May 14, 1932
Mary Love rolled up her sleeves and ran a hand across her sweating face. Reverend Mother had been right. The storage room would make a marvelous art studio—but not until it had been thoroughly scrubbed. She turned and looked at Adriana, then began to laugh.
"What?" Adriana gave a puzzled frown.
"Nothing. It's just that, well, you usually look so—so perfect, even when you've been digging in the garden or scouring pots in Sister Cecilia's kitchen. I wish I had a mirror. You've got hair sticking at all angles out of your veil, and a huge cobweb hanging from your shoulder. You look like a refugee from a haunted house."
With a wicked gleam in her eye, Adriana grabbed the sticky cobweb from her arm and wiped it across the front of Mary Love's black dress. "Well, Sister, you don't look so great yourself."
"If cleanliness is next to godliness," Mary Love shot back, pounding her with a dustrag, "I think somebody needs to go to confession!"
They struggled furiously for a minute or two, smearing each other with dirt from the storage room until both were covered with grime, then collapsed, laughing themselves breathless, on a couple of packing crates.
"What is the meaning of this?"
The stern voice shocked them both into silence, and the two postulants scrambled to their feet to stand at attention before the glowering face of the Dragon Mother.
"Mother Margaret!" Mary Love stammered. "We were just—just—"
"I can see with my own eyes what you were doing. Wrestling on the floor and yowling like alley cats is not proper deportment for a nun. And you, Adriana!"
"Yes, Mother?"
"I thought better of you, of all people." She turned toward Mary Love. "What are you doing in here, anyway?"
"Cleaning, Mother Margaret."
"By whose authority? This storeroom is not on the work schedule."
Mary Love hesitated. "By, uh—by the Mother Superior's authority" She reached into the pocket of her habit and held out the key. "This room is to become my new studio. For my artwork, you see. Reverend Mother gave it to me."
A thundercloud passed over Mother Margaret's hawkish countenance. "Reverend Mother gave you this room?"
Mary Love nodded and slanted a glance at Adriana. The girl had her hands folded and her eyes cast down in an attitude of humility, but a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I gathered she was quite pleased that you brought my work to her attention," Mary Love said quietly.
The Mistress of Postulants opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. For a full minute she just stood there, her jaw gaping open. Her face flushed red, then white, then red again. At last she turned on her heel and stormed away.
When she was out of sight, Mary Love heaved a sigh of relief, and Adriana let out a nervous giggle. "Did you see the look on her face?"
"I thought she was going to have a fit of apoplexy," Mary Love whispered.
"You can bet she'll give the Superior an earful. I hope Reverend Mother doesn't change her mind."
"I can't imagine that she would," Mary Love answered. "Adriana, if you could have seen the look on her face when she was examining my sketches! She saw something in my work. Something wonderful. Something—"
"Spiritual?" Adriana supplied. "I'm not surprised. I told you. The face of God shines in your drawings."
"And I have you to thank for all of this." Adriana screwed her pretty face up in a frown. "What do you mean?"
"You were the first one who ever understood. In fact, you understood it better than I did myself. You may not know this, but you helped me discover the faith in my own work."
Adriana shrugged. "The countenance of God was always there," she said simply. "It's everywhere, all around us. We just have to open our eyes to see it."
August 2,1932
Mary Love knelt in the chapel, her eyes fixed on the flame that cast a wavering light over the altar. Her mind seethed with conflicting emotions, and her stomach churned. Reverend Mother had sent word that today, after midday prayers, she was to report to the office to discuss the issue of her reception as a novice.
Reverend Mother had already indicated that she could stay on at the convent, continue with her training, and use her novitiate years to discern whether or not she truly had a vocation. Until her Temporary Profession, two years from now, she could leave at any time. And even after that, a special dispensation could release a nun from her vows.
The problem was, Mary Love had had her fill of deceit and duplicity. She wanted to stay, of course, but she wanted to make sure her motives were right in doing so. For days she had searched her heart, prayed, meditated, and scoured the Scriptures for a glimpse of the truth that lay in the deep recesses of her heart. The closest she had come to an answer was that "only God knows the heart." And God hadn't told her what was in hers.
Mary Love knew that some changes had taken place in her spirit. No longer did she sneak time from her chores or after hours to sketch in secret. Now that she had a studio and her work had the blessing of the Superior, she found herself looking forward to the assigned prayer hours for meditation and contemplation. Her painting and sketching were always with her, of course—seeping from her subconscious and coloring even her prayers with new ideas. But now she no longer had to hide her passion for art, and she discovered that her passion for God had moved to a new dimension. She just wasn't sure if that passion represented a true religious vocation.
Lord, she prayed, show me the direction you want me to take.
It was the simplest of prayers, unencumbered by ceremony or ritual, but it came from her heart, and she knew instinctively that God heard. She waited, hoping one last time for a clear answer to her present dilemma. No reply came, at least not in any audible form, but by the time prayers were ended, her mind had settled down a bit and her heart was a little more at peace.
When the bell sounded, she crossed herself, gathered up her prayer book and rosary, and made her way through the convent corridors to the Mother Superior's office.
The door stood open, and Reverend Mother sat at her desk, her hands folded in prayer. Mary Love waited quietly, and at last the nun raised her head and motioned for her to enter.
