Waiting to Believe (19 page)

“It's my honor to open you to the world of critical thinking, and it's my prayer that when you leave this class, you will look at human nature, with all its complexities, in a more discerning and challenging way.”

Kacey's excitement was nearly palpable. The stately nun walked to the blackboard, chalk in hand. “As a class,” she continued, “we'll select the ten moral issues we'll examine during this semester. So, let's begin. Who will suggest the first?”

Kacey's hand cut through the air. “War!” she shouted.

Others followed, overlapping in their eagerness to be heard.

“Birth control!”

“Poverty!”

“Nuclear nonproliferation!”

“Racism!”

“The Holocaust!”

The cascading litany went on until there were eighteen issues listed in the nun's precise handwriting. A feeling of well being swept over Kacey.
This is what I'm here for!

The hour ended too quickly. The list had been winnowed to thirteen. Still too many.

Now came the frustrating part—not being able to continue the discussion on the bus ride back to the convent.

Though television, radio, and newspapers remained off-limits to the novices, word of the outside world still filtered in, sometimes through references in letters from home. And sometimes through the class discussions that fed Kacey's mind and spirit.

It was 1965, and the conflict in Vietnam was being described as a “war.” Kacey knew this because she had been assigned the job of ironing habits and veils in the laundry room. The senior nuns living in the far wing of the convent had access to the daily Minneapolis paper. Afterward, the paper was laid beneath the ironing board to protect the habits from dirt and dust on the floor. Fortunately for Kacey, no one had noticed that the practice gave the ironer access to information about the outside world.

Once certain no one else was in the vast basement, Kacey dropped to her knees, quickly searching for the front page with its portentous news.

Early in the year, she had read the bold headline: “President Johnson sends 3,500 marines to South Vietnam,” and she recalled the ominous tone in her father's voice when he'd heard the death of the first US serviceman announced in the evening news. The serviceman was described as a “military adviser,” but Kenneth had spoken the word,
war
. That was in 1961.

Four years later, the US troop levels now reached 185,000—no end in sight.

War. A moral issue of the twentieth century. Throughout the year as Kacey ironed the habits, she learned of other wars going on in the country. Though she knew little about him, she understood the significance of a headline in February '65: “Malcolm X assassinated.” The black Muslim minister, advocate of black pride and black power, had been gunned down on the first day of National Brotherhood Week.

Later she read of the Bloody Sunday March. In Alabama, six hundred Blacks marched from Selma to Montgomery on behalf of voting rights. They were blocked, but they would not be stopped. They marched again and then again, until finally—25,000 strong—they reached their destination. Months later, President Lyndon Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

She read of the first SDS march against the war. Students for a Democratic Society taking on Washington, DC, with their dissent. Again, 25,000 strong.

Kacey saw it all unfold, under her feet, her fingers often stained with printer's ink, which she washed off before reentering the closed world upstairs.

Fighting. Marching. Young people her age. She thought of them as she went about ironing, weeding the garden, praying the rosary, studying in the sun-dappled library, playing whist. She thought about them as she went to her classes on “Human Values and the Arts” and “Philosophy in Literature.” All so civilized.

Is this what I should be doing?
She hung one more ironed habit on the clothes line, trying to remember why she had chosen this calling. Was it really a calling? She wasn't sure. She only knew she wanted “to do good.” That was what she had told her father that night in the barn three years ago.

The Hound of Heaven had been chasing her, of that she was certain. But now she often wondered if she had run in the right direction. She tried to think of these preparatory years as “boot camp.”
This isn't what you were called for. This is just the price you pay in order to do what you're supposed to do with your life.
Do good. Do good.
The words became a mantra.

33

Kacey was awake before the bell sounded. Today was the day. Profession of temporary vows. The church would be filled, and most importantly, her family would be there. The black veil would finally be placed on her head! She wanted to rejoice, to feel exuberance at what the day held for her.

Instead, fear and doubt gripped her.
I'm not ready. I'm not ready!
With an unsteady hand, she reached for her prayer book lying on the bedside table.

“Stay with us, Lord Jesus Christ, guide us on our way to your Kingdom . . .” At the end of the prayer, Kacey rose from her bed. Time to get ready.

As she looked down the single line waiting to enter the sanctuary, Kacey thought of Rhonda, who had left.
Will the rest of us make it to the finish line?

She heard the wheezing of the reeds in the old organ before the first notes of Beethoven's
Missa Solemnis
filled the air. She felt a shiver at the beauty of it. As she stepped forward, sweat beaded around her wimple. Now the small procession made its way through the double doors and down the aisle to the front of the church. Eyes downcast. Hands clasped within the folds of their sleeves.

A solemn Archbishop Corcoran O'Riley waited for them on the first step of the altar. “Out of God's deepest mercy . . . a new dawn!” He proclaimed in a voice ringing with power and authority.

The mass began. Kacey's lips mouthed the responses. Her mind, though, searched the congregation. Where was her family? Had they all come? Was her mother all right?

Time to go forward. The novices moved silently into position, prostrating themselves on the stone floor, side by side, arms outstretched in supplication. More words. More music. Kacey's stomach lurched. She was lightheaded as she rose from the floor.

