AUGUST 22

Queenship of Mary

The scent of fresh bread greeted the Sisters as they filed into the refectory for noon dinner, the main meal of the day. Each nun stopped in the center of the room to bow toward the cross, then went to her place to stand until after grace had been said. At the signal from the prioress, they sat down and fastened their napkins to their habits.

They sat in pairs at small tables, all facing the center of the room. Mother Emmanuel and Mother Mary Joseph shared a table with a replica of a human skull resting on it, a reminder of everyone’s mortality and the insignificance of the austerities they endured now. After the prioress had given the benediction, Sister Angelica took the reader’s place at the rostrum and began reciting the day’s selection, a passage from Augustine’s Sermons on 1 John :

The entire life of a good Christian is in fact an exercise of holy desire. You do not yet see what you long for, but the very act of desiring prepares you, so that when He comes you may see and be utterly satisfied.

Sister Miriam began the server’s slow march around the table, ladling vegetarian soup into each nun’s bowl. The rest of the meal—bread, butter, and a spinach salad—was already on the table. Sister Elizabeth signaled for a spoon for her tablemate by raising her index and middle fingers. A Carmelite never asked for anything for herself in the refectory except bread and water. Sister Miriam signaled back with three taps on the chest—sorry— and returned with a wooden spoon.

The nuns made as little noise as possible while they ate, focusing their attention on the reader’s voice. The contemplative ideal of keeping one’s mind on spiritual matters at all times was never more threatened than while putting food into the body. For that reason, decorum in the refectory was maintained as strictly as it was in the choir; speech was forbidden in that room except during special feasts and nuns’ jubilee celebrations.

God means to fill each of you with what is good; so cast out what is bad! If He wishes to fill you with honey and you are full of sour wine, where is the honey to go? The vessel must be emptied of its contents and then be cleansed. Yes, it must be cleansed even if you have to work hard and scour it. It must be made fit for the new thing, whatever it may be.

When the prioress struck the wooden clapper to end the meal, Sister John winced. A headache had begun troubling her that morning during manual labor, and a whole hour remained before private prayer, when she could retire to her cell without drawing attention to herself. She gathered all of the crumbs on her napkin and ate them, a reminder of Jesus’ admonition: “Gather up the fragments that remain lest they be lost.” To waste anything would be a fault against her vow of poverty.

She followed the others out of the refectory to the Chapter room, where nine chairs formed an open circle for the weekly community meeting. Shelves of books lined the room, their spines arranged by height to form pleasing, symmetrical designs. Under a portrait of the Virgin Mary, true Mother of the community, the Sisters had hung a bulletin board pinned with messages, special intentions, and scriptural quotes for the day.

When they had all taken their seats, Mother Emmanuel held an envelope in front of her and announced that she had wonderful news.

“I received this letter from Claire Bours yesterday. She’s asked to join us as a postulant!”

Sister Elizabeth looked like a can of soda that had been shaken hard, then opened. She popped up from her chair, clapped her hands, and asked, “Didn’t I say the letter would come this week? I knew it.”

“What made you so sure, Sister?”

“Because she’s just like I was. Her vocation makes perfect sense to me.” A former concert violinist, Sister Elizabeth had given up a career in music to heed the call to Carmel, and felt that this sacrifice only strengthened her commitment to religious life. She walked over to where Sister John sat, and gave her a hug. “You should be feeling so much joy right now!”

Sister John blushed, which made her headache worse. The new candidate had been inspired to look into the Carmelite Order after reading Sparrow on a Roof, Sister John’s book of essays and poems about contemplative life. Every religious hoped that her life of prayer and penance would benefit others, and to have that hope confirmed was a blessing, but too many blessings received by one person could be a problem. In the spiritual life, individual success often came at the expense of community harmony. “I feel grateful,” Sister John said, trying to shift attention away from herself. “We’re all so fortunate to have the opportunity to serve.”

Sister Anne frowned. “I worry that we’re comparing apples and oranges here. Sister Elizabeth was raised Catholic, and sensed a calling for years before she heeded it. Everything is new to this girl—she was only baptized two years ago. And she couldn’t be coming from a world more different from ours. She works in Hollywood. ” Sister Anne forced the word out as if it hurt.

A mixture of excitement and apprehension accompanied their discussion of the candidate. It was not just a matter of liking or not liking the woman; did she seem to have a genuine vocation to contemplative life? Did God want her in that particular community? Would she make a positive contribution there, or would she be a burden to the others?

Claire Bours was thirty-three years old, had a master’s degree in fine arts, and had worked as a film animator for eight years. In her letters to the prioress, she described a persistent questioning—who am I? why am I here? what is my purpose?—which would not go away in spite of her attempts to resolve it through achievements, travel, and intimacy. She wrote:

Four years ago I didn’t even know what a contemplative nun was, and a part of me hopes I am mistaken about this. I have doubts, I admit it. But I feel that I’ve got to give this voice, whatever it is, a fair chance to be heard.

