Then Came Heaven (20 page)

Mr. Olczak, Olczak, Olczak!
 His name was on her mind altogether too much. She knew his routine like a wife knows a husband’s. How was she to get over her attraction to him when he was present in her world nearly every waking hour of the day? Even when she couldn’t see him she could hear him—shoveling, hammering, drilling, whistling, gently teasing the children during recesses and school lunches. Even on her way to confess her excessive familiarity with him, she was thinking of him again.

Father entered the church through his own private door behind the left sacristy. He switched on some dim lights, found, kissed and donned his stole, and led her through the sanctuary, both of them genuflecting on their way to the confessional. Inside the cubicle it was murky and always seemed to smell of must with overtones of manure from the farmers’ shoes. As Sister Regina stepped into the cramped space, the heavy maroon velvet curtains fell back into place behind her, stirring the two scents together. She knelt, hemmed in by the curtains that could not stop a chilly draft from circling her ankles. She heard Father settle himself in his chair before the partition between them slid back, and she saw the shadow of his hand make a cross in the air.

“
In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”

She made the sign of the cross with him and began by role the words she’d been taught as a child: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last Confession was two weeks ago. I’ve come to confess something of grave importance.” She drew a shaky breath.

He heard it and said, “I’m here, Sister.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and after a pause, “this is very difficult.”

“Remember that God is all-forgiving,” he said, and waited.

She fortified herself with another deep breath before going on. “I’ve somehow managed to become friends with a secular, just friends, but in the course of our friendship I’ve allowed myself to speak too freely, and our conversations have sometimes bordered on personal things. I... I find myself tempted to speak to this person about nonreligious matters, because this person is caring and kind and in need of help right now. I know I’m breaking my vow of obedience by speaking to this person, yet it doesn’t feel wrong when I’m doing it. How can this be so, Father?”

“This person is a man?” Father asked.

Her heart actually started racing with fear, and she answered meekly, “Yes, Father.”

“And are you attracted to him?”

After several long beats she whispered, “Yes.”

“Have you broken your vow of chastity with him?”

“In thought only.”

“Not physically?”

“No, never, Father. I would not, nor would he. I’m certain. My attraction to him is as much to the pleasure of talking to him as anything else.”

“Are these talks with him causing you to doubt your vocation?”

“No, Father. I had begun doubting it before these talks between us began.”

“Oh, I see.”

The racing of her heart got worse and she realized tears had sprung into her eyes. It was a terrible, emotional moment, that one in which she admitted for the first time to someone else that her faith in her vocation was shaken. Until the words were actually spoken there was still time to recant, to tell herself she was wrong and these dissatisfactions were temporary and would soon pass. But the words were released, the stepping stone reached, and she recognized the momentousness for what it was.

Father took his time responding. She could tell he was shaken, and very probably aggrieved. He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, leaning closer to the screen. “Have you spoken to Mother Superior about this?”

“N...” Her voice failed and she began again. “No, Father.”

“Do you feel that you should?”

“I’m... I’m afraid to.”

“But Sister Agnes is your spiritual advisor. You must place your trust in her.”

“I don’t think she’ll believe that this all started a long time ago, way before I ever spoke to this man about anything personal.”

“What Sister Agnes chooses to believe is a secondary matter. What you know to be true is the primary matter. These are things that should be discussed with your spiritual advisor. They could affect you all the rest of your life.”

“Yes, Father. I’ll try. And, Father, there’s something else.”

“Go on.”

“You must understand, Father, it’s not just about this man. It’s much bigger than that. I’ve begun finding faults with so much about my life within the religious community—the personal ways of all the sisters, their aggravating habits, and the fact that we are allowed so little freedom. Then there’s Sister Agnes admonishing me not to get too wrapped up in the lives of the children I teach, and this makes me angry, yet I’m not allowed to discuss it with anybody. Holy Rule says my anger itself is a sin. More and more lately I’ve begun to question Holy Rule and our Constitution, how they repress everything natural, how they keep us in line. The very idea makes me angry sometimes.”

