The Blue Bottle Club (42 page)

It had come upon her gradually, like winter melting into spring, until one day she realized that another presence filled the room as she worked, a nearness close as her own heartbeat but quite distinct from what people usually called inspiration. She felt the power in her mind, filling her heart, overflowing into her hands. And the result was surely not of herself, but a cocreation between Mary Love the artist and God the Creator.

Her subject matter hadn't changed. She still drew landscapes, nature scenes, and the faces of people around her, but there was a dimension that had not been there before. One of her favorites was a sketch of Sister Cecilia standing over an enormous soup kettle. She had transformed the nun into a peasant woman, her wimple replaced by a scarf tied over her forehead. In the drawing, Sister Cecilia's broad, homely face took on a heavenly light, as if in her poverty she had found the source of true wealth. It was the portrait of an ordinary woman touched by God's grace.

And there were others too. A sketch of Adriana, in all her pristine beauty, cradling a small child in her arms. Sister Terese digging joyfully in the garden. Her baby brother Vincent sitting in a bed of flowers with a butterfly perched on his finger. All different images, but with one common thread—the glory of God manifested in the humble experiences of life.

Mary Love didn't know, in artistic terms, whether her drawings were any good or not. And most of the time she didn't care. It had become more important simply to render faithfully the images that presented themselves to her mind, to work and learn so that each new drawing was better than the last.

A surge of anticipation shot through her veins as she began to rough in the outlines on the butcher paper. She could see the picture in her mind—a garden in springtime, not fully blossomed but just on the verge of bursting into bloom. An image, she thought, of the state of her own spirit, hovering in preparation for some wonderful, unexpected miracle.

Without warning, the door burst open, and Mary Love found herself staring into the scowling face of Mother Margaret.

"So! This is what you do when the Holy Rule commands you to prayer!"

In two strides, the Mistress of Postulants crossed the room and slammed the window shut, blocking out the pleasant sounds of birdsong and water rippling in the river.

"Mother, I—" Mary Love stopped. It was no use to explain. The Dragon Mother would never understand how a worldly pastime such as drawing could be a type of prayer. Self-indulgence, she would call it. Or worse.

The old nun ripped the butcher paper from Mary Love's hands and examined it. "There are more of these . . . these
profanities,
I assume?"

Terror gripped Mary Love's heart, but she wouldn't lie. "Yes."

"Show me."

Mary Love went to the wardrobe, pushed aside her nightgown and extra postulant's dress, and drew out the makeshift portfolio, now bulging with a year's worth of drawings. Some were on art stock, some on butcher paper, and still others on odd sheets of cardboard or paper bags.

"Bring them and come with me. Immediately."

Head down and eyes burning, Mary Love followed Mother Margaret down the corridors until they stood at the door of the Mother Superior's office. The old nun rapped twice, then opened the door and walked in without being invited.

The Mother Superior, the undisputed head of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, was a stout, broad nun with pink cheeks, a prominent nose, and clear brown eyes with deep crow's-feet fanning out from the edges. Younger than Mother Margaret by ten years or more, she nevertheless exuded an air of authority. All the postulants respected her, but they didn't fear her. She had a reputation for unflinching integrity, but also for compassion.

Reverend Mother looked up from her desk, and Mary Love saw an expression of irritation flash across her face. "Sister, one usually waits for a response before barging in." Her tone was calm, even, but the rebuke was clear.

Mother Margaret didn't seem to notice. "A matter has come to my attention, Reverend Mother, that you must attend to immediately."

"Must I?" Reverend Mother slanted a glance at Mary Love, who stood outside the doorway, and Mary Love thought for an instant that she might smile.

"Indeed." Mother Margaret snaked out a hand and hauled Mary Love into the room. "This postulant has been disobedient and deceptive. She is consumed with worldly thoughts and self-indulgence. I only thank God we discovered her true nature in time."

Reverend Mother peered over her glasses at Mary Love. "Come in, child.

Sit down before you fall down."