She had visited the cloister for three days, and had impressed the nuns with her intelligence and warmth. An intriguing candidate, but one who raised inevitable questions. Was her sense of a vocation just a phase? Many successful people go through periods when they wonder, “Is this all there is?” and think about giving it all up for the spiritual life. Such vocations rarely last, however. Life in the cloister quickly becomes just as prosaic as life in the world—perhaps even more so. Once the person finds herself asking, “Is this all there is?” while peeling potatoes or laundering habits, she usually returns to the world.

“There’s no need to rush to a decision,” Sister Anne continued. “If her vocation is genuine, a little adversity will only make it stronger.”

Mother Emmanuel returned the envelope to the pocket of her tunic. “I agree that things have moved quickly for her, but I like the fact that she admits to having doubts. I tend to be more skeptical of those who say they are absolutely certain. Would anyone else like to share their thoughts?”

“God is calling her,” declared Sister Angelica, who was rarely equivocal about anything. “What more do we need to know?”

“You’re not concerned that she’s leaping from one extreme to another, with no middle ground?” Sister Bernadette asked.

“There is no middle ground when it comes to loving God. It’s all or nothing.”

Sister Bernadette bristled. “For most people, Sister, it’s more complicated than that.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t be!”

Mother Emmanuel ended the argument by asking for a moment of recollection. These short prayers reminded them of God’s presence in every aspect of their lives together, not just their time in choir or their cells. After this interlude, the prioress turned to Sister Miriam and asked quietly, “How do you feel about the new candidate, Sister?”

Sister Miriam looked startled. Novices did not vote on new admissions, so she hadn’t expected to be called upon during the meeting.

“A first impression, that’s all,” the prioress encouraged.

Sister Miriam folded her hands on her lap and said that Claire seemed enthusiastic, intelligent, and charming. The flatness in her voice undermined the compliments.

“Was there anything about her that made you uncomfortable?” the prioress asked. “You seemed to be keeping her at a distance, I thought.”

The color drained out of Sister Miriam’s face. “She had so little time here, I thought she’d want to spend as much of it as possible with the professed nuns. I didn’t want to get in the way, that’s all.”

Fragile silence. “Mother Mary Joseph?”

The Living Rule smiled. “Good teeth, good manners, sensible shoes. I liked her.”

The community cast a secret ballot and voted, six to two, in favor of offering Miss Bours admission.

“No doubt she will need time to put her affairs in order,” Mother Emmanuel said. “What a glorious year it will have been, between this and the completion of Sister Miriam’s novitiate. We’re seeing new growth in God’s hidden garden.” The others nodded their agreement as the prioress took another envelope out of her pocket. “That wasn’t the only good news to come in the mail this week. Sister John is too modest to mention this, but I’m going to embarrass her anyway: her book is going into another printing. We’ll definitely be able to replace the roof this year.”

The Carmel of St. Joseph traditionally depended on the sale of homemade jellies, greeting cards, and communion wafers to meet expenses, but its economic future had brightened considerably since Sister John discovered her gift for writing.

“None of it is my doing,” Sister John protested when the others congratulated her. She felt herself blushing again.

“Don’t keep your light under a bushel,” Sister Elizabeth advised. “Talent comes from God, but it only bears fruit through hard work.”

“One more fruit like that and we’d be able to make a foundation in Tahiti,” Sister Christine said. “What are you doing sitting here? You should be in your cell, writing.”

Sister John prayed that Mother Emmanuel would conclude the meeting soon. During recreation she could sit in a far corner of the room and pretend to write, without drawing any attention to herself or her malady.

Sister Anne, who changed the subject whenever Sister John’s book was mentioned during meetings, raised her hand and asked how everyone liked the high-fiber cereal she had instructed the extern nun to buy for breakfast. Several faces in the room drooped, but the Living Rule coughed politely and said, “It’s been a blessing for me, I must say,” and at least two other Sisters chuckled in agreement.

“But there is still the matter of the juices,” Sister Anne continued. “We have a choice of three juices now, because everyone seems to like a different kind, but the cartons take up too much space in the refrigerator. I’m always having to rearrange things to make space for them. Couldn’t we just offer one flavor? Shouldn’t we, I mean? As a matter of poverty?”

In cloistered communities, where everything must be shared, members sometimes become territorial about objects under their care. It was no secret that Sister Anne, whose fidelity to the Rule was otherwise exemplary, had become fixated on the refrigerator.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” Sister Elizabeth teased. “Whoever happens to prefer that one juice would be denied the opportunity to practice poverty.”

Sister Anne—who felt that Sister Elizabeth’s sense of humor often crossed the boundary into sarcasm—asked dryly, “What would you suggest, then?”

