Waiting to Believe Read online

  She was more comfortable with many aspects of convent life now, but she still chafed at the silence and the lack of control over her daily life.

  What would she give to wander through the nearby woods just as the snow began to fall? That first snowfall was magical. It had always seemed like a blanket of grace, gently covering the darkly scarred ground of fall. All things would be new. Fresh.

  An inner struggle roared through her head—this separation from the natural world. Her mind flashed back to the discussion last week on St. John of the Cross, who described healthy spiritual dryness as “a condition that enables the soul to experience God’s refining fire.” The concept had come to him during one of his several imprisonments. Kacey had grappled with his enlightenment. She remembered his observations on David’s thirst for God in the Psalms: “David’s knowledge of the glory of God is a result of his times of dryness when he was divorced from his physical nature.”

  No way! The image did not work for her. She tried to imagine St. John writing those words while watching dancing snowflakes. He couldn’t have believed it.

  Her mind wandered back to the beloved Gerard Manley Hopkins poem she had memorized in eleventh grade: “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.” Yes!

  She turned from the window and headed for the pantry. She was helping serve breakfast this morning. Before pushing through the swinging door, she stole one last glance at the heavy sky and recalled that St. Francis de Sales had simply said, “We pray best before beauty.”

  She smiled. My money’s on de Sales!

  Christmas, Kacey soon discovered, would not be white that year. She also discovered that it mattered little at Blessed Sacrament Convent. Christmas was a minimal event in the life of the convent. The frozen tan-and-brown ground was appropriate for the heaviness of the atmosphere.

  But before it was Christmas, it was Advent. And Advent was the focus and the fulfillment for those who labored in prayer and meditation during the four weeks leading up to Christmas. “Come, let us worship the King who is to come,” they recited together during matins the first two weeks, and then, moving closer to Christmas, “Now the Lord is near, come let us adore Him.”

  The weight of those days drained Kacey of energy. She had difficulty concentrating on the rituals, trouble committing to the intensely reflective spirit enveloping the convent. Shame soaked through her.

  No matter what prayers she prayed—or tricks she played on herself—she continued to think wistfully of the Christmas frenzy she had often resented growing up. Family traditions, unwieldy and difficult to maintain, took on a new, sweet significance as she remembered them, beginning with the cutting of the Christmas tree. Last Christmas, Annie had not been home from college in time to be a part of it. The first break in tradition. And now, she, too, was absent.

  No Christmas tree would mesmerize her this year. No smell of fresh-cut balsam. No chaotic gift opening or screams of delight.

  Now, with all the sisters in the convent, she waited somberly. “Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel!” they sang, but in her secret heart, Kacey whispered the words to an old favorite, “I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams . . .”

  Miles away, Kenneth stood before the living room windows, watching the flakes settle on the porch swing and cover the boughs of the evergreens like fluffy white caps. The first snowfall of the season, and just in time for Christmas.

  He thought of Kacey. Out of reach. Out of their lives. He could see her, moving through the house, bringing the ornaments from the upstairs closet, setting up a gift-wrapping station on the library table in Kenneth’s study. It didn’t matter much to him who would be doing those tasks this year. What mattered was that it wouldn’t be Kacey.

  An idea stirred within him. He ran his finger down a long list of numbers beside the phone and dialed.

  “Greg! Kenneth Doyle. How are you?”

  “Mr. Doyle! This is a surprise!”

  “Well, I heard you were home for the holidays. Thought I’d take a chance at catching you.”

  “Yeah, I got home two nights ago. I’ll be here ‘til New Year’s Day.”

  Kenneth paused for an instant. “Well, listen, Greg. We’d all sure like to see you. Any possibility of you stopping over tonight?”

  Now it was Greg’s turn to pause.

  “Unless you’ve got a date or something,” Kenneth added quickly, though he was surprised that the words stuck in his throat.

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that. I guess I’m just a little surprised to hear from you.”

  “I don’t know why. I told you last fall I wanted to stay in touch. You’re like one of the family. That hasn’t changed.”