Mary Love sank into a chair. Her legs wouldn't stop trembling, and she thought she was going to be sick, right there on the Reverend Mother's carpet.

"Now, Sister, what is the nature of this alleged infraction of Holy Rule?"

The Mistress of Postulants jerked the portfolio from Mary Love's grasp and spread it on the desk before the Reverend Mother.
"This"
she said with emphasis, "is what this postulant has been doing when she should have been working"—she slanted an acid glance in Mary Love's direction—"or sleeping."

Reverend Mother held up a hand. "This
postulant
has a name." She shot a compassionate glance in Mary Love's direction. "These are your drawings, child?"

"They are. I caught her in the act, and she admitted it," the Dragon Mother interrupted. "I had been suspicious of her for some time—rumors have been circulating about her, you know. Then Sister Cecilia let it slip that she asked for butcher paper from the kitchen. When I couldn't find her at her work assignment, I went to her cell and discovered her with these . . . obscenities . . . blasphemies!"

Reverend Mother shuffled through the portfolio and said nothing for a long time. Finally she raised her head and fixed Mother Margaret with an inscrutable gaze. "If you don't mind, Sister, kindly point out to me where you perceive blasphemy or obscenity in these works."

The Mistress of Postulants stepped behind the desk, her beady eyes searching through the sketches. "Here!" she crowed triumphantly. "This one of a little boy in the flowers. He is"—she shuddered—
"naked."

"I believe he is," Reverend Mother agreed. "Exactly as God made him."

"And this one! She's turned our own Sister Cecilia into a
peasant."

"Sister Cecilia
is
a peasant," the Mother Superior countered. "A fact of which she has never been ashamed."

"Well, what about this one? Isn't this the face of Adriana—who is, if I might remind the Reverend Mother, the most promising and spiritually astute among our postulants? This picture shows her in the guise of a mother—an
unwed
mother."

Mary Love cringed. She was doomed, and she knew it. The truth was, she
had
been deceptive, and she
had
violated Holy Rule—not once, but many times. She deserved whatever punishment she got. But it nearly broke her heart to hear Mother Margaret twisting her work into something profane, accusing her of blasphemy. Of that, she was not guilty.

Suddenly the Reverend Mother stood to her feet and banged the portfolio shut. "I've heard enough," she snapped. "Sister Margaret, you may leave us now."

"But-but—" the old nun sputtered.

"I said, you may leave us. I will take care of this matter, you may be sure."

"Yes, Reverend Mother." In an attitude of uncharacteristic submission, the Mistress of Postulants lowered her eyes and made her exit.

When the door closed behind her, the Mother Superior came out from behind her desk and perched on the edge, directly in front of Mary Love.

"Look at me, child." It was an undeniable command, yet the voice was gentle and entreating.

Mary Love raised her head. Her eyes stung with tears, but she bit her lip and answered, "Yes, Reverend Mother?"

"Your year of postulancy is almost at an end. Within a few months, you will stand before the bishop and exchange a bridal gown for the habit of a novice. If, that is, you decide to continue pursuing a religious vocation."

Mary Love nodded.

"So let me ask you just one simple question: Why did you want to become a nun?"

Mary Love knew the "right" answers—answers that would please Reverend Mother and get her off the hook: That she had been given a vocation. That she had been called by God. That she desired to live her life in service to Christ and the Church. But as she looked into the Mother Superiors face, she realized that she could never succeed in misleading this woman—nor did she have any desire to try.

"I come from a large family," she said with a sigh. "I'm the oldest of eleven children, and all my life, as far back as I can remember, I bore the responsibility of caring for my brothers and sisters. My mother was very . . . ah, religious. Went to Mass every day, prayed incessantly And left me to do all the work and care for the younger children."

She paused, and the Mother Superior motioned for her to continue.

"All I ever wanted," Mary Love confessed, "was quietness and peace, time to draw and paint. I dreamed of being an artist, of living alone, of having solitude—something I never got at home. I felt called to it, like a—" She stopped suddenly.

"Like a vocation?" Reverend Mother supplied.

Mary Love lowered her eyes. "Yes."