Sister Elizabeth ignored the edge in Sister Anne’s voice. “There’s plenty of room in the refrigerator. All you have to do is stack a few things. Has anyone else noticed this, by the way? Nothing can go on top of anything else in the refrigerator. It’s become part of our Constitution, apparently.”

“If things pile up, they go uneaten, and—”

“Sisters,” Mother Emmanuel interrupted, “we have only a few minutes left for Faults, so let’s vote on the juices and move on.”

The community elected to maintain the present number of juices offered at breakfast. Mother Emmanuel struck the clapper to end the meeting and called on the Monitress to take over.

Sister Christine rose and began the ritual of Faults by saying in a voice clear of all emotion, “In charity I accuse Sister Elizabeth of whistling in her cell during spiritual reading, which several of us could hear.”

Mother Emmanuel imposed a standard penance of five decades of the Rosary. Sister Elizabeth nodded respectfully toward both the prioress and the Monitress, and the ceremony continued.

Sister Christine proclaimed another Sister for falling asleep during the Night Office and snoring, then accused herself of breaking a dish in the sink in her haste to get outdoors for recreation. Mother Emmanuel accused herself of losing her place during Vespers and fumbling noisily through the pages of her breviary. Their daily life was so carefully orchestrated, and so routine, that the recitation of Faults rarely produced any surprises. When it came Sister John’s turn to be proclaimed, however, a ripple of curiosity passed through the room.

“In charity I accuse Sister John of the Cross of being absent in choir for the Office of Lauds on Monday, and for the Office of Vespers on Friday.”

Instead of imposing a penance right away, the prioress asked, “Are your headaches occurring more frequently, Sister?”

Sister John hoped no one could tell she was having another. “Yes. I apologize, everyone.”

“No one’s blaming you, Sister—we’re concerned, that’s all. Perhaps you should see another doctor.”

“Migraines come in cycles, and no one knows why. They’re inconvenient, but not dangerous.”

The prioress did not look reassured. “You could be doing more to take care of yourself. The other night I woke up at two o’clock and saw light coming from under your cell door. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“I don’t feel that I’m pushing myself at all. I’m being pulled.” Sister John felt the others’ eyes on her. Did they understand? Could they forgive her for enjoying these favors from God?

Mother Emmanuel studied Sister John’s face closely, looking for signs of pride or self-consciousness, but saw only determination. Sister John had an extraordinary vocation; there was no question of that. But Mother Emmanuel also knew that spiritual gifts made the soul especially vulnerable to the sin of pride. Was Sister John putting her own interests before those of the community?

“I consider this a matter of obedience,” Mother Emmanuel began, taking special care to sound untroubled. The other Sisters, she knew, would be listening for any nuance in her voice that might reveal her personal feelings. Sister John’s absences in choir had been on everyone’s mind lately. “Obedience includes getting enough rest so that you can participate fully in the life of the community.”

Sister John nodded in agreement, making the next part of Mother Emmanuel’s task easier.

“Your penance shall be to refrain from using the light in your cell for one month. No more writing at night. I want you to get more sleep.”

Sister John’s heart sank. Writing had become as important as prayer to her—it was prayer—but she also knew that the more perfectly a nun submitted to the will of the Superior, the more perfectly she submitted to the will of God. She directed her thoughts toward her Innocent Spouse, who was executed for crimes he could not commit, and accepted her penance with a nod.

Mother Emmanuel struck the clapper once more and gave the blessing for evening recreation:

O Lord, our God, we are about to spend some time in recreation. May it be for Thy honor and pleasure, and grant that this exercise may enable us to perform the works of Thy service with greater fervor, the same grace we ask of thee, O gracious Queen of Heaven.

Sister John moved her chair near the window, put a notebook on her lap, and closed her eyes. She could not afford to single herself out further by asking to be excused now.

The sounds of conversation filled the room.

Thank you even for this pain, Lord.

“Are you feeling all right?”

She forced her eyes open. Mother Mary Joseph had moved next to her without making any sound. The Living Rule’s spine looked to Sister John as if it had been bent from having shouldered Christ’s burden for so long; her deformity was a grace, no less than stigmata.

“Everything is as it should be, Mother.”

The Living Rule grinned. “You’ve noticed, too? It’s the new cereal.”

Dear God, help me bear this—

“Are you sure you’re all right, dear? You look very pale.”

“Forgive me, Mother…”

The notebook fell off her lap.

have mercy

She was sure the blood vessels in her head would give way.

please

Her mind fractured under the pressure. She splintered like broken glass, she became all edges and points and she was sure this had to be death, it had to be the end of everything, then her suffering blinked off.

an invisible sun

a shock wave of pure Being

swept my pain away, swept everything away

until all that was left was God.

Nothing outside of God, nowhere exists outside of God.

His presence is the only reality; the nightmare of suffering dissolves in the light of truth.

God awakening.