Changing Habits (10 page)

“From your reaction, it appears that your inability to forgive him distresses you.”

Joanna wanted to weep. The anger was back and so close to the surface it demanded all the restraint she could muster to remain seated. This nun couldn't know the pain and embarrassment Greg had brought her. Sheltered as she was, Sister Clare Marie couldn't know what betrayal did to a woman's soul.

“How often do you recite the Our Father every day?”

Joanna gave a quick shrug. “Ten times?”

“Ten times,” Sister Clare Marie repeated, then added in the same serene manner, “and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

In other words, Joanna realized, her inability to forgive
Greg was hindering her own spiritual life. “You don't know what he did to me,” she cried, pleading for understanding.

“But I do,” the nun continued undaunted. “I also know that you love him.”

“Loved,” she corrected. Joanna felt nothing but disdain for Greg now. Some days she thought she hated him, and that frightened her more than anything.

“No, my child, you're still in love with him. Otherwise you would be able to release him from your mind.”

The lump in Joanna's throat hardened. “Are you going to…send me away?”

Sister Clare Marie smiled faintly. “Not unless you wish to return to the world.”

“No, Sister, I want to stay right here.” She'd discovered what she'd been seeking behind these walls.

The comfort and love of her parents, the loyalty of her friends and her own righteous indignation had offered little compensation for her loss. Only when she'd accepted God's call to become a nun had she found the peace and serenity she desperately sought.

“The convent isn't a hiding place.”

“I know that, Sister.” Joanna took a deep breath. “I'll forgive Greg if that's what you want.” She choked out the words with a sob.

Sister Clare Marie's eyes filled with compassion. “You've read me correctly, Sister. I do want you to forgive this young man, but not for his sake. You need to forgive him for your own.”

Joanna recognized the truth of those words, but she was emotionally incapable of acting on them.

“Unless you can find it within yourself to forgive this young man…”

Forgive.
The word reverberated in her mind.

“…and release your anger and bitterness…”

Anger and bitterness
clashed with
forgive.

“…I fear you'll be caught in a vicious trap. A trap that will make it impossible for you to progress in the religious life.” She paused. “Do you understand what I'm saying, Sister Joanna?”

“I think so. If I can't forgive Greg, then the bitterness will eat away at me until I've lost the very thing I've come to seek.”

The Mistress of Novices nodded. “Exactly.”

“But how can I do it?” Joanna pleaded. Sister made it sound easy. “I pray for Greg, but I don't
mean
the prayers. I can't stop feeling that he deserves to be miserable after the way he humiliated me.”

“We all deserve misery for the sins we've committed,” Sister returned.

Of course that was true, but knowing it didn't help Joanna deal with the sense of betrayal. She'd had the wedding invitations all but mailed. Her bridesmaids' dresses had been ordered and paid for, and her own wedding gown with its overlay of Belgian lace had cost her father far too much money. Now it was tucked away in the back of the closet like a forgotten prom dress.

“Pray for him,” Sister Clare Marie urged. “Ask God to bless him, his wife and his family.”

Joanna swallowed hard. She
couldn't
do this. She couldn't.

“You must.” Then bowing her head, Sister closed her eyes and her lips began to move in silent petition.

Joanna couldn't hear her prayer but she felt the effect of it immediately. The resistance, the uncontrollable anger, suddenly seemed to leave her heart. Her eyes flooded with tears as she bowed her own head and asked God to make her willing to forgive Greg. That was the first step and a necessary one if she was to remain part of this life she loved.

When they'd finished praying, Sister Clare Marie looked up. “You may return to your duties now.”

Joanna wiped the moisture from her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered brokenly and started to turn away.

“One last thing.”

Joanna turned to face her again. “Yes, Sister?”

“I was just wondering if a Bob Dylan song is appropriate music to be humming in chapel.”

Joanna's jaw sagged. Sister knew. Had she heard or had someone told her? “No,” she managed to say.

“I didn't think so myself.” Sister Clare Marie raised her eyebrows and dismissed Joanna with a nod.

Joanna left the office and leaned against the outside wall. After the shock of the question had dissipated, she began to smile. A nun who had a reputation for being strict and unyielding had treated her with genuine kindness.

Joanna was determined never to forget this conversation. It would be the turning point for her, she decided. The path to God had come to a crossroads and she'd chosen to follow Him. She'd chosen to discard the baggage that impeded her travels and move forward.

