Authors: LaVyrle Spencer
The emotions that had run through her then ran through her now as she looked into the sorrowful eyes of Eddie Olczak. But instead of touching his face she hid her hands deep within her sleeves as all nuns were expected to do in the presence of seculars, particularly men. She noted, however, that his eyes were brown—something she had never noticed before—and that he kept his usual respectful distance as they spoke. In terms of condolences, never had she wished mankind had more to offer at times like these than she did at this moment. She could only say what she’d said to her grandmother all those years ago.
“Try not to be sad, Mr. Olczak. She’s with God now.” Her words, instead of consoling, brought his tears brimming. They spilled over the edge of his eyelids leaving a pair of shiny tracks that glowed molten, reflecting the light of the red wall sconces. He averted his head and nodded once as the tears fell and made two dark spots on the front of his plain blue shirt. She felt decimated to have made him feel worse.
“We shall have a Mass celebrated for the repose of her soul,” she told him.
With his head still lowered he ran a knuckle beneath his nose and whispered, so thick and low she could barely hear, “Thank you, Sister.”
The two nuns left the funeral home, squinting in the vivid autumnal sun that hurt their eyes. On their way back to the convent Sister Regina felt an overpowering frustration pushing up, up from deep inside. It came out of nowhere, catching her by surprise, like the sun after the dimness. It clutched at her throat and beat against her mind as she thought of Krystyna and the senselessness of her death. It wasn’t exactly blame she felt toward God, more a vast disappointment in Him for His bad judgment in robbing Krystyna’s family of her.
She finally asked Sister Dora, “Does Krystyna’s death affect you more deeply than others have, Sister?”
“I think it does, yes.”
Sister Regina sighed and looked at the clear blue sky. “I’ve been struggling to understand the why of all this.”
“God has His reasons.”
“But what good reason could there be for this?”
Sister Dora glanced over and said, “It’s more than Krystyna’s death, isn’t it? I think you’ve been struggling with a number of things lately.”
Sister Regina made no reply. Instead she sighed deeply and kept in perfect step with Sister Dora, a soft afternoon breeze billowing their veils while from someplace on the southwest side of town came the sound of life continuing. A dog barking, a car engine droning, the Zigan boys sawing firewood. The familiar
zz-zzing zz-zing
of their rig drifted through the quiet afternoon as each piece broke and left the sawblade.
“I’ve been praying for you, Sister,” Sister Dora said. “I’ve asked the Holy Mother to intercede for you that you might be freed from this discontent you’ve been feeling.”
“Discontent,” Sister Regina repeated, as if the word rested heavy on her mind. “You’re right. It’s been growing for quite a while now.”
“I fear for you, Sister,” her companion said.
“Because I broke the rule of obedience by challenging Mother Superior at supper the other night?”
“There’ve been other things.”
“Yes, there have. It seems like everything we do breaks one of our rules, and I’m tired of confessing what no longer seems wrong. Goodness, we’re defying our Constitution right now just by discussing this!”
Their Constitution stated:
Words of complaint, severity and reproach are never addressed to one another. The
confidential communication of rash judgments and feelings of discontent can disturb the peace and harmony of a religious community and should have no place among those who profess to be followers of Jesus Christ.
It was one of the rules under which Sister Regina had lately begun to chafe.
“Yes, I know. I shall ask for a penance at the Chapter of Faults next Friday.”
“I don’t wish to be the cause of your asking for a penance.”
“Forgive me, Sister, but my penances are my concern.”
“All right, then, haven’t you ever asked yourself what good it does us to distance ourselves from everyone outside the religious community? If we’re to perform acts of charity to the best of our ability, we need to be among the people. When I was restrained from physically comforting the Olczak children, I felt... I felt... well, I just didn’t understand it at that moment. I’m not sure I’ve ever fully understood it.”
“So you questioned Mother Agnes’s authority.”
“Not her authority. Only her judgment.”
“But that’s what our vow of obedience is about. Willingly submitting to the judgment of our superiors, and believing that it’s through them that the will of God is manifested to us.”