Mary Bernard, mistress of novices, stepped up to usher the fourteen through the side door into the room where two years earlier their heads had been shaved. Now the white veils were removed, replaced by the black, signifying their elevation in rank: juniorate. Now Kacey looked like every other nun she had ever known.

Mother Mary Agnes, mother general of the community, waited for their return to the altar. She moved down the line, accepting the vows of each one in turn: poverty, chastity, obedience, and service.

“Yes,” Kacey murmured as the mother general stood before her. “Yes, I proclaim these vows for myself.”

With eyes squeezed tightly shut, hands folded in fierce commitment, Kacey joined her sisters in the Prayer of St. Bernard:

How good and sweet it is, Jesus, to dwell in your heart! All my thoughts and affections will I sink in the heart of Jesus, my Lord.

Yes
, Kacey thought
.

The hallway was crowded with tight knots of families encircling the black-veiled young sisters. There were hugs and ripples of soft laughter on all sides. Kacey heard the “woods call,” the ear-piercing three tones she had created years ago as a way to call to her brothers and sisters.
Hoo hoo hoo
. It had caught on and become their unique way of reaching out to one another in a variety of situations.

Hoo hoo hoo
. For the first time in three years, Kacey heard it again. She swung around, and there they were, waiting for her. Sixteen-year-old Gerald, with his hands to his mouth, had made the call. She ran to him first.

“You rascal! Don't you have any sense of propriety?” She laughed as she hugged him.

“I don't know if I do or not. What's
propriety
mean?” He hugged her back. Bridget and Maureen moved in while Kenneth and Rose waited their turn. Joseph stood by his dad. At fourteen, he was unsure of his place: no longer a boy, but not yet a man.

Kacey reached for Bridget. “Oh, Bridg, I'm so sorry I couldn't be there for your graduation!”

Bridget returned the hug and said only, “No big deal, Kacey.”

“But I feel so out of touch! I don't have any idea what your plans are!”

Before Bridget could respond, Kenneth stepped forward, guiding Rose by her elbow. “When do we get our turn?” Kacey stepped into another embrace, reaching to pull Joseph in.

“C'mon,” she said. “We've all got private rooms for the afternoon! Let's talk till there's nothing more to say!” She led her family down the hallway and into a study off the main corridor. There was a flowered loveseat against one wall and next to it, an end table and lamp. Across the small room was a lumpy Morris chair and a desk with a straight-back chair. It was crowded.

Rose didn't take a seat. Instead, she stood before Kacey, holding out a box. “This is for you.”

Kacey looked at her mother quizzically and lifted the lid without speaking. Folded inside was a full-length black robe, tailored smartly of rich, soft wool. Kacey's mouth opened in surprise. She jumped to her feet and held it up to her body.

“I made it,” Rose said softly, her gaze glancing just over Kacey's shoulder.

Kacey's throat tightened. She put the robe to her cheek, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Mom. It's beautiful! It's wonderful!”

“I kept it simple,” Rose replied. “Didn't put any decorations or anything on it, you know. Not even pockets, but it's lined.” Now she sat down in the morris chair.

Kacey was overcome. She ran her fingers over the perfectly stitched edges of the lapel. It had been years since Rose had done any sewing, Kacey knew. She remembered the old Singer treadle machine that sat under the window in her parents' bedroom. It was difficult to visualize the mother she knew working patiently, steadily, on such a project.

Kacey knelt before her mother then reached up to embrace her. In a voice thick with emotion, she murmured, “Thank you, Mom. Thank you. I'll treasure this all my life.”

34

The sun was breaking through as Kacey left the dining hall after breakfast. She had been assigned to weed the vast convent vegetable garden. Even in her heavy black habit, she loved the opportunity to spend solitary hours under the beating sun, with no one to answer to, no one to tell her what to think.

“Sister Mary Laurence,” came the call from behind. It was Sister Mary Marcellinus, a gentle soul with the face of an angel. Her cheeks were flawless, creamy with just a hint of color, her eyes a bright emerald. Kacey was always comfortable in her presence.

“Yes, Sister?”

“Mother Mary Bernard wants to see you in her office before you go out to work.”

Kacey frowned. “Oh no, am I in trouble again?” She knew immediately she should not have spoken, but she felt safe with Marcellinus, and she allowed herself the liberty of familiarity.

The kindly sister gave her no rebuke, just a smile. “Not that I've heard.”

“But that doesn't mean it's not so! I try hard, but I still manage to foul up!” Kacey could not stifle a small groan.

“Just go, Sister.”

The summons was a puzzle to Kacey. Since the elevation to juniorate, she was no longer under the direction of the mistress of novices—a fact for which she was relieved. She was now under the direction of the mistress of juniors, Sister Mary Julian.

“Come in,” Mother Mary Bernard called out from behind her huge desk. She looked slight seated there, but Kacey knew how deceptive the look was. Though Mary Bernard was small in stature, her authority loomed large over the convent. Her deep, bold voice carried her in every situation.

She waved Kacey to a seat across the desk. Kacey sat, her palms clammy.