I have not blogged for some time, but today I break my silence to offer a tribute to a dear teacher and friend, Sr. Maryla Farfour. Dig in; this is a long one.
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Twenty-four years
ago this August, I met a force of love who forever altered the trajectory of my
life. I walked into her hot second-floor classroom, Room 206, during the first week
of high school theology class at Bishop Hannan High School. I believe her
introduction went something like this: “My name is Sister Maryla Farfour, IHM (with
emphasis on the IHM part). F-A-R, F-O-U-R. I chose my religious name because ‘Mary’
for Mary and ‘la’ for music: Maryla-la-la!” She continued, “I’m from North Carolina,
but I don’t have the accent anymore.” But, she did, and it was glorious!
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Visiting Scranton with my
friend Marilyn, who took
this photo of Sr. Maryla
and me.
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I was enthralled
by this woman. She had thinning, wavy gray hair, big brown eyes, a smile that
went on forever, and a presence that took up the whole room. As I share these memories,
I see them in living color and hear her voice so clearly, a voice I had come to
imitate very well over the years. These imitations I did were a real crowd-pleaser,
always done in a spirit of love and flattery. Those who heard my version of Sr.
Maryla often had a hard time keeping a straight face when they met her in real
life. If she knew about these impressions when she was alive, she never let on—and
she never shied away from saying anything. Her death on June 20, 2020, six days
shy of her 97th birthday, hit me particularly hard. I had retired
the impressions years ago; our relationship was actually much deeper than most
people probably knew. Our inability at the moment to celebrate her life because
of the pandemic leaves me bereft in a way I never imagined. But then again, no
one is ever really prepared to face the grief that comes from losing someone so
special, someone so influential.
Sr. Maryla was
born in Goldsboro, North Carolina, on June 26, 1923. Her parents gave her the
name Rosette, but there was nothing diminutive about her or her spirit. She was
proud to be Lebanese, a fact she never shied away from sharing with all of us.
I heard one time at a large meeting with other sisters that she misspoke and
told everyone that she understood what it was like to be discriminated against
because she was a lesbian. Or Lebanese, she corrected herself! I’m sure there
were some chuckles in the room, and she, too, could laugh at herself. That is a
second-hand story, though. My own stories about her, many of which involved
high school pals, bring me a special kind of joy that is difficult to capture
in the printed word, so full of life that she was, and so full of accent that
never really left her.
I don’t think any
of us knew how old Sr. Maryla was. If we did, we might have cut her more slack
in the classroom. (In fact, I didn’t know until after I graduated high school
and came across her birthdate while working for the sisters in their business
office. I was stunned.) I remember watching a video in class one afternoon on a
19-inch television mounted in the corner of the room when we noticed that Sr.
Maryla had started to doze off at her desk. Her head bobbed and her eyelids
fluttered. Some of the kids decided to throw spitballs her way. This went on
for a little while until she woke up and really didn’t miss a beat (I wonder
how many times she had seen said video). At the time, I did not know that she
was already in her early-to-mid-70s, teaching a full load of classes,
moderating an active student organization, and being involved in countless
other projects in the community, such as the Marywood Seminary Alumnae
Association, for which she was the moderator. She attended Golden Lancer basketball
games and cheered our athletes in the stands and at pep rallies, yelling, “Raise
the roof!”
She played the
organ at the cathedral across the street and the bishop was her close, personal
friend. Many years after she retired and he was retired, I was visiting her at Our
Lady of Peace, the sisters’ retirement home. I asked about the bishop, for whom
I had often served Mass, and she just casually picked up the phone and dialed Cliff’s
number by memory and said, “Hey, guess who’s here and wants to say hello?” They
chatted like old friends. I was in awe that she could do this.
In the classroom, we
seemed to stray at times from the prescribed curriculum in the textbook. She
sometimes took our classes to the chapel, where she would teach us to pray the
rosary during October (Mary’s month) or practice songs for an upcoming Mass. As
a music teacher, Sr. Maryla loved this part of class the best, while I and many
others dreaded it. She loved to sit at the organ and play her heart out. I am
not musical at all, but even today, I always try to hold my hymnal the way she
taught us, slightly inclined and in front so you could project. She always
emphasized the projection part to a group of teenagers who didn’t want to sing.
In the classroom, we sang, too, or chanted. She wrote the names of the twelve
apostles in her signature loopy handwriting on the side board, got out the yard
stick, and we sang along with her Southern accent as she snapped her fingers to
the beat: “Peter, Andrew, James, and John; Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, Tom;
Simon, James, Jude, and Judas show the twelve apostles to us!” Then she would
say, “OK, now louder and faster, too!” until it became lodged in our heads for
eternity.
Not only was I in
her theology class freshman year, but I was also in her theology class sophomore
year. In my first year, she convinced me and some of my other friends to join
the Christian Life Community (CLC), where I met some of my best friends in high
school. When she died, these were some of the first people I reached out to.
Who else could understand the profundity of the loss? CLC was a term that the
Jesuits used for their small Christian communities, but for us it was a club
devoted to service rather than small group sharing. We also represented the
school at major liturgies at St. Peter’s Cathedral, such as the Respect Life
Mass and others like it. Many of us found our photographs in the diocesan
newspaper, holding banners and such. It was an active organization, and many times,
members were asked to report to Room 206 during homeroom or after school to give
an updated on the status of a task. For some students, hearing their name over
the loudspeaker induced dread. Sr. Maryla was joyful and exuberant, but she had
high expectations of her students and sometimes her enthusiasm for projects far
exceeded ours. She loved to celebrate any and all holidays, so parties were a
fixture of our club’s activities. She could be particular about things, though.
