article – thanks for that too, Margaret!
I hope others who are struggling with such a decision will be helped by Sister Margaret’s intercession, and the editor’s sensitivity to her own impulse to call other potential contributors.
Margaret died quite a few years ago, but she’s alive and fully functional, interceding for all who ask her help–or so it seems to me! Thanks, Margaret!