“And I still believe that... most of the time.”
“And when you don’t, that old demon self-will rears its head, right?”
“The vow of obedience has always given me the most trouble.”
“I’ve known that for some time. I’ve watched you struggle with it.”
“And lately I’ve become less tolerant of the, shall we say, personality quirks of some of the sisters. I thought...” Sister Regina searched the sky again. “... .I thought when I entered the novitiate that life in the religious community would be absolutely devoid of turmoil. Submit to the rules, devote myself to a life of hard work, and prayer, and humility, and life would be one unbroken vale of inner peace. But it isn’t turning out that way. It’s...” Sister Regina shook her head.
“It’s this particular time, the sadness, the feeling that you want to do more. But you mustn’t let it undermine all you’ve aspired to. We all face doubts at one time or another. Place your trust in the Lord, and He’ll give you the grace to understand the judgments of those who are in authority.”
“Will He help me to understand the aggravation I feel lately with Sister Samuel when she sneezes on all our food at the table, then takes her handkerchief out
afterward
? Or with Sister Gregory, who deludes herself that she’s offering up dessert? Or with Sister Mary Charles when she punishes the children with her strap?”
“I must confess, I grow angry with Sister Mary Charles, too.”
They were approaching the church as Sister Dora said, “Goodness, we really are breaking Holy Rule, aren’t we?”
“I shall have to ask Mother Superior for a penance next Friday, too.”
“But on the other hand, R. B. admonishes us to
o
ffer prudent admonitions and charitable counsel to our sisters,
and isn’t that what I’m doing?” Sister Dora had quoted directly from the book and Sister Regina could have pointed to the exact page, for the frequent study of the Holy Rule and their Constitution was incorporated into their stringent schedule of prayer and reflection. This study was meant to reinforce the vows they had taken, but lately Sister Regina had come to view it as the way the Catholic Church chose to keep the nuns in line. These thoughts above all troubled her.
“Sister, do you think...” She found herself unable to go on. It was scary putting your doubts into words for the first time.
“Do I think...” Sister Dora urged.
“Nothing.” They had reached the parish grounds and were walking up the narrow tarred driveway between the church and the school. “Thank you for your prayers and for your charitable counsel,” Sister Regina said as a comer of the convent came into view. “I shall strive to do better.”
They entered the convent through the kitchen door and found Sister Ignatius crimping the crusts on two apple pies. The room was redolent of bay leaf and onion from the chicken that was stewing on the stove. The sound of rudimentary piano music came from one of the music rooms as Sister Gregory gave a piano lesson, and Sister Regina felt her emotions shift into a comfort zone, for this was the familiar, and there was a great deal of comfort in the familiar. Even in the regimented words of greeting they spoke as they encountered the cook.
“Praise be to Jesus,” the two said as they walked through the room.
“Amen,” replied Sister Ignatius.
In the refectory, Sister Cecelia was setting the table for supper.
“Praise be to Jesus,” they greeted her as they passed the open doorway.
“Amen,” Sister Gregory replied, and they continued upstairs.
It was Saturday afternoon, which was considered free time. But Sister Regina’s charge this month was to act as Sacristan, which meant keeping the sacristy clean and preparing it especially for Sunday Mass. In her room she found a straight pin and tacked her veil together in back, donned a clean white floor-length apron over her black habit and, since she’d be scrubbing, removed her elastic undersleeves.
She entered the church by the back door that led into Father’s sacristy. It was connected to the altar boys’ sacristy, on the opposite side of the sanctuary, by a passageway that curved around behind the main altar. Now in late afternoon the light in the passageway was the color of apple juice as the sun filtered through the amber panes of the leaded windows.