"And—?"

"I wanted to go to the Academy of Art in Minneapolis—even got accepted and was awarded some scholarship money. But I didn't have the funds for the remaining tuition. Then one of my teachers at school—my favorite nun, actually—misunderstood when I talked about my calling to art; she thought I was saying I had a vocation to be a nun. I grabbed onto the idea, believing that might be my answer, a way to get away from the responsibilities of the family and have the chance to find my direction."

"And so you entered the convent under false pretenses, knowing you did not have a religious vocation?"

"I'm afraid so."

"The religious life is not intended to be an escape from unpleasant reality," Reverend Mother said sternly "Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

"Nor is it a place where deception and duplicity can be tolerated."

"I know, Reverend Mother. I'm sorry."

"Tell me, Mary Love," the Mother Superior said, using her given name for the first time, "what have you learned during your year with us?"

Mary Love thought about the question for a moment. She had nothing to lose by telling the truth, so she took a deep breath and plunged in. "I've learned that God comes to people in many different ways. You don't have to live on your knees in order to pray or light a million candles to get the Lord's attention. God comes to me when I draw, Reverend Mother. I know I was wrong to shirk my duties, but I can't seem to get to God without a pencil or paintbrush in my hand. When I'm working—when an image fills my mind and demands to be released—I feel the nearness of my Creator in a way I never experience through any other means."

"I can see that in your artwork."

"Is it true, Reverend Mother, what Mother Margaret said about my drawing? Is it blasphemy?"

"What do you think?"

Mary Love gazed into the woman's eyes and found there an openness, a willingness to listen. She took a deep breath and considered her next words.

"I think it's the truest expression of the faith that is growing in me," she said at last. "I think it's the way God speaks to me, and through me, and the way I speak back to God."

The Mother Superior smiled, and her crow's-feet transformed into deep laugh lines. "Mother Margaret and I have, shall we say, different perspectives about many issues. Would you like to know what I discern in your drawings?"

Mary Love nodded. "Very much, Reverend Mother."

The Mother Superior reached behind her and picked up the portfolio off the desk. "This one—" She held up the sketch of the little boy with the butterfly on his finger.

"My baby brother, Vincent," Mary Love explained.

"To you, perhaps. To me, it is a portrait of the Christ Child discovering the wonders of his Father's world." She retrieved the drawing of Adriana. "Mother Margaret looks at this and sees a blasphemy, turning a Christ-centered postulant into an unmarried mother."

"And what do you see, Reverned Mother?

"I see the Madonna and Child. I see a holiness of love unparalleled in history. I see a woman who risked everything to be obedient to the purposes of God." She flipped through the portfolio and picked out the snow scene, where the face Adriana had identified as God looked out from the forest. "And here," she said, "I see the sum of your spiritual experience. I see the Lord God admiring the beauty of creation with joy and passion and fulfillment." She paused. "You obviously know what that emotion feels like. Few of us ever even get a glimpse of it."

The tears Mary Love had been holding back spilled over and fell onto her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. "Thank you, Reverend Mother."

"I cannot condone your deception in this matter, Mary Love, but I think I understand it. I have just one more question for you: If you had to take your final vows tomorrow and commit yourself to a lifetime of religious service, would you do it?"

Mary Love sat back, shocked beyond words at the question. For a full minute she couldn't speak.

"Well?" Reverend Mother prodded.

"I don't know if I could give up my art."

"I'm not asking if you are willing to abandon your art. I'm asking if you wish to go forward with your training."

"But what would I
do!"
Mary Love blurted out. "As a nun, I mean?"

Reverend Mother's brown eyes crinkled, and she burst into laughter. "Child," she said when she had regained control of herself, "our primary purpose in this life is not to
do,
but to
become.
To grow in Christlikeness, to become more like our Lord. To draw near in the Spirit. To glorify God with whatever our hands touch." She shook her head. "It takes most of us years to discover our path. You have already found yours. Don't you think the Church needs artists, people who can catch a vision of God and translate it into a form the rest of us can benefit from?"