“Anger is human. How we manifest it dictates whether it’s a sin or not. Perhaps, Sister, you’re being too hard on yourself.”

“I don’t think so. Time and again I’ve broken Holy Rule, and every time it happens I do penance, then go on believing I was right. It’s like there are two people inside me, one telling me to stay and be obedient, hold my tongue. The other saying, ‘They are wrong to repress you this way. Speak up.’ It’s been just terrible, Father, what I’ve been going through. It feels very much like purgatory right here on earth.”

“Do you know what I hear in your voice, Sister?”

“No, Father.”

“I hear anguish. That means that there’s a strong, strong spirit moving within you yet, telling you that you are very much where you belong.”

“Oh, it’s true, Father. Sometimes I’m so at peace here, but those times grow fewer and farther between.”

“Do you think, Sister, that there isn’t a one of us who’s doubted our vocation at one time or another?” She didn’t answer, so he went on. “Sometimes when we wrestle with doubt and temptation and win out over them, we come through the test stronger than before, and more certain that the vocation we chose is absolutely the right one for us. Pray, Sister. Pray good and hard for the answers, and I know they’ll come to you. Do penance. Meditate as much as possible. Pray to Mary to intercede for you, and to our lord to grant you guidance through this troubled time. And do talk to Sister Agnes. You may be surprised at what you hear.”

“Yes, Father. I will.”

“Very well. And may I add, Sister, that I would hate to lose you here at St. Joseph’s. You’re an excellent teacher, and well liked by the children. I’ve always believed that a pupil who likes his teacher is going to do better in school than the one who can’t stand her. I feel that your talking to Sister Agnes might avert a terrible loss, not only to you, but to your religious community and the students as well.”

“Thank you, Father.”

He gave her a remarkably slight penance: undoubtedly he knew that the struggle she was going through was penance enough for any nun who’d been dedicated to her vocation for as long as Sister Regina had.

They left church through the door they’d entered. Father took the left branch of the walk to his house. Sister Regina took the right, and halfway to the convent encountered Eddie Olczak widening the path through the snow. He stopped shoveling and stepped aside, resting one hand on top of the shovel handle.

“Good morning, Sister,” he said quietly as she approached.

She kept her head down and one arm anchoring her knit shawl over her chest.

“Good morning, Mr. Olczak.”

“Sister, wait.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” she replied, and hurried on without looking back.

Everything in Eddie had seized up at her approach. What had passed between them the previous day created an unholy tension he could not ignore. He watched her until she reached the rear stoop of the convent and climbed the stone steps. Only when she opened the kitchen door and disappeared inside did he sigh and, with a leaden feeling inside, go back to work.

________

She decided against talking to Sister Agnes right away, thinking perhaps she hadn’t prayed, meditated or done penance enough. She would do more of all three, and if that didn’t work, 
then
 she’d talk to Sister Agnes.

The weather stayed as somber and joyless as her reflection, while November advanced toward Thanksgiving and she called upon Christ to let His will be known to her. She devoted herself to an intense period of soul-searching during which she prayed in a state of profound supplication many hours each day, often kneeling on a chain-metal doormat that left painful ridges in her knees. She routinely fasted from breakfast until supper, offering up her hunger as further penance for her doubtfulness. Meditation and reflection became a deeper part of each day, but they yielded little beyond continued confusion. She expected the answer to descend upon her in a nimbus of recognition, a shimmering knowledge that would suddenly light her from within and telegraph to her a certainty of which choice to make. She pictured herself, after making that choice, like a figure surrounded by fox fire, a nun yet—for that’s what she thought her choice 
should
 be—but one who moved in a continual halo of contentment, like the pictures on holy cards. It would be, she thought, a saintliness that would suddenly lift all doubt and supplant it with such peace as only the souls in heaven know.

But this did not happen.