One time for a party we brought food and spread it out on the cafeteria tables
after school. She entered the cafeteria, looked at the food, and declared, “That
isn’t enough food!” We thought our chips and salsa and cookies were plenty for
the occasion, but we teenagers didn’t understand the importance of having an
abundance at table. A bit crushed by the rebuke, we never made that mistake
again.
Sometimes our CLC duties
involved taking Sr. Maryla to various places in downtown Scranton. She didn’t
drive, and many of my friends shuttled her to Boscov’s, the eye doctor, and
other places. In those days, before VIRTUS and safe environment training were
mandatory, you could do this with your teachers. This is not to say that no one
raised an eyebrow; some teachers rolled their eyes (she was not everyone’s cup
of tea, I’m sure), but Sr. Maryla could pretty much convince a high school student
to do anything. Perhaps we were motivated by guilt, but I think many of us were
good kids who wanted to help (and wanted to stay in her good graces). Why she
trusted brand new drivers, I shall never know! Driving her meant that it was
less likely that she’d bust you for smoking outside the bus stop at the Ritz
Theatre as she walked to and from her destination down the block.
In hindsight, one
of the qualities I admired most in Sr. Maryla was that she truly marched to her
own beat and never lost that vivaciousness that she had as a young adult. (If
you have not read her vocation
story, written in her own words, I highly recommend it. I came across it
the other day, and while reading it, realized why she did many of the things
that she did, even in her later years.) Sr. Maryla was particularly fond of our
friend Maria’s mom, and much to Maria’s chagrin, her mom invited Sr. Maryla to
their home in the country. Maria insisted that my friend Lauren and I join them
for the day, so we all piled in the car and drove 45 minutes north to rural
Susquehanna County, where we enjoyed a spread of food, which we three tried not
to spit out every time our teacher said something that made us giggle. To
escape the tension, Maria suggested we, meaning Lauren and I, go for a ride on
her four-wheeler across their expansive property. When we got back in the
house, Sr. Maryla said she was jealous and insisted on taking a ride, too. On a
four-wheeler. In a skirt. She was not dressed for the occasion, and the late spring
day had turned gray and chilly so she didn’t have proper outdoor attire. In a
coat two sizes too small (Maria’s family was all very petite), Sr. Maryla got
on the back of an ATV and rode across the grass with Maria, shrieking with delight.
At the time, I venture she was about 75 years old. She loved every minute of
it, and we did, too. On the way back to Scranton, Sr. Maryla asked Maria’s mom
in a “whisper,” if we could stop at the Bon-Ton where she worked to pick up a
new girdle. Three girls in the history of the world never worked so hard to not
explode from laughter in the backseat of a compact Mazda sedan. Sr. Maryla was
completely herself, and we had legendary stories to tell our friends.
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"Mary Lynn, let's take a selfie!"
She was always up on trends
in pop culture.
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Today, as news has
spread of Sr. Maryla’s death, friends have messaged me and said, “You’re the
first one I thought of when I saw the news.” To many, Sr. Maryla was indeed legendary
and certainly larger than life in many ways. She was and certainly is all of
that to me, too, but I struggle to capture just how influential she was. As a
high school student, I was smart but awkward. I was not sure where I fit in,
but joining CLC gave me a chance to blossom, to explore my faith, and to
develop as a leader within the school and later within the diocese through
youth retreats. While there were other IHMs in the school, Sr. Maryla lived and
breathed the community’s charism most authentically, and I found it
intoxicating.
One time, I was
called to Room 206 over the loudspeaker, so she could ask me, “Mary Lynn, have
you ever thought about being a sister?” Stunned, I didn’t know what to say. I
don’t remember my response, but the question has never quite disappeared. I
ended up going to Marywood University, worked for the IHM Sisters as a college
student, and got involved with various projects that they sponsored. I ended up
going on to graduate school for pastoral ministry at the University of Dayton and
served as a campus minister for over a decade. Once, like Sr. Maryla, I told my
students there wasn’t enough food at an event. I laughed when I realized what I
said. In October, I became an IHM associate, a non-vowed member of the
community. Even though I’ve met other communities of sisters through ministry
and young adult groups, I know IHM will always be home, due in large part to
the influence Sr. Maryla had on me as an impressionable 14-year-old. She bled
blue and white, for the Tar Heels and for her community. That she died late on
the Feast of the Immaculate Heart of Mary is not lost on me. God was finally
ready to welcome home the force of love he created.
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Reunited with our dear teacher at Savory Maza
in West Scranton.
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A few years ago,
two high school friends and I took Sr. Maryla out for a lunch at a family-owned
Lebanese restaurant on the west side of town. She loved catching up with us,
and we got to enjoy her company as adults. She was so interested in us, our
families, and what we were doing. On the way back to the convent, she asked me to
stop at CVS. She sent me in with her wallet and asked me to buy her roll-on deodorant
that was on sale. I laughed; some things never change. My friends had ditched
me, knowing full well what a trip to CVS would entail. Recently, some time had
passed since I had visited Sr. Maryla. We talked on the phone at Christmas, but
because of my travel schedule, I was not able to visit her as I usually did. I
regret not calling her during the pandemic, but I think she knows that I loved and
still love her very much. What would I have said if I knew it would be the last
time we talked? I have one saved voicemail from her from January 1, 2019. She was
enthusiastic, but also slightly scolding because I had come to visit her during
Mass, and she wasn’t available. I had forgotten about that misstep of mine. She
doesn’t linger on that in the message, though, instead praising me for the homemade
photo cards I had shared with her as a Christmas gift. “You’re getting to be a
real pro,” she said, with such great love, affection, and admiration. Her voice
is still with me, on my voicemail, and more importantly, inside me.
Sing with the
angels, dear friend.
P.S. The voicemail is from January 1, 2019.