That night the dreams stopped. Greg had disappeared into some hidden corner of her mind—and she had Sister Clare Marie to thank for that. She hadn't forgiven him, but she was now willing to believe it might be possible.

In her last year as a novice, the world seemed to be in a state of chaos. It was 1968 and on April 4th, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in Memphis. Riots broke out across the country. Sister Agnes, the Mother Superior, asked for a day of fasting and prayer.

Then in June, Robert Kennedy was fatally shot in Los Angeles after winning the California primary. His death hit Joanna hard, and she wept openly. After the assassination of his brother less than five years earlier, it felt as though the world had turned into an ugly place. No one was safe, not the president, not the men fighting in Vietnam, not the coun
try. More than ever, Joanna was grateful for the protection of the brick wall around the convent; it gave at least the illusion of keeping the world at bay.

The war in Vietnam was worse than ever and her mother wrote about her fear of Rick being drafted. He'd made it through his first year of college, but if the war continued, his draft number was sure to come up. Joanna worried about him incessantly.

With so many concerns, Joanna found herself on her knees more and more often, praying for the president and the country. After two and a half years in the convent, she felt separate and apart from world events, and yet aware of them. It was as though she was looking on from a distance. She knew from some of the older nuns that compared to even a few years ago, the world was encroaching on the convent and its serenity.

In August of that year, when she took her vows, her brother and parents arrived for the ceremony. Joanna waited with the other novices and prayed fervently that God would use her to touch lives. It had already been decided that she would continue with her nursing program over the summer, but not where.

The ceremony was as beautiful as it was simple. She knelt before Bishop Lawton and vowed to live a life of poverty, chastity and obedience. In her heart, she gave everything to God. She offered up all her romantic dreams and all her hopes for the future.

After the ceremony, her father had tears in his eyes. Her mother looked tired and worried. Rick seemed uneasy.

“Hey, it's me under all these clothes,” she teased her brother.

“You don't look the same,” he returned.

“I am.”

“Are you?” her mother whispered.

“Now, Sandra.” Her father placed his arm around her mother's shoulders.

To her credit, her mother attempted a smile. “You look radiant.”

“Thank you, Mom.” Joanna gave her a hug. Even now—almost three years after Joanna had entered the convent—her mother held out hope that she'd change her mind.

“Do you know where you're going to be assigned?” Rick asked. “Dad said you might come back to Providence.”

“I might.” But Joanna felt that was unlikely. “I don't know where Mother Superior will send me.” It went without saying that she would go without question and serve wholeheartedly wherever Sister Agnes saw fit to assign her.

“When will you know?” her mother pressed.

“Soon,” Joanna assured her family.

The next week she received her orders. “Minneapolis,” she wrote her family. First to finish nursing school. Later, after she'd obtained the necessary credentials, she'd work at St. Elizabeth's Hospital.

SISTER ANGELINA
1972

A
ngie was thrilled to be assigned to St. Peter's. A progressive high school with co-ed classes, it was the pride of the Minneapolis diocese.

On the first day of classes, Angie entered her homeroom for her last period of the afternoon. She immediately noticed a teenage girl who sat on her desktop, uniform skirt rolled up at the waist and her blue eyeshadow screaming at the world to pay attention.

The class hushed as Angie moved silently toward the front of the class, her habit swishing softly against her legs.

“Good afternoon,” she said, tucking her hands inside the wide sleeves. “I'm Sister Angelina, and this is tenth-grade Health. If your class schedule does not show Health in sixth period, then I suggest you find the classroom where you belong now.”

She watched as the girl with the long thin legs and the vibrant eyeshadow read over two schedules and dejectedly shrugged her shoulders. She handed the young man she'd been speaking to one of the schedules. The boy reached for his books and slid them off the desk before sauntering out of the room.

“Very well,” Angie said in her best teacher's voice. After ten years in the classroom, she'd become proficient at recognizing the troublemakers. Already she could tell that this girl was going to be one of them. At roll call she learned that her name was Corinne Sullivan.

Angie had just started to pass out textbooks when Corinne's hand shot into the air.

“Yes, Corinne?”

“Are we going to learn about sex this term?”

Angie certainly hoped not. “Do you mean sex education?”

Corinne nodded eagerly and smacked her wad of gum.

Chewing gum was an abomination as far as Angie was concerned. Without so much as a pause, she picked up the wastebasket and walked down the aisle to Corinne's desk.