If Christ knew what he wanted her to do, He was keeping it to Himself.

During Thanksgiving week she wrote to her grandmother about the anguish she was going through. But the letter went unposted, because once again their Constitution dictated that all outgoing mail be placed, unsealed, on the superior’s desk. Sister Regina put the letter away in her drawer, resenting the fact that she could never send it, adding yet another notch on her tally of repressions.

Her guilt over writing the letter and the subsequent anger over being unable to send it drove her into a state of renewed piety. Father had admonished her to do more penance, and perhaps if she did the ultimate penance she would find her answer.

The ultimate penance, as far as Sister Regina was concerned, was commonly referred to as “taking the Discipline,” something she’d only once done and wasn’t sure she believed in. “Taking the Discipline” was the genteel expression for self-flagellation. This was done in the bathroom on Friday nights, with a small weapon that looked like a coat hanger with lengths of finely linked chain hanging from it by an oval loop. She remembered the first time she’d seen one of these contraptions. She’d been a novitiate, a beginner, and as such it wouldn’t do to ask questions. The general rule was,
what and when you need to know, you’ll be told.
 An older nun named Sister Serenity, the official rosary fixer, had been fashioning the metal spirals with a pair of pliers during evening recreation, and Sister Regina thought it was a wind chime of some sort. She asked Sister Serenity to hold it up so she could hear it. Later that night, Sister Serenity had drawn her to the side and, in private, told her it was called a “Discipline.” Fridays, Sister Serenity said, were the days when each nun “took the Discipline.” It was done in turn, in the bathroom after lights out, during Grand Silence.

Young Regina Marie Potlocki, fresh off the farm, had never heard of such a thing. She thought she’d misunderstood.

“Do 
what
 with it?” she’d said, horrified.

Sister Serenity had gently demonstrated, raising her sleeve and striking herself on her bare arm, where small red marks appeared between the pale blue veins. “The object is not to draw blood, but just to thwack yourself with it till it stings. But not usually on the arm. Back here.” She indicated her posterior. “Underneath your nightgown.” Regina’s blood seemed to drop to the soles of her feet. “B... but why?”

“In memory of Christ’s passion.”

She’d stared at the evil-looking thing again and muttered, “I don’t understand. What good will it do?”

“It’s a way of uniting our sufferings, both sought and unsought, with those of our lord's,” Sister Serenity explained. “It’s a mystery how each tiny penance can gather to itself such meaning, and be joined to the infinite sufferings of Christ. But we believe this, that He suffered for us, so we suffer
for
 and 
with
 and 
in
 Him, and that suffering touches the world, heals it.”

The young novitiate, Sister Regina Marie, tried valiantly to believe this, but found only absurdity in the awkward physical act of administering pseudo self-torture. The first night she hoisted up her nightgown in the bathroom during Grand Silence and attempted to flog herself, she had not yet memorized the Miserere, which was to be recited, kneeling, throughout the taking of the Discipline. She tried propping the prayer book on a chair seat, but she needed one hand to hold up her gown, and one to hold the weapon, so the book flipped shut and fell on the floor. She tried it another way, but this time she flogged the chair instead of herself, and when she finally managed to strike her own backside she felt like a complete idiot. She could find no value in the mortification of the flesh.

Perhaps that’s when her doubts actually began, for she had never again attempted taking the Discipline. Instead, on Friday nights when she took her turn in the bathroom, she said the Miserere prone on the floor. She’d spent many hours over the duration of her years as a nun examining and reexamining what Holy Rule said about penance. It merely stated that “the religious should esteem, love and practice penance according to their strength.” Which threw the entire issue right back at her conscience.

Her conscience told her that while taking the discipline she’d felt as if she was caught in some miserable charade at which God himself was probably laughing. So she had never done it again.

It was a measure of Sister Regina’s desperation that during the agonizing process of deciding what to do with the rest of her life, and in an effort to give her vocation every possible chance, she attempted to take the Discipline again.