When I was a young schoolboy, I remember my mother packing my brown-bag lunch with an apple and a sandwich, which I ate each day at St. Michael’s Catholic School in Lynn, Massachusetts. I was fortunate to be taught by dedicated Franciscan nuns, who primarily served the sons and daughters of Polish American families. 

The curriculum was tough because it involved learning not only traditional academic subjects but also the Polish language, considered by some experts to be one of the most difficult languages in the world. 

Our language studies involved grammar and reading Bible verses in Polish, which students were expected to recite from memory whenever a nun called upon us to do so. 

I recall that on one particular day, the apple that my mother had packed in my lunch bag was very sour. I struggled to eat it and experienced abdominal fireworks the rest of the day. 

The same thing happened the following day. The apple was so sour that I couldn’t eat but a few bites of it. I decided to throw the rest of it in a green trash can in the back of the classroom. 

I had a profound sense of guilt over what I had done. After all, World War II had ended only a short time earlier and the early postwar years were especially difficult for those who had been displaced, malnourished, and suffering from the war’s devastation across multiple continents. 

Like my classmates, I repeatedly heard stories from the nuns and my parents about the victims of the war and admonitions about the sinfulness of throwing away food. The image of children our age with distended bellies in Europe and Asia was graphically shown to us by the nuns. They were no different from the images shown to moviegoers in news clips in theaters. 

No sooner had class resumed than the class tattletale, who had rummaged through the trash can, held up my discarded apple, screeching in her high-pitched voice, “Look what I found, Sister! A half-eaten apple!” 

My fifth-grade teacher, Sister Angelica, was my favorite. She had a kind and quiet manner and a passion for learning that made class always exciting and pleasant. She was also a gifted organist with a voice that fit her name. 

To my amazement, this kind and gentle nun decided to make an example of the student who had discarded the fruit. “Who threw the apple in the trash can?” she asked in a quiet voice. 

I was reluctant to make a public confession. My face reddened. I perspired profusely and got very fidgety. Since I occupied a desk directly in front of Sister Angelica’s, she had to notice the changes in my demeanor — obvious hallmarks of guilt. 

She asked the same question three times. I continued to remain silent. But I had made up my mind that if she asked the question one more time, I had to confess and accept the shame and whatever punishment she decided to impose. 

Miraculously, I thought, she abandoned her approach and asked the class to take out paper and pencils. She asked us to write our names at the top of the paper and to say “Yes” or “No.” 

From the perspective of a 9-year-old boy, I realized that this would be my last chance to avoid disaster of titanic proportions. I wrote “Yes” on my paper. 

Miss Tattletale gleefully collected the papers for Sister Angelica and placed them in front of her. To my astonishment, Sister Angelica placed the papers to one side of her desk and asked the students to take out their history books. 

Even though history was my favorite subject, I couldn’t concentrate on anything for the remainder of the class day. Wild thoughts intruded into my mind. What would be my punishment after Sister Angelica read that I was the culprit who threw the apple into the trash? 

I reviewed several options she might consider — kneeling penitentially in the corner of the room for an hour or two, writing “I will not throw out half-eaten apples for the rest of my life” 100 times, or strongly suggesting that I go to our parish priest to hear my confession. 

My worries were compounded by my concern over the reaction of my parents. I came from a prominent, respected Polish American family, who were active not only in the church but also in the political life of the city. I was supposed to live up to the highest ethical ideals.  

I was ambivalent about telling my parents about the drama that had transpired that day in school. I decided to see what Sister Angelica had in store for me the next day in class. 

After the agony of a sleepless night and being sick to my stomach before getting on the bus for school, I sheepishly entered the classroom and eyed Sister Angelica, who looked up and gave me a warm welcoming smile that I did not expect. Had she read my admission of guilt? I asked myself. 

Sister Angelica never brought up the events of the previous day. She instructed us to say our daily prayer, after which we were to take out our English grammar books. This, of course, did not satisfy Miss Tattletale, who asked, “But, Sister, who threw the apple in the trash can?” 

With magnificent aplomb, Sister Angelica told her politely that it was none of her business, which brought a wide smile from me and many of the other students. She used the opportunity to quote from Scripture about the sins of gossip, malice and the infliction of pain on others. Miss Tattletale was reduced to silence. 

I realized that Sister Angelica’s punishment for throwing away the apple was the anxiety and worry I had experienced after the incident. I had learned a lesson. A big lesson. I also gained an important insight into what separates an ordinary teacher from a very wise one. 

At the end of the class day, Sister Angelica returned the papers of the previous day. On my paper, in which I admitted that I had thrown away the apple, she wrote: “Richard, honesty is the building block of integrity. You have learned that. God bless you. Sister A.” 

I left St. Michael’s a few years later and went to high school and college in Florida. 

Years later, I returned to Lynn for a visit, and the first thing I wanted to do was to thank Sister Angelica for the impact she had in shaping the man I had become.  

But Sister Angelica had passed away. 

Still, I was reminded of this magnificent nun when my wife and I, already in retirement, attended a Mass celebrated in the same manner I had known as a boy in the 1930s and 1940s.  

Before the Mass, during Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, the hymn Tantum Ergo Sacramentum (“Down in Adoration Falling”) filled the church. At that moment, memories of Sister Angelica flooded my mind and prayers. 

And I wept.