Soft footsteps, the gentle creak of wood as someone knelt at a stall and then got up again a while later, the quiet rustle of skirts as nuns came and went from the Chapel. All noises that would hardly be noticed in the outside world, but in a space built around silence, every sound carried.
Mother Theodora knelt with her eyes closed, not at her usual place near the altar where she led the community in their daily singing of the Divine Office, but in her old stall. The one she’d been assigned when she was newly professed. It belonged to Sister Agnes now, and Mother hoped none of those who’d come in had been she. She certainly wouldn’t feel she could ask Mother to get up. There was a prie-dieu in the abbess’s private rooms, and there were paths wending among the gardens where she might have prayed, but she needed these few minutes of being nobody. Of trying to remember…
I used to feel. I used to feel everything, deeply, passionately. Now, I am empty, wooden. How do I get that back? Please, help me.
Generations of nuns had whispered similar prayers among these stalls, feeling lost or unsure, wondering why they’d chosen this life. Or why it had chosen them. Long days, hard work, hours of prayer and reading and study, often scant sleep. Sometimes wondering what it was all for, if it truly meant anything.
It did, once. When did it stop?
She raised her head. The Chapel was empty. Soon, the bell would toll for Vespers—even without a watch or clock, the nuns soon developed an innate feel for the timing of the bells signaling work, the hours of the Office, meals, Recreation, and finally, Silence, to carry them through the nights. But for now, she still had a few minutes.
She rose and reached for the keys under her yoke. Unlocking the grille, she let herself into the public pews of the Chapel, the place where visitors, family, townsfolk could come to attend Mass or listen to the Office if they chose. These pews, too, were empty now, but she sat in one, remembering a day—¬how can it be twelve years?—when a young woman had wandered in, wearing fishing waders, lost.
Mother smiled fondly. She’d been lost in so many ways. And she found us. She closed her eyes again. No, she found me. And she changed everything.
With a deep sigh, she stood again as the bell tolled. Back on the other side of the grille, she nodded to the nuns who’d begun to file in to the Chapel from wherever they’d been working, the same thing Mother knew she’d be sorry she’d left. It was never-ending—the letters and requests, the abbey’s bills, personal correspondence, preparing talks for the novices.
She went to her stall and, when everyone was gathered, sang, “Deus, in adiutorium meum intende.”
The community responded with, “Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.”
Following Vespers, while the others rested or read before supper, she returned to the mounds of paper awaiting her in her office. Reluctantly, she opened a manila folder containing several letters—a few from the abbot of St. Dominic’s, the monks’ brother abbey in Palmyra, as well as additional letters from Bishop Marcus and even the Archbishop—all exhorting Mother Theodora to use some of the substantial gift that had come to the nuns to help build similar retreat centers at St. Dominic’s and other sites.
She’d known this would happen. The diocese administration had been furious when Lauren Thackeray had arranged her gift in such a way that it was legally tied only to St. Bridget’s. Fifteen million dollars—more money than St. Bridget’s had received in its entire existence from the diocese or from their order. No matter how Mother and prior abbesses had argued that the abbey’s leaking roof was causing more extensive damage and needed to be replaced, or that the ancient boiler providing the abbey’s heat was costing more in oil than a newer, more efficient furnace would, the pleas for decades had fallen on deaf ears. The nuns were counseled to be more frugal and reminded that religious life required sacrifices. All while priests lived in relative luxury, and the archdiocese paid out hundreds of millions of dollars in court settlements to victims of sexual abuse.
“Mother, I’m almost sorry I laid this in your lap,” Lauren had told her just a few weeks ago when she visited. She’d gazed at Mother shrewdly. “Has this turned into more of a curse than a blessing?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Mother had evaded, answering as truthfully as she could.
But Lauren hadn’t been fooled. “That was a diplomatic answer.”
Mother had chuckled. “First lesson learned in this position is tact.”
“I trust you to do what you think is best,” Lauren had assured her. “You don’t need to ask me, and you don’t need to justify the abbey’s decisions to me.”
