April 28, 1934
Spring was late in coming—or at least in staying. An early melt the last week of March raised everyone's hopes, only to dash them when April brought more snow and ice. The poor bulbs, deceived into budding by the unseasonable warmth, now lay shivering and rigid as sleet coated their tender shoots.
It was bad enough, Mary Love thought, when winter stretched on and on. But when the fickle weather teased them, then thrust them back into a gray and frozen wasteland, it was almost too much to bear. For days now, the entire convent had labored under the gloom. Everyone was snappish and irritable. Meals were taken in glum silence, and Masses were mumbled and uninspiring. For herself, Mary Love hadn't painted in a week. She just stared out the window, waiting for some sign of life. Waiting for resurrection.
A faint knock sounded on the door of the studio, and she turned. "Come in."
The door opened, and Sister Jeanne stood there, but even her radiant Nordic countenance seemed less bright than usual. "Sister Angelica, Reverend Mother would like to see you."
Mary Love sighed. "All right. Tell her I'm coming."
When she reached the Superior's office, the door was shut, and she could hear voices inside. She waited, trying not to listen, but she was certain that one of the voices—the one raised loudly in protest—was that of Mother Margaret. The Dragon was roaring, and it was impossible not to overhear.
Mary Love caught snatches of the conversation:"... never a word of thanks from anyone . . . when I discovered her. . . good riddance, is what I say."
The door slammed open, and the Mistress of Postulants nearly bowled Mary Love over in her haste to leave. When she saw who it was, the nun scowled and shook her head. "Eavesdropping?" she hissed. "I should have known. No good comes from coddling a novice." She brushed past, leaving Mary Love standing in the hallway.
"Come in, child," the Superior called.
Mary Love entered cautiously, as if walking on eggs. She could still feel tension in the room, an almost palpable atmosphere of discord.
"I don't know how much of that you heard—"
"Reverend Mother, I wasn't eavesdropping. Honestly, I wasn't."
The Mother Superior raised a hand. "I know you weren't, child. Anyone in the county could have heard Sister Margaret without half trying." She rolled her eyes. "You might as well know—I'll announce it tonight at dinner anyway. Sister Margaret will be leaving Our Lady tomorrow."
"Leaving?" Mary Love stammered. "What do you mean, leaving?"
"She's not forsaking her vows, if that's what you're asking." Reverend Mother exhaled a heavy sigh. "She's transferring to another convent—one where, in her words, 'Holy Rule is followed to the letter and discipline is valued."'
"Is it because of me, Reverend Mother?"
The Superior hesitated for a moment. "Sister Margaret has never been happy under my authority," she said at last. "She feels that I am not strict enough. Your situation simply added fuel to the fire. At first she was angry because I didn't send you packing when she first discovered your deception. Now she's angry because the bishop values your work and she hasn't been given credit for discovering you." She shook her head. "I pray she finds a place of peace."
Mary Love stared at the Mother Superior. "She wants credit for discovering me?"
Reverend Mother nodded. "Ironic, isn't it?"
"It would be, only I haven't exactly been discovered. I just do my work and seek God for enlightenment and inspiration."
"Your humility is commendable, child," Reverend Mother said. "But I fear it's a bit more complicated than that." She held up a letter. "The fact is, you have been discovered."
"Excuse me?"
"I have here a letter from His Excellency, Bishop Reilly It seems that an old friend of his, a priest from New York, came out to visit and happened to see your painting of the Madonna in the diocese office. This friend, Father Conroy, has a number of people in his parish who are part of the art community on the East Coast. He was so taken with your work that he sent for a Mr. Douglas Eliot, who is curator of a gallery in Manhattan."
Mary Love frowned. "This is all very interesting, Reverend Mother, but what does it have to do with me?"
"When Mr. Eliot saw your Madonna—and your other work that the diocese has acquired—he was apparently very impressed. He asked Bishop Reilly's permission to invite you to New York for a showing in his gallery. He thinks you may have a promising and lucrative future, if the rest of your work measures up to that same quality."
"I can't go to New York. I'm a nun."
"You're a novice," the Superior corrected gently. "You can go, and you will."
Mary Love's heart constricted. So that was what Sister Margaret was referring to when she said good riddance, if you ask me. "You're sending me away? Please, Reverend Mother—"
"Do you remember our little talk concerning your reception into the novitiate?" the Superior interrupted.
Mary Love nodded.
"You said, then, that God had not spoken a word to you. You have been waiting and working and listening for nearly two years. Perhaps God is speaking now."
"No, Reverend Mother," Mary Love protested. "I was waiting for God to assure me that I had a vocation, that I could, in good conscience, take my vows. I'm only four months away from my Temporary Profession. God would never tell me to leave."
"Do not be too certain, child, about second-guessing the Almighty. The Lord has ways that are beyond our understanding."
"But I'm—I'm—"
"Frightened?" Reverend Mother supplied. "I know. But as we've discussed in the past, the convent is not a refuge from the world. You have not found the answers you seek within these walls. Perhaps you will find them out there."
Tears sprang to Mary Love's eyes. She felt as if her heart, her very soul, were being ripped in half. She wanted to stay at the convent, protected, surrounded by the familiar, where she had begun at last to develop a faith of her own. But as much as she hated to admit it, Reverend Mother was right. This was the chance of a lifetime—the chance to fulfill her dreams. Maybe this was why she hadn't been sure about her vocation. Only one thing was certain: If she rejected this opportunity, she would never know.
"So you think I should go to New York, Reverend Mother?"
"I think you should listen to your heart."
"But what if I make a mistake?"
The Superior smiled and cocked her head to one side. "Do you ever make mistakes while you're drawing or painting? You know, get the shape of a face or the curve of a tree trunk wrong?"
"Of course, Reverend Mother." Mary Love felt herself blush. "Lots of them."
"And then you throw the whole sketch away?"
"No. If it's a pencil sketch, I erase the error and correct it. If it's a painting, I paint over it and rework it until I get it just right."
"And do you imagine our Lord is any less committed to the work of our lives?"
Mary Love thought about that for a minute. "You mean," she said at last, "that even if we do make mistakes, go the wrong way, God has a way of correcting our path?"
"Even more than that," Reverend Mother said. "I believe that if our hearts are devoted to God, whatever path we take leads us ultimately back to the One who created and redeemed us." She paused for a moment, then continued. "The Lord is just as present in Manhattan as in this convent, and the vocation of an artist is no less holy than that of a nun. Each of us fulfills God's call by becoming what he designed us to be."
"Then I'll go to New York," Mary Love said with a conviction she didn't really feel. "And I'll trust that, one way or another, God will give me direction."