  Greg’s hesitance was obvious. “I don’t know, Mr. Doyle.”

  “None of that! You get on over here! Have a cup of Christmas cheer with me. With us!”

  “Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse? I’ll see you in an hour.”

  Placing the phone back on its cradle, Kenneth was pleased. Fall had been lonely. He had missed Kacey’s warmth and her calming presence. He’d be glad to have some connection to her this night.

  “Rose!” he called. “Rose, pick up the living room! We’re having company!”

  Rose looked up from the kitchen table where she was working a crossword puzzle. The supper dishes were still on the table, the pots in the sink. “Who’s coming?” She stood and walked to the refrigerator. Her drink needed more ice.

  Kenneth came to the kitchen doorway. “Greg’s stopping by.”

  “Greg? How’d that happen?”

  Kenneth was irritated by the question. “He’s home for Christmas, so I asked him to come. Is that a problem?” His tone was combative, the smile gone from his face.

  “Just caught me by surprise, is all.” Now she added more Jameson over the fresh ice and walked past Kenneth to the living room.

  “Could you just pick this place up a little?” he asked again.

  Rose gave him a cool look. Hand on her hip, she met his glare. “Oh, I could, but then, so could you. You’re the one extending the invitation. Why don’t you just take care of it?”

  “For God’s sake, Rose! Why does everything have to be a battle? I thought you’d be glad to see Greg!”

  “I will be, but I—”

  “All right! All right!” he interrupted. “I’ll take care of it!”

  He reached down and picked up a greasy popcorn bowl from the floor. Newspapers were strewn over the davenport. A day-old piece of toast lay on the coffee table along with one dirty sock. Gerald’s hockey skates and stick occupied the recliner, the blades still damp.

  Kenneth strode across the living room in giant steps, opening the door leading upstairs. “Bridget! Maureen, Gerald! You, too, Joseph! Get down here right now!”

  “Well, that’s more like it,” Rose whispered as she walked back out to the kitchen and her crossword puzzle.

  The four tumbled down the stairs in quick response to their father’s command. “We didn’t do anything!” Gerald exclaimed, his eyes wide.

  Kenneth couldn’t suppress a grin. “No, but you’re going to! Clean up this room, and Bridget, the kitchen, too. Greg’s coming over.”

  Greg! Delight spread across all four faces. The pickup began.

  “He’s here!” Joseph shouted. The headlights of Greg’s truck made a wide arc as he slowly maneuvered it into a U-turn in the driveway. The snow continued to fall. Kenneth opened the back door as Greg trudged through the unbroken drifts. Clapping him on the back, Kenneth sent snowflakes flying. “Good to see you, Greg!”

  “It’s good to see all of you! Thanks for the invite, Mr. D.”

  Rose stepped forward and put her arms around him. “Greg,” she said as she laid her hand on his cold cheek.

  Gerald was unsure how to greet him. At thirteen, he was too old for hugs and too young for a handshake. �
��Hey, man!” he exclaimed. That would have to do.

  Greg grinned at him, then mussed Joseph’s black curls. He shrugged out of his letterman jacket, before turning to the girls. “And you two! Wow! You’re looking great!” Bridget smiled and flushed. Maureen giggled with pleasure.

  “Glad you could make it. We’ve got ourselves a blizzard out there!” Kenneth said gleefully.

  “We sure do!” Greg agreed. “Hope I won’t have trouble getting back home. It was pretty tough going!”

  Kenneth clapped his hands, looked around at everyone standing in a circle, and declared, “I’ve got an idea! How about we cut our tree tonight?”

  Rose shrieked. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  But the kids all jumped with delight.

  “Why not? You know it’s gotta be snowing when we do it. That’s our tradition! And besides, we’ve got Greg! It’ll be great!”

  “Oh, Mr. Doyle, I don’t know if I should—” Greg shifted uneasily.

  “Sure you should! Come on, kids, get your boots! Rose, bundle up! I’ll get the saw! It’s the perfect night!”

