I had been teaching for several years in the public school system before God blessed us with a family. We lived in Philadelphia, New Jersey and Montgomery County. When the time came for our daughter to begin her formal education America was preparing to celebrate the Bicentennial of the United States and we were living in Delaware County. That was when I met Sister Myron at Holy Ghost Ukrainian Catholic School in Chester, Pennsylvania. I registered our daughter in Kindergarten. I was free, at least partially, or so I thought. Within a short time I received a phone call inquiring if I would be interested in teaching. One of the teachers suddenly took ill and there was an opening. I mentioned that our son was too young for school but was told that that could be taken care of. And so it began.

I did not recognize the outstanding abilities of Sister Myron until later. The school was to participate in a concert honoring the Bicentennial. Students reported on a Sunday. I was standing in the back of the auditorium when to my consternation I found my children on stage, center front. All I could see was their scuffed shoes. Sister Myron was effortlessly orchestrating the entire school. Every child knew his or her place and the part to perform. I missed this beauty of organization. I was too concerned about the shoes. Whatever Sister Myron undertook, always turned out faultlessly. Going from school to church the lines were superbly straight. For every occasion, everyone knew his or her place and/or part. She expected and got perfection. The spring musicals that Sister Myron produced became legendary. They were flawless, down to the last detail, and are remembered fondly.

And then suddenly, as we returned to the start of another school, a Sister Tharcylla told us she was the principal. She smiled a lot. Some of us breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Striving to attain Sister Myron’s ideal of perfection was trying to say the least. The students seemed to realize only sometime between Christmas and Easter that Sister Myron was no longer in charge and every so often a piece of litter dared to float to the ground. But Sister Tharcylla’s genius emerged when the pastor, Msgr. Peter Lypyn decided that the students needed to sing responses to the Liturgy by the next church day. Sister was unfazed. She inspired the children. She was a superb music teacher. Sister Tharcylla believed that we praise the Lord by singing with joy. In the short time allotted, the students were ready. Dutifully we went to church, maybe the lines weren’t as straight as before but the children sang the responses to the Liturgy beautifully. Several days passed and the pastor, being the good man that he was, told Sister that from here on in the students were only the recite the responses at Liturgy. I don’t remember how long Sister Tharcylla stayed at Holy Ghost but I do remember the joy in singing.

Time is a trickster. It distills our memory into remembering things maybe not the way they were but the way we think they should have been. Over the years there were many Sisters I came in contact with. Each was a woman of strong character uniquely using the talents given to her. Some of the Sisters were memorable because of their sense of humor, some because they stayed for a longer time, and others were like shooting starts. They stayed for a short time but there was something about them that you remembered. I can’t describe accurately all the Sisters. The memories get mixed-up. However, there are several Sisters I need to mention.

Sister Julia was my first teacher in Philadelphia when I came to St. Basil's School. If I remember correctly Sister taught a combined first and second grade. Perhaps half the class was like me recently off the boat with no knowledge of English. We came to a new country with a strange language. Sister helped us to unravel the mystery of this new language and she showed us how to discover the magical connection between printed and spoken words. To a little kid Sister Julia was a great musician and kindness itself.

Sister Michael was at Holy Ghost for a short time. There was an aura of Serenity around her. For some perverse reason, which I do not understand to this day, I felt compelled to annoy Sister. After some incident or other I would go and whine about how unfair life was. With patience and compassion in her voice and sadness in her eyes she would explain, yet again, that our reward was not in this world. Her constant and favorite saying was that the Lord, in His own time would see that everything was made right. Then the Cloak of Serenity would descent. There were times I just wanted to jump up and down and say that that was fine but a little recognition right now would also be appreciated. Ah, but that Cloak…

And then there was Sister Dorothy (OShanick). One time at Holy Ghost quite innocently, Sister told me some relatives from the Dakotas were coming for a visit. To the end of the school year I peppered her with questions. Sister Dorothy must have been very tired of me. But this started a thinking process. The people who came to the prairies came with little more than what they could carry. But it wasn’t just the farmers there were coal miners, and factory workers, and others who came and paved the way for us throughout this land. These immigrants created their own communities where they cultivate their centuries old religious beli3efs and the culture they brought over with them. From these centers came their descendents who chose the religious life and they taught us to read…and to write…and to think…

When things don’t go according to my plans, from time to time I think of Sister Michael and want to say yes Lord, but could You hurry it up? Sister Myron, a force to be reckoned with, I fantasize must have inherited her genes for perfection, order and excellence from ancestors who were Swiss clockmakers. Sister Julia has always been an idealization of what a person could be. Sister Dorothy, rightly or wrongly, I associate with pioneers, those intrepid individuals who ventured into the unknown without a GPS…or a cell phone…or even a McDonalds for rest stops. But then we all take tiny journeys into the unknown when we face a new situation. And when I am sitting in a church and the choir seems to drone on like an insect on a hot summer afternoon I want to stand up and tell them about Sister Tharcylla and our need for Joy. But I am not that eloquent and certainly not that brace.

For more than one hundred years assorted bits and pieces have been accumulating and when these pieces are fit together, like a jig saw puzzle, they show how much the Sisters of St. Basil the Great have influenced our lives.