Story Frame 18 – The Nun from New Orleans & A Near-Death Experience

“I’m not interested,” Sister Gretchen said firmly, her New Orleans accent softening the negative impact of her words. She smacked one dimpled hand firmly down on the conference room table for emphasis.

“I don’t even like the Basilica!” she added, laughing.

Her reaction took me by surprise. Are nuns allowed to say ‘no’ to work assignments?

But then, Sister Gretchen had never matched the image I conjured up when I thought of the word, ‘nun.’ To begin with, who knew nuns made films?

Martin had called the four of us together around the small conference table at the documentary workshop to discuss the new film project Paul Peckar had sent my way, which turned out to be an astounding half-million dollar commissioning.

At least I thought that’s what we were there for, but it seemed everyone on the team, for some reason, was quickly coming up with reasons not to work on it.

It was Sister Gretchen’s reaction that surprised me most of all. She was in her mid-forties and and belonged to the Marianites of Holy Cross in Louisiana. I had the vague impression she was on loan to the documentary workshop, sort of like a scholar in residence, devoting her time, energy, and knowledge to the crafting of films that aligned with her beliefs and mission in life.

This was a unique experience for me. Not having been raised Catholic nor educated by ruler-wielding nuns, I brought no emotional baggage to the situation. I thought it was interesting to work with her, to see and watch an actual nun up close without needing to convert or join a convent.

Sister Gretchen was as passionate about her work as she was about her native Cajun culinary delights – po’ boys, gumbo, and blackened fish – and she had the curvy physique to show for it. She didn’t wear a habit, which was kind of disappointing to me, but dressed neatly in slacks or jeans with simple shirts or blouses. Her dark eyebrows arched high above the gold rimmed eyeglasses she wore, often reaching up to the somewhat unruly fringe of her bowl cut brown bob when something took her by surprise.

Sister Gretchen was an interesting bundle of contradictions. She had a warm and welcoming smile and she loved to laugh, but she could also be quite fierce. She had no trouble expressing her thoughts and opinions, but she was also very empathetic. It was Sister Gretchen who fed the alley cats behind the documentary workshop and took them to the vets – at her own expense – when they needed attention.

One morning on my drive to work through the historic district of Alexandria, the brakes on my twelve-year-old Volvo had failed. Seeing a woman dressed in heels and a business suit, perhaps on her way to work, step off the curb at an approaching stop sign, I put my foot on the brake. To my shock, the pedal went straight to the floor, not diminishing the car’s speed in the slightest. In slow motion horror, I watched my car getting closer to the woman crossing the street.

In desperation, I yanked up the emergency brake with all my strength and turned the wheels towards the curb, jerking the car to a halt just seconds before it reached the stop sign. In an out of body moment, I watched as the woman reached the other side of the street, unaware of how narrowly she’d escaped being taken out by three thousand pounds of Swedish might.

I switched off the ignition and sat for a moment, trembling with the what-ifs. Then I gathered my things, got out of the car and left it by the side of the road. I walked the rest of the way to the documentary workshop, the scene playing on a repeat loop in my head.

When I reached the backdoor and walked inside, I found Martin and Sister Gretchen sitting at the small table in the kitchen, chatting over coffee. Seeing them, I broke down in tears. They looked up, surprised. Martin asked what was wrong and I explained the close call.

“But you thought to pull the emergency brake and you didn’t hit her,” he said after hearing me out. “That’s a great ending. Why are you crying?”

He seemed genuinely puzzled. It was Sister Gretchen who, understanding my stress, came flying to my rescue.

“Oh Mahr-tin, can’t you see?!” she exclaimed in her New Orleans drawl. “It’s just ehvrything!”

And with those three words, Sister Gretchen nailed my life exactly. On top of the stresses of my pending divorce, my sister’s illness, the endless bills to pay – I had just nearly killed someone.

What was most puzzling to me about Sister Gretchen – but also what I loved best about her – was that you could never accurately anticipate what she was going to say. And this was one of those instances.

Another was the time Martin came up with the idea that we should give away some little thing to anyone who bought our DVDs because, he said, ‘Catholics love little gifts.’

Sister Gretchen looked at him in horror. “Not me!” she said emphatically, smacking the conference room table. “Ah’m Catholic and Ah like BIG gifts!”

She broke into peals of her contagious laughter as she looked around at each one of us to see our reactions. I loved her at moments like this.

And now here was Sister Gretchen expressing her surprising views firmly once again. She did not want to work on this film. Even though it was a Catholic film. Even though she was a nun. Even though it was a half-million-dollar project.

There was a silence around the table as we all digested her response.

And then Greg – the soft spoken, gentle Franciscan monk who enclosed an original poem to each of us in his annual Christmas cards – spoke up.

“I’ll be leaving soon to go back to my order,” he said quietly. “This close to the end of my time here, it’s probably best I don’t begin a new project.”

Martin looked down at the table and said nothing.

I didn’t understand everyone’s lack of interest. After all, we were discussing one of the most desired and rarest things in our world – a fully and generously-funded documentary project. That the subject of it was a new piece of art commissioned for the largest Catholic church in North America would have been, I thought, tremendously appealing to this crowd.

But then, I’m not Catholic. I’m not even a Christian. How I found myself – essentially a Kierkegaardian existentialist – working with a nun, a monk and a Catholic filmmaker still completely baffled me.

Paul later told me his intention had been to give me the project so I could strike out on my own as a filmmaker. I was touched he’d wanted to help me get back on my feet. Tempting as that idea was, I knew I was under-qualified. It did, however, seem a natural fit for the kind of work being done at Martin’s shop. So, I was genuinely surprised at the palpable lack of enthusiasm around the table that morning.

Martin adjourned our meeting, and we left the room with no plan.

Coming up next … Kissing the Leper