Wake Up With Purpose!: What I’ve Learned in my First Hundred Years

Prologue

At my age I’m always happy when I wake up.

My alarm clock goes off each morning at 5 a.m. It takes me a couple of seconds to shake off the cobwebs. Then I sit up quickly. If I don’t, I might fall back to sleep. Can’t let that happen—I’ve got too much to do.

First, though, I say a prayer. I put my feet on the floor and sit on the edge of my bed. Oh, God, thank You for bringing me this day and for letting me serve You once again. I then get myself cleaned and dressed and into my wheelchair. I don’t use the chair because I’m old. I broke my hip, and then I got shingles. I am hoping the chair is only temporary, but I’m not complaining. I know I’m blessed to have the chair and the ability to move those wheels, as well as plenty of people who are willing to push me around.

Now that I’m clean and settled, I can begin my daily thirty-minute morning meditation. I take out my iPad and open an application from the US Conference of Catholic Bishops, where I study my gospel reading for the day. I guess there aren’t too many 103-year-old nuns using iPads these days—there aren’t too many 103-year-old people, period—but I’m pretty comfortable with modern technology. I’ve always said, if you’re not moving forward, you’re going to get left behind real quick. Adaptability is my superpower.

I actually think the iPad is a wonderful way to absorb Scripture. It’s light and fits easily into my hands. Beside each reading is a reflection from a theologian, which encapsulates that day’s section, so I indulge in that text too. It gives me a deeper understanding and appreciation as I read the ancient words.

My reading done, I sit and reflect. When I was studying to be a sister, I learned to set aside time each day to sit quietly and think. Now, if I notice I’m distracted, which is natural, I try to get myself back to God. When you have so much on your mind, it’s easy to be distracted. We’re human beings, after all.

Finally, I set aside the iPad and look out the window of my apartment at The Clare, an assisted living facility for senior citizens in downtown Chicago. The city is so peaceful at this early hour. There’s a hotel across the street, and I see lights in the rooms start to come on. I think about the people waking up in those rooms, and I pray that they will find joy on this day the Lord has made. I can see a corner of Lake Michigan peeking out from behind the hotel. I call that my piece of the lake. Sometimes, when the water is nice and calm, I can see sailboats out there. I think about those people on the boats and pray that they will be safe and enjoy their time on the water.

As I continue to pray and meditate, I consider my work for the day. I go over my schedule so I know what I have to look forward to. I try to be as specific as I can at the start, even though I know not everything will go according to what I’ve laid out. I reflect on what’s going to be good about the day ahead, as well as what I’m not looking forward to. That’s okay, though, because I know whatever problems come up, they will get resolved. I trust that God has His plan in place. This adjusts my mindset for the day.

I think we could all be a little happier and more productive if we set aside quiet time, especially at the start of our days. Even five or ten minutes of silent reflection can be enough. I did this for many years as an eighth-grade teacher. I would begin class by asking my students to put their heads down on their desks while I read from the gospel. This calmed them down. At first I did this for five minutes. Eventually I extended it to ten. Then at the end of class we would sit quietly for a few additional minutes so everyone could think about what had been read.

Saint Ignatius of Loyola, the fifteenth-century Spanish priest who founded the religious order of the Society of Jesus, also known as the Jesuits, was a great advocate for quiet. He devised a daily Examen prayer to be said during the course of the day. The Examen provides for silent reflections on thanksgiving, petition, review, response, and a prayer for tomorrow. Today millions of Catholics around the world say their Examen at least once a day. There are few rituals that bring me more peace.

Perhaps my favorite place to pray is Madonna della Strada Chapel on Loyola’s campus. It is a quiet place that is conducive to prayer. Even though many visitors come and go, I experience quiet alone time with God, and I believe that He listens to me as I talk to Him about my friends, my activities, and what I hope to do in my ministry at Loyola.

Other times I like to sit by the lake and enjoy the beauties that God has created and shared with all of us. I thank Him for such gifts.

Along with that time for reflection, I also understand we all need a pat on the back once in a while, including from ourselves. Before I go to sleep each night, I think of all the good things I did that day. That way I know I will wake up happy in the morning. Although, let’s face it, at my age I’m always happy when I wake up. And when I do, I sit up and start my morning ritual all over again, awash in gratitude that once again God has empowered me to wake up with purpose.