"Come, sit, my child."
Mary Love perched nervously on the leather chair across from Reverend Mother's desk.
"You have been praying about your decision to be received into the novitiate?"
Mary Love nodded. "Yes, Reverend Mother."
"As have I. But before I tell you the conclusions I have reached, I'd like to hear what God has spoken to your heart."
Mary Love had no idea how she would answer Reverend Mother. In this morning's Mass, the Gospel lesson had been from Luke 12: "When they bring you unto the magistrates," Jesus commanded, "take no thought how you shall answer, or what you shall say: For the Holy Ghost shall teach you in the same hour what you ought to say." It was a wonderful promise and certainly applicable to Mary Love's present situation, but would it work for her?
I'm counting on it, she thought grimly The Mother Superior was waiting, and she did not yet have her answer. Finally she took a deep breath and blurted out, "God has spoken nothing to my heart, Reverend Mother. Not a single word."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sorry, Reverend Mother. I didn't mean to sound flippant. But I have prayed fervently, asking direction concerning the decision that lies before me, and the Lord has responded with silence."
The Mother Superior lowered her eyes, and Mary Love could see that she was fighting to suppress a smile. She could afford to be amused—it wasn't her future they were talking about. At last she lifted her head and regarded Mary Love with a calm appraisal.
"And what, my child, do you interpret this silence of God to mean?"
Mary Love stared at the woman's mirth-filled eyes. Was Reverend Mother actually suggesting that no answer might be an answer? Before she could stop them, the words tumbled out: "Only God knows, Reverend Mother, and he hasn't seen fit to tell me."
The Superior pressed her lips together, and the corner of her mouth twitched. Then she burst into laughter, loud enough to set Mother Margaret into a frenzy of disapproval for a week. At last she regained her composure. "Oh, child," she said, wiping her eyes, "that is one thing I do love about you. Few of us are courageous enough to be so honest with God."
"Thank you, Reverend Mother—I think," Mary Love stammered. "But that still doesn't answer the question."
The older woman sobered and fixed Mary Love with an intense gaze. "God's will doesn't often come to us in a blaze of illumination, like fire on Mount Sinai," she said. "Look into your heart, child. What does it tell you?"
Mary Love thought about that for a moment. "I realize, Reverend Mother, that the further I go in my training, the more certain I'm supposed to be about my vocation. But the fact is, I'm not sure."
"Can you tell me what your hesitations are? Do you wish to leave us?"
"Oh, no, Reverend Mother. I don't want to leave. You've been so good to me, and I'm learning so much. I just—well, I don't understand why I'm hesitating." She paused, and silence stretched between them. "Is it possible that God hasn't spoken to me because I'm not ready to make a decision right now?"
The Mother Superior nodded. "Perhaps."
"And," Mary Love hurried on, grasping for reasons, "maybe with more time, I could become the kind of person a nun should be. Like—like Adriana." The truth was, she despaired of ever becoming as holy or committed as her friend, but she wouldn't tell her Superior that. Not now, anyway
Reverend Mother raised a hand to stop her. "The Lord makes no such comparisons, Mary Love. We are not judged by how well we imitate someone else, but by how fully we reflect the image of Christ as individuals." She shrugged. "You will never be like Adriana. And Adriana will never be like you. Each of you is a creation of God, made in the divine image, but as different as one snowflake is from another."
"Yes, Reverend Mother."
"Still, you are wise not to pretend a level of commitment you do not feel." The Superior smiled. "Indeed, you have grown in wisdom since you came to us."
"I hope so. It's all right, then, for me to go forward with my training as a novice? Even though . . . even though I'm not completely sure whether or not I'll be led into a religious vocation?"
"The bishop is coming to speak with the postulants. I will discuss your situation with him, and if he agrees, you will be received with your sister postulants. You will spend the first year, the canonical year of your novitiate, in instruction, meditation—and painting. You will devote yourself to reflection, the study of theology, deepening your own spirituality, and improving your art. But there will be no more shirking of duties or drawing in the bathtub at night, is that understood?"
Mary Love gaped at her. "How did you know about that—the bathtub, I mean?"
Reverend Mother's eyes twinkled, and she tried vainly to suppress a smile. "I was a postulant once myself—a long time ago, in the Dark Ages, you understand—but not unlike you, Mary Love. I had my moments of rebellion."
"You? I can't believe it."
"Believe it, child. All of us are, beneath this habit, quite human." The Superior paused and gazed at Mary Love—an expression filled with tenderness and compassion. "Tomorrow you will submit three names to me for approval. Together we will choose one, the name you will be given at your reception. Have you thought about what name you should take?"
"I have, Reverend Mother. I'll be ready."
The Superior stood, indicating that the interview was over. "Go with God, my child."
Mary Love knelt to receive Reverend Mother's blessing, and as the woman's hands touched the crown of her head, she felt peace flowing through her, like a river of warmth in her veins. She still did not know what her future held, whether she would ever wear the wedding band that would signify a perpetual profession. But that decision—the taking of her final vows—was still a long way off. She had time. Time to study and meditate, time to paint and seek the will of her Creator.
God had not spoken . . . yet. But much to her amazement, it seemed that even in the silence, she had heard.