  The children scattered, but Rose stood in the middle of the kitchen. “C’mon, Rosie, get in the spirit! We’ll get a tree and come back for hot toddies with the college man here!”

  Before Rose could respond, Greg tried again to back away. “Really, Mr. Doyle, I don’t think—”

  “Nonsense! I told you: you’re one of the family! Have you got warm gloves?”

  Greg knew when he was beaten. He picked up his jacket. Rose gave Kenneth an exasperated look but turned toward the closet and grabbed her heaviest winter coat.

  16

  On a bitter February morning in 1963, Sister Rhonda did not appear for breakfast. Mother Mary Bernard stood at the head of the long table, silent for a moment before she spoke. “Sister Rhonda has left our community. She will not be returning.” Her words were clipped, her face expressionless. Now there were fourteen.

  Kacey was stunned. Her sister postulants registered the same shock. She saw Lisa pale. Pain marked Elaine’s face. Throughout the winter months, Rhonda had given small glimpses of uncertainty over the cribbage board, but Kacey had thought Rhonda’s melancholy was nothing more than what she herself experienced many days.

  Kacey tried to piece the picture together. What made Sister Rhonda more susceptible to giving up? Kacey remembered the stacks of letters waiting for Rhonda on Sunday afternoons, at least three from her mother, one fat one from her father, and usually an eight-by-ten manila envelope stuffed with brightly colored scribbles and splashes from her younger sisters.

  Rhonda’s tears as she read her mail had confused and frustrated Kacey. It was difficult to understand why someone would cry at such outpourings of love. Kacey had to force back tears at finding no mail waiting for her.

  But this morning, a new insight came to Kacey. Rhonda had unqualified love waiting for her at home. It had been calling to her, making leave-taking so much easier.

  For Kacey, it was more difficult to pull up those feelings of encompassing love and concern. She remembered waking in the night as a child with an asthma attack. She had run down the dark hallway to her parent’s bedroom and then tugged at her mother. “Momma! Momma! I can’t breathe! I’m dying!”

  Rose had roused from sleep and reached out from under the covers without opening her eyes. Removing Kacey’s hand from her shoulder, she murmured, “You’re not dying. Go get an ice cube and suck on it. You’ll be fine.”

  Momma had been right. She hadn’t died.

  17

  The gray winter was grudgingly giving way to spring, and Kacey’s nine months of postulancy were coming to an end. Now there were fourteen preparing for the initiation into the canonical year of their novitiate. The year, according to the Code of Canon Law, was a period of trial in order to “better recognize their divine vocation” and, almost as an aside, to fully experience the order’s manner of living.

  The ceremony marking their entrance into the novitiate would be a profoundly moving experience for the young women. At this service, they would receive their names as brides of Christ.

  Kacey looked forward to it with excitement. Though she had told no one, she had long known which name she would request. It had come to her one afternoon last summer as she galloped effortlessly on the back of Two Spot, across the woods and rolling pastureland that surrounded the farm.

  She had slowed to a trot through a field of wild flowers at the edge of the woods. Reining in Two Spot, she stopped in the shadow of papery white birches with their leafy green umbrellas. The young mare wanted to forge ahead on the narrowing path, but Kacey was taken by the beauty of the wild lupines reaching up as she moved through them. Purple, white, rose, blue.

  She turned Two Spot loose to graze, while she dropped down into the field of wild flowers, drinking in their fragrance. Soon Two Spot wandered over to her, nudging her head, giving a soft whinny. A moment of perfection, of great peace. And the moment when the name came to her: Sister Mary Joan. A saint, yes, but also a woman who loved horses. St. Joan of Arc was a horsewoman. The choice was perfect. This name will carry me, she thought as she reached up to stroke Two Spot’s long nose, and I’ll bring honor to it . . .

  Rain had fallen off and on for several weeks. The skies were dark and mournful day after day as farmers struggled to get into the fields for spring planting.

  Finally June swept in, and the first Sunday dawned bright and clear. A dazzling sun danced on the stained glass windows of Blessed Sacrament Convent Church. Excited family members streamed in on this auspicious day in the lives of their daughters and sisters.