* * *

When I turned one hundred years old on August 21, 2019, the city of Chicago and my employer, Loyola University, threw a big party for me. There’s nothing I enjoy more than a big party, especially when I’m the guest of honor! One of the local reporters asked our former basketball coach, Porter Moser, how I’d lived so long and so happily. Well, I’ll tell you, he replied. She has a purpose every day.

I think there’s a lot of truth to that. Of course, there’s also a lot of luck involved in living this long. I’m extremely blessed that I’ve never gotten terribly sick or badly hurt. I’ve also clearly inherited great DNA. My father lived until he was ninety-five and my two brothers lived until they were seventy-four and ninety years old. I do think having a daily, consistent purpose has kept me not only alive but young and vibrant.

I’ve always loved my work because it never feels like work. To this day, I report for work at Loyola University Chicago five days a week. My office sits right in the heart of our student center, so those magnificent young people are constantly popping in and out of my office to ask questions, say hello, or request a selfie. I am the queen of the selfie these days. My evenings are filled with phone calls, reading, and writing emails. (Yes, I write my own emails.) I’d like to think that I’ve got just as much, if not more, energy as people who are many years my junior. I only wish I could jump out of this wheelchair and dance a jig!

I can’t say I planned to live this long, or decided a course of action that would allow it to happen. I just followed my instincts—and my calling to serve God. This intention first popped into my head when I was a third grader attending Catholic school in San Francisco. My teacher was a Sister of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and I announced that I wanted to be just like her. I never looked back. I was eighteen years old when I entered the BVM motherhouse in 1937, and I have been an educator ever since. For the first twenty years of my career, I taught in elementary school, mostly in my native California. When I started I taught fifth grade, and later moved to eighth grade. Besides being a teacher, I was also an administrator, principal, and basketball coach, as well as coaching other sports. In 1961, I moved to Mundelein College, an all-women’s college in Chicago. Thirty years after that, Mundelein affiliated with Loyola University. I have worked there ever since.

I’ve had many duties at Loyola over the last three decades, but few have brought me more joy than my service as the chaplain for the men’s basketball team. I meet with the team before every game to offer a team prayer. I also pray with the fans shortly before tip-off. Then I watch the action from my wheelchair right next to the court. From where I sit, I can see everything that happens, including all the instances when the referees make a bad call—and I pray that those guys will get better eyesight. Sometimes, the players will stop and hug me on their way off the court. There’s nothing like hugging a sweaty basketball player after a big win.

I may be an old nun, but I know my hoops. On the day after each game, I send emails to the coaches and players offering my analysis of the game and a scouting report for our upcoming opponent. I know basketball well, having watched it all these years, and I make sure to do my homework. Then, before the next game, we meet again, and I pray for everyone to be safe and healthy—and for the Ramblers to win.

I often see looks of surprise on the guys’ faces when they hear some of the things I say. One of our players, Donte Ingram, once told a reporter how surprised he was when he heard me deliver a pregame prayer for the first time.

It caught me off guard, he said. I thought she was just going to pray. She prayed, but then she starts saying, ‘You’ve got to box out and watch out for number 23.’

I’ve been blessed to be well-known in the Loyola community for quite some time, but in the spring of 2018 I reached a level of notoriety that I never could have imagined when my Ramblers made a Cinderella run to the Final Four of the NCAA tournament. Every time we took the court, we were the underdogs, but our guys showed such great fight and teamwork that we were able to win four straight games. As they took each step, the press developed a bigger fascination with the old nun in the wheelchair wearing a maroon and gold scarf and a pair of Nike sneakers with the words Sister and Jean stitched onto them.

By the time we all arrived in San Antonio for the Final Four, I was such a big deal that the NCAA set up my own press conference. They told me afterward I drew more reporters than Tom Brady did at the Super Bowl. At one point, a reporter asked how it felt to be a national celebrity. "International celebrity," I corrected. That’s because I had received emails from Europe from friends who had caught wind of my story across the pond. This nun was flying.

The tournament ended for us with a loss to Michigan in the Final Four. I was disappointed, of course, but I was so thrilled for what those players and coaches had accomplished. Life has calmed down for me in the years since then—but only a little. I am still treated like a celebrity, and I must say I do enjoy it because it gives me the chance to interact with so many people. People tease me from time to time—Now, Sister Jean, don’t let this go to your head—but of course it hasn’t. I believe this was all a part of God’s plan.

All I ever wanted to do was serve God, and my way of doing that has been to work with young people to educate them, encourage them, give them spiritual guidance, and help them live out their dreams. I have seen so many changes over the last century, but the important things have remained the same.

