Reading one of her essays, I discovered a little fact about American Catholic history, and about another great American author, that I had never known before . . . and you all know how much I love American Catholic history.
It seems that Nathaniel Hawthorne, the American novelist and short story writer who penned The Scarlet Letter, had a daughter named Rose, who converted to Catholicism in the 1890’s, founded a religious community of Dominican sisters and is now being proposed for sainthood.
I’d like to spend a few minutes telling you a bit more about the connection that binds these fascinating figures – and I promise that in the end, it has great relevance for the feast we’re celebrating today.
Nathaniel Hawthorne was not a member of any Christian church. Though religious thinking and imagery played a major role in his fiction; especially the battle in the human heart between good and evil; he seems to have struggled to find faith in his own life.

Still, the seeds of Christian life were clearly planted somewhere deep within him. Hawthorne served for a time as the American consul in Liverpool, England. And in that capacity, he once visited a orphanage where, as he describes in his journal: “this sickly little fright prowled around me, taking hold of my clothes, following at my heels, and at last holding up its hands, smiling at me, insisting that I pick him up. I had never seen a child I should feel less inclined to fondle . . . but I should never have forgiven myself if I had repelled its advances.”
Hawthorne’s daughter Rose once said that she thought these were the most beautiful words her father had ever written. Years later, she found the faith that he had sought: she converted to Catholicism in 1891, and “in the fall of 1896, after taking a three-month course in nursing at New York's Cancer Hospital, Rose Hawthorne moved into a three-room cold-water flat on the impoverished Lower East Side of Manhattan and began to nurse the poor with incurable cancer.”
Rose Hawthorne’s work on behalf of poor and disfigured cancer patients grew and grew as more young women came to join her mission. In time, the religious community she founded opened seven homes for poor patients with incurable cancer.
One of those homes is in Atlanta, near where Flannery O’Connor lived and wrote during her short life. That’s how she came to know and record this final piece of the story:

O’Connor wrote about a little girl, named Mary Ann who was left as an orphan with Rose Hawthorne’s sisters. As an infant Mary Ann was found to have a large cancerous tumor in her face and she was given six months to live. Mary Ann “lived for twelve years, long enough for the Sisters to teach her what alone could have been of importance to her.” Hers was an education in life prepared for death.
In telling this story Flannery O’Connor wrote: “there is a direct line between Nathaniel Hawthorne’s action in the Liverpool orphanage, the work of his daughter Rose Hawthorne, and Mary Ann. The work of Rose Hawthorne and her sisters is the tree that sprung up from Nathaniel’s small act of Christlikeness, and Mary Ann is the tree’s flower.”

Friends, “this action by which charity grows invisibly among us, entwining the lives of the living and the dead, this is called by the Church, the Communion of Saints. It is a communion created by the God who knit us in our mother’s womb, and destined us to share in Christ’s life, death and resurrection. It is a web, fragilely formed by our human imperfections but made stronger-than-death by the perfection of Christ.
This is the deepest meaning of what we celebrate today on this Commemoration of All Souls. As we pray for all of our beloved dead, our family and friends, and distant ancestors who have “gone before us marked with the sign of faith,” we remind ourselves that death cannot and does not destroy the ties that bind us all together: the Church is the community of all the living and the dead: the Saints in Heaven, the faithful departed in Purgatory, and you and me still striving here on earth.
We similarly recall that the seeds of faith and the works of charity that our dead love one’s planted in this world, and in us, continue to grow steadily, if sometimes invisibly. And the full flower of these seeds is the new life we will be awakened to when we, like our ancestors and loved ones, come to the hour of our own death.
Like the young Mary Ann, who received from the gentle care of the sisters an education in life prepared for death, we remember that all of us will one day die. As our celebration of All Saints reminds us of what we are all called to be; our commemoration of “the Day of the Dead” reminds us of what we all one day will be, for sure.
And so as we pray to God not only that our deceased loved ones will be welcomed into the pure joy of His heavenly banquet, but that we who live “we will grow in union with Christ’s death, so that we will also be united with Him in the resurrection” from the dead.


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