Crossing the sanctuary, Sister Regina genuflected, made the sign of the cross, and began her work. Father had finished Confessions, so all was still. She damp-mopped the floor, dusted the carvings on the altar, the priest’s and servers’ chairs against the left wall, the pulpit, the furniture that held Father’s vestments, and the deep windowsills. She changed the altar cloth and put a crisply ironed corporal over the chalice. She made sure the chalice was filled with hosts from the small safe in Father’s sacristy. She put new candles in the gold candlesticks and kept the old stubs to melt down for future use. She threw away some wilting gladioli from the altar and went over to the schoolhouse to get two potted yellow chrysanthemums from the flower room. When they were nicely balanced on the main altar she went to one of the side altars and put a lighted candle before the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary—always part of the Saturday ritual. At the communion rail she hung a crisp new linen cloth edged with wide crocheted lace. And finally, she went to the twenty-gallon crock in Father’s sacristy and filled a pitcher with holy water. She was replenishing the fonts in the front vestibule when the door opened and Eddie Olczak appeared. He was dressed as he’d been at the funeral home, in dark trousers and a plaid shirt instead of his workday overalls.
He stopped halfway inside when he saw her, then his hand went up to remove his felt dress hat.
“Oh, Sister,” he said in surprise, and let the door close behind him. The vestibule turned dun in the scarce light from the two tiny leaded windows set high in the doors.
“Mr. Olczak, what are you doing here?” She had not expected to encounter him since his brothers had taken over his work.
“Well, you know... force of habit. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay over here. Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Your brothers have seen after everything. There’s no need for you to worry about anything here. And I’ve taken care of the sacristy for Mass.”
“Yes... well...” He glanced away, then at the holy-water font she’d been filling. “Excuse me,” he uttered and reached over to dip his fingers in the font and make the sign of the cross, keeping a respectful distance from her.
She was immediately aware that she’d left her undersleeves in her room and her wrists were bare and that there were specific rules against this, especially with a secular of the opposite sex. Not only were her wrists bare, she was encumbered with a heavy pitcher of crockery so she could not hide her hands in her sleeves. But it would be sacrilegious to set the holy water on the floor.
Mr. Olczak was aware of none of her angst.
“Truth is,” he said, “they’ve seen after everything so good that they left me with idle hands. With the kids out at my folks’, the house is too empty, so I just thought...” He glanced at the bell ropes hanging straight and motionless, at the cold radiator, the clean floor of the vestibule and the rubber mat beneath their feet. At her again, then dropped his gaze. Holding his hat in both hands, fiddling with its brim, he said quietly, “You know, Sister, in one way you’re lucky that you never got married. You’ll never have to go through this.”
“I am married,” she reminded him gently. “To Jesus.”
“And He’ll never leave you, will he,” Eddie said.
“Nor will He leave you. He is always with you.”
He nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Sister, I’m worried.”
It struck her that Holy Rule admonished her not to encourage familiarity through idle conversations with the secular, but once again the rule seemed harsh in light of his circumstances. He was a heartsore man in need, one who had been a Catholic all his life and had worked around nuns a long time. He understood the protocol required between them and could not have been more deferential to any of them had he been a monk, always nodding, or doffing his hat, and keeping the most respectable distance whenever in their presence. Holy Rule demanded that she put a quick end to this exchange, but she felt that to do so would be the most heartless thing she could do.
Christ would want me to hear him out today,
she thought, and decided to stay.
“About what?”
“The girls seeing Krystyna in the coffin.” He withdrew and stood clear across the vestibule, near a door that led to the choir loft, backing up against the door frame. “They’re so little, and they’re going to remember it the rest of their lives. I don’t want them to see her that way.”
“Perhaps you should talk to Father about it.”
“You’re their teacher. You know them better than Father does. I thought maybe you’d know what I should do.”
“Perhaps they could stay with their grandparents at the rear of the funeral home during the closing of the casket.”
“And what about during the Requiem Mass?” The casket would be open then, too, right here in the vestibule before the service.
“Is Anne still denying that her mother is dead?”
“No. But she’s grown so quiet. Doesn’t talk, as if she’s mad at somebody but she doesn’t know who.”
Sister grew quiet herself. She let the pitcher of holy water rest against her stomach. “That’s how I feel sometimes.”