My attitude and perspective haven’t changed since Loyola’s amazing run to the Final Four, but I recognize that I have a much bigger audience now. I feel it is my duty to take advantage of this holy opportunity. That is my aim in writing this book—not just to tell the story of my life but also to talk about all the things I learned during my first hundred years. I hope to do what I’ve always done: use my words to help others learn, grow, serve God, and serve one another. I hope when people read this book, they will be able to wake up the way I do. I want them to wake up happy. I want them to wake up with purpose.

And I want the Ramblers to win.

One

It Starts with Belief

If you keep your faith, you never have to grow old.

I recently came upon an African proverb that said, When an old person dies, a library closes. I thought that was such a beautiful verse. And by that logic, if the old person is still living, that means the library is open, right?

That’s a pleasant way to imagine myself. I’d like to think I have information to share and stories to tell that could be helpful and inspirational to others. And you don’t need a library card to hear my stories. All you have to do is pull up a chair and ask. As someone who was born just nine months after World War I, I’ve seen a great deal.

* * *

My earliest memory stretches back to when I was two and a half years old. It was April of 1922, and my grandmother had just died. My brother Ed had been born that January, and several days before the funeral, he came down with a bad case of whooping cough. He had caught it from me, and my mother was concerned because babies have a hard time getting rid of phlegm. I distinctly remember being at the cemetery and seeing someone bring a folding chair for my mother so she didn’t have to stand while holding the baby.

The next day, my brother stopped coughing. My mother told me it was because Grandma had cured him.

This was how it was for our family. Everything started with belief. Although I was sad that my grandma had died, my mother encouraged me by telling me Grandma was already with God in heaven and was helping to keep us safe and healthy.

My dad taught us that God made the stars and the skies, and that He loved us, He was always watching over us, and He wanted us to be happy. Of course, that doesn’t mean that everything will go our way, but if we hold on to that belief, we can trust that God has a reason for everything that happens, even if we don’t quite understand it at the time.

That’s an easy concept to grasp when you’re two and a half years old. But it gets harder to understand as we get older. It’s like what is said about the angel Clarence at the beginning of the classic Christmas movie It’s a Wonderful Life: He’s got the faith of a child. Wouldn’t it be nice if someone could always say that about us? That’s why every day of my life, I’ve sought to reaffirm my belief and reestablish my faith. That’s how it works with God. If you keep your faith, you never have to grow old.

* * *

I’ve always had a pretty good memory—almost too good. When I was in first grade I didn’t read books so much as memorize them. If I had to read in front of the class, I would purposely hold the book upside down to show off to my fellow students that I wasn’t actually reading it. Yup, I was kind of a ham, even back then. My father was none too pleased when he discovered this. He made sure I learned to read well.

My mother grew up as the daughter of devout Catholics. She didn’t like her first name, Bertha—maybe it’s because there was a famous lady at the circus named Bertha who was known for her substantial girth, but I guess her parents weren’t aware of that. She preferred to be called Bert. When she was a little girl, she decided she wanted to marry a man whose name was Joseph, because that was the foster father of Jesus. Later on, her older brothers started working in San Francisco for a Catholic magazine, and they met a young man who worked there whose name was Joseph. They set up a date, but my mother decided this was not the right Joseph for her. However, on the second date, she changed her mind. (You may want to keep that in mind the next time you have a so-so first date.)

They settled in the Bay Area of California. I was their firstborn, coming into the world on August 21, 1919. They named me Dolores Bertha. Two and a half years later, my brother Ed arrived. Four years after him came Raymond. Our grandfather lived with us as well. I thought sometimes this must have been tough on my parents, but I’m sure it was nice for them to have an extra babysitter.

It’s a Catholic tradition in my mother’s native region of Alsace-Lorraine that after a child is born, the mother takes the baby to a church to be dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary. The ritual dictates that the mother has to wait until forty days after the baby is born so she’s clean again. My mother performed this ritual with me and my brothers. Another part of the tradition is that the child is supposed to wear blue for the first seven years if it’s a daughter and for three years if it’s a son. I used to wear baby bonnets with roses on them, and my mother had to switch them all out for blue ones. My mother often said she changed more roses on my bonnets than she had time for.

Both my parents came from big families. My mother had three sisters and two brothers, although her mother lost several other children at birth. My father had six sisters and two brothers, as well as a third brother who died when he was twenty-one. My father was the only one of his siblings who got married and had children. All of his brothers and sisters lived in the same house. They all worked except one sister, to whom they paid a salary to stay home