“Regarding sex education, I believe there is a short introduction to the basic facts.” Angie held the wastebasket up for the girl, who stared at her blankly.

“Your gum, please.”

“Oh.” She spat the wad into the basket and Angie returned to the front of the room. “Does anyone else have questions about our curriculum for this term?” When no one responded, she murmured, “Good.”

Health class was Angie's least favorite teaching assignment. She preferred the Home Economics classes where she taught food preparation and cooking skills. Her talent in the kitchen made her a favorite with the other nuns and often the parish priests. It wasn't uncommon for Angie to deliver a bowl of her fettuccine Alfredo to the rectory on a Sunday afternoon.

For the remainder of the period, Angie reviewed the curriculum.

Just before the bell rang ending the class period and the day, Corinne waved her arm again. “Is there going to be a lot of reading for this class?”

“There will be some, but no more than your other classes.”

Scowling, Corinne sank lower in her seat, as though the thought of cracking open a textbook would be asking too much of her.

The bell rang and Angie walked over to Corinne's desk as the classroom emptied quickly. “Could you stay a few minutes after class?” she asked.

“Sure.” Corinne exchanged looks with another girl, Morgan Gentry, if Angie remembered correctly.

“Am I in trouble, Sister?” The words tumbled out. “Because it's only the first day, and I forgot the rule about gum. If I am, I hope you'll give me a break. I don't usually get a demerit until the second week.”

Angie struggled to hold back a smile. “Do you deserve a demerit?” she asked.

Corinne appeared to give that some thought. “Just for the gum, and that's a minor offense, don't you think?”

“Your uniform skirt's rolled up at the waist.”

Corinne groaned. “Come on, Sister. I have to do that or this thing would drag on the ground.” She ran her hands down the hips of the plaid pleated skirt and then flipped back one roll of the waistband. “Better?”

“Much,” Angie said.

The girl grinned, her dark eyes sparkling. “Anything else?”

Angie hesitated to mention the eye makeup.

“Most of the nuns object to my blue eyeshadow,” the girl cheerfully informed her. “You can complain too, if you want.”

“You think I should?”

“Nah.” Corinne shrugged. “Why be like everyone else?”

Exactly. “You can wear as much eyeshadow as you want in my class.”

“Really?” Corinne smiled sheepishly. “I think you're going to be a lot of fun to have as a teacher.”

Angie smiled despite her effort not to. She could see that Corinne wasn't a belligerent girl, just inquisitive and social.

“Can I go now?” Corinne asked.

“Yes, but Corinne…”

“Yes?”

“No more passing notes to Morgan or I'll have to confiscate and read them.”

Corinne's heavy sigh could be heard as she walked out the door. “Yes, Sister.”

Angie's amusement lasted as she walked home to the convent later that afternoon. She was going to enjoy Minneapolis. The community here was strong and the school staff seemed supportive and dedicated.

To her delight, Angie discovered a letter from her father tucked inside her mail cubicle. She hesitated before opening it. Tony Marcello had never fully accepted her decision to be a nun. Even now, twelve years after she'd professed her vows, he refused to call her anything other than simply Angelina. Not Sister Frances. Not Sister Angelina.

The day she'd entered the convent, he'd stopped attending Mass. It was his private rebellion against the Catholic Church for stealing away his only child. Angie had been praying for years that her father would return to the Church; the thought that he might die without last rites sent a chill through her blood.

Still, a letter from her father was a rare treat and she greedily read the handwritten pages. She hadn't visited him more than four or five times over the last fifteen years. He hated seeing her in a habit; that was obvious whenever she stayed with him. Many of the other orders had modified theirs to a more modern skirt and blouse with only a short black veil to signify their religious status. St. Bridget's Sisters of the Assumption were currently—and reluctantly—considering such a change. It was coming, and soon. Angie wondered if her father would be more comfortable with her if she wore a less restrictive style; somehow, she doubted it.

“News from home?” Sister Kathleen asked, checking her own cubicle for mail.

“Yes,” she said, flipping from one page to the next. “It's from my father.” Angie smiled and closed her eyes. She could almost smell the marinara sauce. Her grin widened when she noticed that the last sheet of his letter was a handwritten recipe, a new one he was planning to serve at Angelina's. An unexpected wave of homesickness practically knocked her off her feet.

Worst of all was the knowledge that she'd found God, but as a result her father had lost his faith.