Saint Agnes was a martyr, dying for her faith in a gruesome way. The religious order of women who taught at my grammar school were Sisters of St. Agnes. Both they, and Saint Agnes herself, are the closest I had to career role models from 1957 to 1968 in Elhmurst, Illinois.
I learned that women come in a wide variety of sizes but act a lot alike. They know deep things they will share if you ask them; but sometimes they won’t. And, being smart is how women are; but sometimes it causes them pain.
Only one Sister had taken the name of a man saint, disciple and gospel writer Mark, and her choice suited her.
Sister Mark wasn’t masculine, but she was physical. This says something, since the black habit is so huge, it was hard to tell for certain if any body was in there. The sleeves were like bells, so she rolled ’em up to get out of the way her hands wanted to go. She laughed like a big kid, loudly and not always when you expected it. Her cheeks chubbed out of the white head thing that covered every cranial part that wasn’t face. You could tell she like to eat, really enjoyed it.