Still, Mother felt as if she had to have a concrete set of options to present to the abbey Council. From long experience, she’d learned that going to them with an open-ended proposal led to endless suggestions and arguments that never seemed to move toward a final decision. And the Council was scheduled to meet tomorrow. Knowing she could procrastinate no longer, she uncapped her pen and began outlining her suggestions.
When the Council gathered the following afternoon, it was with an air of anticipation as the nuns waited to hear what she had to propose.
“Sisters,” she began, “as you know, the very generous gift given to us over five years ago has been the subject of, shall we say, a great deal of outside speculation.”
A small ripple of titters ran around the table. Pride was a fault the nuns constantly guarded against, but there was hardly a soul in the abbey who didn’t feel at least a bit of vindication that they, who always seemed to come last, were now in possession of such a boon.
“We’ve spent very little, opting to keep it invested and let it grow while we weighed our options. We have a long list of repairs and upgrades we’ve longed to make to the abbey building and grounds. When the fire damaged the vestment room, we were able to justify having most of the roof replaced at the same time due to the water damage caused by the fire hoses, and insurance covered that cost.”
At that moment, the cast-iron radiator under the window clanged as the heat kicked on and steam began to churn through the pipes. Mother smiled.
“The new boiler is saving us a great deal of money,” Sister Josephine said, opening the abbey’s enormous ledger. As the current cellarer, she was in charge of the abbey’s finances and bookkeeping. “Switching from oil to gas with a more efficient system has cut our winter fuel bills almost in half.”
Most of the other Council members nodded in appreciation, but a couple of the older nuns frowned their disapproval. “I remember when we hardly had any heat at all” or “it used to be cold enough to freeze the toilets” had been a common reaction to the luxury of more heat, to which Sister Josephine had retorted, “And we saved so much money back then, paying to fix the frozen pipes and having sisters hospitalized with pneumonia.”
Balance, as Mother reminded the community constantly, balance was the thing. Finding the balance between living in community while being faithful to a vow of chastity, living in poverty without turning it into an ostentatious display, being obedient to superiors without blindly losing all sense of self.
“You do not exist anymore. You must give over everything—to me, to Mother Abbess, to all of the senior nuns. Most importantly, to our Lord. Remember, you are nothing.”
The clarity of that memory, those words, was startling. For an instant, Mother was tempted to look over her shoulder.
“Mother, are you all right?”
She blinked at Sister Josephine. “I’m fine. Anyhow…” She opened the folder before her on the table. “As our retreat house has been such a success, the monks at St. Dominic’s are asking for our assistance in helping them build a similar center for men on their grounds.”
“How much assistance?” asked Sister Gertrude, whose brother had been the architect who drew up the plans for them. As prioress, the abbess’s second-in-command, she’d been the perfect candidate to shepherd them through the bidding process.
“Abbot Daniel hasn’t specified an amount,” Mother said. “I shared our blueprints and costs with him.”
She gazed at the nuns seated around the table. “We built our center, not just to be altruistic, but in the hopes that it might inspire vocations. And we’ve seen the fruits of that. Three of our aspirants are young women who attended a retreat here. They haven’t yet formally asked to enter, but I think St. Dominic’s is hoping for the same. We know vocations are woefully short everywhere.”
“Are they asking for a loan or a gift?” Sister Rosalind asked, frowning.
Mother’s lips twitched. “Abbot Daniel hasn’t said. I feel strongly that we must be good stewards of these funds, not keeping them selfishly for our own use only, but not being frivolous with them, either. My suggestion would be that we gift them no more than fifty percent of the estimated cost.”
There were several nods of agreement.
“They’ll have to watch their own spending and overages, then,” said Sister Gertrude approvingly. “Basically, we give them a down payment.”
“Exactly.” Mother folded her hands. “Enough to help them get their project off the ground, but they’ll need to do the additional fundraising. May I have a show of hands?”
When the Council’s business was concluded and they’d adjourned, Mother returned to her office to deposit the file on her desk, but she was so fatigued, she couldn’t face any further work that afternoon. She was sorely tempted to go to her rooms and lie down, just for a bit.
