She Made Me Laugh. Stephanie Emmons
Browning … without you this whole adventure never would have happened! Thanks for making me laugh.
INTRODUCTION
In January of 1996, when my friend Miriam and I were in our twenties, we followed our mutual dream and traveled to India. Our aim: to help the poor in Calcutta and, hopefully, to meet Mother Teresa.
We had wanted to see her community, the Missionaries of Charity, in action and hoped they would let us roll up our sleeves and jump in alongside them. So, once we got settled in Calcutta, found out Mother Teresa’s address and mapped out our route, Miriam and I just walked over and showed up at her door.
As we had hoped, the sisters were gracious and happy to have us. They ushered us right in and we got to meet Mother Teresa that very day. And it was just that simple. I’m not sure what I had expected. But I do recall hoping that, if we did get to meet her, we might witness some really cool saintlike quality or manifestation—something. But she didn’t levitate. No glowing halo crowned her head, no great throng of followers hung on her every word. There was nothing like that. And though she must have received thousands of visitors over the years, Mother Teresa was patient and welcoming to Miriam and me when we met her.
What has stayed with me all these years is the kindness in her eyes. But there was something I didn’t expect: her sense of humor. She made me laugh. Not just once, but every time we met her. It seemed to come naturally—an easy kind of joking around. I remember thinking that aside from her being a living saint, I liked her as a person. She didn’t seem self-conscious or shy. She was the kind of person who puts you at ease and makes you want to hang around, even if it was just to shoot the breeze. She was just there—simple, funny, intense. And perfectly ordinary.
This book shares some parts of the travel journal I began during the trip, letters I sent home, and reflections I’ve written in the years since. And while there are plenty of, “Wow! We’re in India!” moments, I also talk about some of the darker parts of the trip for me. I had wanted to go to India since I first learned of Mother Teresa when I was a kid. But once I actually got there, things took a downward turn. I was overwhelmed by pretty much everything.
In the years following Mother Teresa’s death in 1997, some of her private writings surfaced. They told a story of a woman in love with God, but a woman who also knew great spiritual pain. As I had naturally assumed that Mother Teresa’s life was pretty much one of profound, unbroken closeness to God, I, like many others, was flabbergasted. I came across an article in Time magazine which did this big exposé. They titled it “Mother Teresa’s Crisis of Faith,” which effectively turned the world on its ear. One of the people they interviewed, Father James Martin, sj, echoed my own feelings when he asked, “Who would have thought that the person who was considered the most faithful woman in the world struggled like that with her faith?”
I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with all of this. Even more surprisingly, though, was the discovery that that playfulness and good humor I had seen, and the pain she described in her letters—these could be present at the same time. It wasn’t necessarily one or the other. In fact, apparently, it’s a very real aspect in the spiritual life, this both/and theme—one that mystics and saints have long been acquainted with. I came to learn that maybe there’s much more to her story—and our story—than might be discernible at first blush.
But I’ll start at the beginning, back in the peculiar days of pet rocks, bell bottoms, and peace symbols: 1979 …
1 SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL
The year was 1979. My grade six buddies and I, sporting our polyester seventies wear, were chatty and excited. It wasn’t every day we got to watch a film at school. Our teacher had said that this one was called Something Beautiful for God. We were all sitting cross-legged on the orange shag carpet in the library at Pope John XXIII School in Ottawa, Canada. My friend Lisa and I sat with our knees touching; we were always together. Then someone turned out the lights and the show began.
I saw the image of a small woman with dark skin and a white outfit. “Who’s that?” I asked, looking up at Mrs. McGetrick, the school librarian who was standing beside me. “Shh …” she said slowly with a little smile, a straight index finger pressed to her lips. Then in a whisper, “You’ll see.” What I saw on the screen over the next hour struck a strange chord in me. The music was sad, and the woman was slowly walking toward the camera, holding a scrawny child by the hand. Neither of them looked too cheerful. I didn’t understand what was going on, but I was spellbound. There was something about her.
The narrator said that her name was Mother Teresa and that she was helping the poor and the sick. There were kids in the streets, people in beds, babies in cribs, and more ladies in white. When it was over, the lights came on and everyone started chatting noisily. I remember looking around to see if anyone else looked like they were about to cry. Mrs. McGetrick said that Mother Teresa must be a very special nun to have given her whole life to God and to helping the poor people.
The poor people? I wondered. Why were they poor? How come they were living on the streets and in the train stations? Who were these kids, and why weren’t their moms and dads looking after them?
I can still clearly recall the look on Mother Teresa’s face, and I could have sworn she was looking right at me. There was so much on her face. At times she looked warm and kind, but at other times, a little scary. She looked almost angry. I tried to make sense of this. But then, our teacher told us to line up and we headed back to class.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it—the film, the children, and their sad faces. And her face. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mother Teresa’s face.
Soon after seeing that film, I had a dream I was in India talking with her. She smiled her kind smile at me, and I felt her warm presence. Then I was back at home, alone in my room, dreaming I was talking to God: “I want to meet her! I want to join them and help the poor people! But how will I ever get to India? How can I explain this to Mom and Dad? Will they even let me go?” God then replied, “You’ll know when the time is right, but you have to wait.”
Waiting is hard at any age, but it is especially so at 11 when you suddenly know exactly what you’re meant to do. Frustrated, but undaunted, I continued, “God, why did you show me this and make me want to go there so badly if all I can do is wait? How long?” I demanded. Then, gently, “You’re young and you’re not ready. You’ll have to wait, sweetheart.” With all the grown-up conviction I could gather, I shot back, “I’m ready! I really am, Father.” He spoke again, this time with a little more conviction: “Stephie. It’s not time yet.” And with that, I woke up.
It seemed so real.
I was exasperated. I simply could not imagine why He wouldn’t just make it happen right then and there. I was good and ready and felt sure I would make a very good nun.
Sixteen years later, I stood in front of her for real, and her smile was just as kind and her presence just as warm as I had imagined….
2 THE TRIP OF A LIFETIME
One sunny day in August of 1995, when I was 27, I was at my best friend Margie’s apartment having coffee. We had both lost someone very special not long before: Margie, her mom, and me, my Grandma Emmons. We were both still getting over the shock, coffeeing our way through our grief together.
The phone rang. It was our mutual friend, Miriam Dowd. We had met Miriam about six years earlier through Challenge, a Catholic youth community we all belonged to in Ottawa. I could tell from Margie’s side of the conversation that something was up. Margie had long known of my affinity for Mother Teresa and was smiling and nodding, stirring my curiosity.
“Hmmm.