There was something about meals with the Sisters.
The way they gathered. The ease between them.
The way stories came out like warm bread, passed around and savored.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was full of life.
Sister Dorothy Anne always made sure I had a seat.
Not just any seat—a real one, with a place prepared.
She even kept a cloth napkin for me, ironed and folded in a little cubby, just like hers.
She washed them, pressed them, and tucked them away—hers and mine.
Because it wasn’t just a meal.
It was with her.
And she wanted me included.
When we could, we’d meet for lunch at Regina after Mass.
She was serious about being there when the doors opened at 11:25 a.m.—
not because she was hungry, but because she had too much to do to be standing in line.
She’d laugh about it. Make conversation with everyone.
She had her rhythm.
At those lunches, or around the dinner table, the Sisters would tell the best stories—
hilarious road trip tales from when they’d pile into a car and drive up north,
retreat adventures, family visits gone sideways, unexpected detours and unbelievable mishaps.
Just a bunch of women, growing older together, full of spirit and faith and fun.
Dorothy Anne especially—she carried so much joy.
Her laugh was light and a little mischievous.
She loved people. And she loved being with people.
She always saved me a Diet Coke in the fridge.
Always made sure I was fed—not just food, but welcome.
She knew how to create a sense of home.
And somehow, sitting at that table—surrounded by cloth napkins, laughter, and the fullness of stories shared—
I saw a kind of life I hadn’t seen before.
One rooted in faith.
One full of purpose.
But also one full of play, of wit, of women who knew how to live well.
It was sacred.
And it was so much fun.