  With the other thirteen postulants, Kacey walked into the church with resolute steps, her gaze straight ahead. The pews were filled, the air electric with anticipation. From the rear, the old pipe organ shuddered, then issued the triumphant call to worship, echoing from wall to wall as the postulants took their seats in the first row of the ornate sanctuary.

  Kacey wanted desperately to search out her family. They were there, somewhere. Instead, she fixed her eyes on Bishop Harry Remington, his purple biretta catching a glint of sunshine through an open upper window.

  The music swelled as the bishop approached the center of the altar. “Lord, you told us that the harvest is indeed great, but the laborers are few,” he began. “Pray, therefore, the Lord of the Harvest, to send laborers into His Harvest.” The bishop’s voice was deep, rolling. His welcome was long and, thought Kacey, pontifical.

  Each moment in the service was carefully orchestrated and steeped in ages-old ritual. Tension crept into Kacey’s body as they neared the moment all awaited. The fourteen postulants, at the bishop’s direction, filed out the side door of the sanctuary and into an adjoining room where fourteen chairs had been placed in a row. Behind each chair stood a nun. In silence, the postulants sat, and immediately the nuns took up scissors to begin the cutting.

  Kacey felt the cold steel slip into her strawberry blonde hair. A handful of hair was lifted and cut as near the scalp as possible. She sat frozen as her fine hair feathered to the floor. After a few moments, she moved her head just enough to glimpse Sister Lisa, sitting next to her. Lisa had come to the convent with a cap of tight black curls. Now she, too, sat frozen as those curls fell like giant commas to the floor. She caught Kacey’s eyes and tried to give her a smile, but her bottom lip quivered, and she looked away.

  Finally the scalp was revealed. Kacey ran her hand over her shorn head. She felt like a cartoon character.

  The nun who had cut Kacey’s hair reached over her now and placed the white veil of the novice on Kacey’s head. With pins and magic, the deed was done.

  Other nuns stood to the side, holding the long black habits that would be exchanged for the black blouses, skirts, and capes. The transformation was complete.

  Single file, they returned to the sanctuary, lining up in front of t
he altar. When the last one took her place, they all went down on one knee and then into a prostrate position on the stone floor. Arms to her sides, Kacey felt the cold dampness on her face as it pressed to the unyielding floor. Instinctively, she wanted to turn her head to the side for a more comfortable position, but she lay without a twitch. Her mind flew to Sister Monica, the Sicilian with a large nose and large breasts. This must be really hard for her, Kacey thought, irreverently.

  At last they rose, one by one as their names were called. Sister Betsy. Sister Lisa. Sister Susan. Sister Elaine. Sister Debbie. Sister Lori. Sister Brenda. Sister Patricia. And then, Sister Kathryn.

  The bishop stood before her. She bowed her head as he intoned, “Sister Kathryn, from this day forward, you will be known in religion as Sister Mary Laurence.”

  Kacey’s head jerked up. Something was wrong. That was not the name she had requested. But the bishop had already moved to the next postulant. It was settled. She had been given the name of a male saint who, anticipating his own martyrdom, had sold all the possessions of the church and given the money to the poor of Rome. She remembered reading about him, but she felt no personal connection with him. She could find no reason to take his name for life and eternity.

  The organ thundered out “The Magnificat,” and the service ended. The new novices led the way down the center aisle, hands folded in prayer. Kacey walked in stunned obedience, out the double doors and down to the fellowship hall to await her family.

  She stood to one side, watching as the hall filled with well-wishers. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. At last she caught sight of Bridget, searching the crowd with eager eyes. Behind her trailed Kenneth and Maureen. Then Rose with Gerald and Joseph hanging back. She hurried toward them, her arms thrown out in anticipation of the embraces to come. Bridget ran to her, and they fell into one another’s arms, rocking and crying. Bridget buried her face in Kacey’s shoulder. Kacey patted her with one hand and reached out with the other to wave Maureen into the embrace. Maureen smiled shyly and stepped in with both arms thrown around her two sisters.