Instead, she made her way up to the infirmary. She was overdue for a visit with the abbey’s older sisters residing there. Sister Mary David was offering a cup of tea to a frail nun.
“Come now, Sister Leona,” she cajoled. “It will soothe your stomach.”
Sister Leona made a face and turned away. “Don’t like it.”
Mother Theodora watched for a moment, always humbled by the gentle ministrations the infirmary nuns gave to those under their care. “May I try?”
“Mother,” said Sister Mary David, standing. “I didn’t see you there.”
Mother took the cup from her and sat beside the bed. “Now, Sister, you’re not going to make me pull rank, are you?”
Sister Leona cackled, her bony hands reaching out to grasp Mother’s. “I’ll take it for you.”
Mother moved from bed to bed, saying a few words, murmuring a prayer for those with dementia who no longer recognized her.
“Saved me for last,” rasped an emaciated nun lying curled, propped with several pillows to try and keep her comfortably positioned.
“I was saving the best for last, Sister Scholastica.”
“Thought I might die before you got to me.”
Mother didn’t have to force a smile. “You’re too stubborn to die. You’ll outlive me.”
“Liar.” The frail body was wracked by a rattling cough, making her wince in pain.
Mother reached for the glass of ice chips on the bedside table. She dug the spoon in and offered the soothing wetness to her old adversary, who accepted it and settled back with a sigh.
“How did the Council meeting go?”
“As you predicted it would.” Mother offered another spoonful of ice chips, but Sister Scholastica shook her head. Mother set the glass down. “They agreed to gift the monks with half the estimate.”
Sister Scholastica nodded. “Good. They’ll have more ownership if they’re not given the whole thing.”
“Which I would have done,” Mother said for her. “Don’t hold back now.”
Sister Scholastica’s sharp eyes laughed. “You’ll be glad to be rid of me.”
“Never.” Sudden tears pricked Mother’s eyes. “You’ve been a thorn in my side, but you’ve always been honest with me, even when it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I needed you.” She leaned forward and grasped Sister Scholastica’s wasted hand. “I still need you.”
A tear leaked from the corner of Sister Scholastica’s eye. “You’ve been a good abbess, Theodora. Better than I would have been.” When Mother shook her head, Sister Scholastica squeezed her hand. “I mean it. I would have held to our old ways, been strict with upholding our traditions. You’ve found a way to bridge past and present. And you’ll guide us into the future.”
Her gaze shifted to the other occupied beds. “Do the math. More of us will end up here than we have young ones coming in. This can’t be sustained forever. Not without more postulants and novices. Young women do not want this life.” She focused on Mother again. “You’ll need to be creative to find ways of reaching out to them.”
“I’ll need your help.”
Sister Scholastica’s face took on the hawkish expression Mother knew so well. “You’ll always have it. Along with my loyalty. And my love. You are my abbess. I pray for you, every day.”
Sister Scholastica’s face blurred through the tears that filled Mother’s eyes.
“You need some rest,” Sister Scholastica said. “Take some time.”
Mother gave a half-laugh, wiping her cheeks with her free hand. “Are you giving me orders?”
“If you don’t listen, I’ll get Sister Mary David to put you on bed rest. She’ll be on my side.”
“Ganging up on me.”
Sister Scholastica gave her a rare smile. “If we need to.”
Mother released her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sister Mary David walked Mother out of the infirmary. “I’m afraid it won’t be long now,” she whispered. “Her mastectomy saved her life, gave her more years, but all we can do now is try to keep her comfortable.”
“She won’t take the pain medicine.” It wasn’t a question.
Sister Mary David shook her head. “She says this is what God intends and what she needs. She doesn’t want to numb it.” She reached for Mother’s arm. “But Sister Scholastica is right. You look tired. Please go lie down for a while.”
Mother Theodora nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted. In her rooms, rather than going to her bed, she knelt at her prie-dieu, where the tears from a few minutes ago welled up again. This time, she couldn’t stop them.