Waiting to Believe (9 page)

Kacey glanced over at Sister Lisa as she took her seat on the blue bus for the ride back to the convent. She wanted to whisper, “Meet me in the bathroom! Let's talk about Aquinas!” But she did not. She rode in silence, turning her face to the window and blushing as a new thought came to her.
Is it really Aquinas I want to talk about, or is it Sister Mary Clement?

14

As breakfast ended, Mother Mary Bernard rose to announce the work plans for the sunny, crisp fall morning. “Sister Mary Helena will take you to our community apple orchard this morning.” Kacey's heart leapt. “The apples are ready, and you will have all morning for picking them. You'll be given bushel baskets, pickers, and ladders. Be careful as you go about this work. The apple crop is an important part of our life here. We are honored to offer our apples to the mother house, and we are strengthened to do God's work as we eat them ourselves.”

Mother Bernard was not done yet. “Apple picking is not recreation. It is a labor for the Lord and should be treated as such. The rule of silence is fully in force during your time in the orchard.” With that, she pushed back her chair and moved swiftly from the room. But even her stern words could not dampen Kacey's spirit. It was impossible for her to believe God wouldn't smile at the beauty of a shiny red apple! Out in the sunshine, she would stretch and reach and extend herself with great joy!

The road leading to the orchard was rutted and bumpy, a challenge for the lumbering old blue bus. Postulants were jostled from one side of their seats to the other, occasionally landing in the aisle. But there were no giggles, only a few small smiles, and those disappeared quickly. But Kacey could not, she would not, hide her delight at the adventure before them. The windows were open, and the fragrance of the waiting apples filled the bus and filled her spirit.

Finally, Sister Mary Helena gunned the engine, willing it to pull the bus up out of the ruts to rest on the grass. A pickup truck, already there, was loaded with ladders, bushel baskets, and picking bags. Sister Mary Justus stood on the tailgate, ready to dispense the tools to the black-clothed army of pickers.

Kacey picked up a six-foot step ladder with ease, tucking it under her arm while grabbing a bag and a bushel basket with the other hand. Her bulky skirt made walking cumbersome, but she took big strides, glancing over to see where Adrian and Lisa would be picking. She followed them, positioning herself at a tall, plump tree between the two.

Climbing to the highest step, Kacey shifted her picking sack into a comfortable position around her neck. Adrian and Lisa were not visible through the foliage.

“Hey, you two! Wherever you are! I'll race you! Bet I can pick more apples than you!” she whispered loudly. No response. “Aww, c'mon! What'll it hurt?” Still nothing. Their silence was embarrassing, and Kacey blushed at their rebuff. Chastising herself, she began picking in earnest, determined not to let their silence spoil her enjoyment of the morning.
I'll compete with myself. I'll set my own goal, and I'll exceed it!
But this wasn't nearly as satisfying as working against her two friends.

The sun was high and hot. They had been picking for three hours, and even Kacey was beginning to feel the ache in her arms as she stretched out in pursuit of her prize. The bag around her neck had been emptied many times. The aroma surrounding her was still sweet, but she was tired and cranky, disgusted with herself for being so out of shape. Her neck and head ached from the weight of the bag.
There was a time when I'd have swung from limb to limb and barefooted, too!

The picking stopped, and the postulants carried their baskets to the pickup truck. Kacey cast a casual glance to see how many baskets Adrian and Lisa had.
Rats. Too close to call.
Walking to the bus, Kacey allowed herself a backward look at Lisa. Did she imagine it, or did the rule-abiding postulant flash her a quick V for “victory” sign? Kacey would never know for sure.

15

Looks like a snow sky.
Kacey looked out the big north-facing windows in the dining hall. Having silent conversations with herself had become a habit. The hour of talk the postulants were allowed was more a tease to her than a pleasure. Everyone was so guarded. Anything meaningful was off limits.

She missed the quick give-and-take with her siblings, the rumble of her dad's voice at the dinner table, his occasional laugh that always took her by surprise. She missed being asked what she thought.

She was more comfortable with many aspects of convent life now, but she still chafed at the silence and the lack of control over her daily life.

What would she give to wander through the nearby woods just as the snow began to fall? That first snowfall was magical. It had always seemed like a blanket of grace, gently covering the darkly scarred ground of fall. All things would be new. Fresh.

An inner struggle roared through her head—this separation from the natural world. Her mind flashed back to the discussion last week on St. John of the Cross, who described healthy spiritual dryness as “a condition that enables the soul to experience God's refining fire.” The concept had come to him during one of his several imprisonments. Kacey had grappled with his enlightenment. She remembered his observations on David's thirst for God in the Psalms: “David's knowledge of the glory of God is a result of his times of dryness when he was divorced from his physical nature.”

No way!
The image did not work for her. She tried to imagine St. John writing those words while watching dancing snowflakes.
He couldn't have believed it.

Her mind wandered back to the beloved Gerard Manley Hopkins poem she had memorized in eleventh grade: “
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
”
Yes!

She turned from the window and headed for the pantry. She was helping serve breakfast this morning. Before pushing through the swinging door, she stole one last glance at the heavy sky and recalled that St. Francis de Sales had simply said, “We pray best before beauty.”

She smiled.
My money's on de Sales!

Christmas, Kacey soon discovered, would not be white that year. She also discovered that it mattered little at Blessed Sacrament Convent. Christmas was a minimal event in the life of the convent. The frozen tan-and-brown ground was appropriate for the heaviness of the atmosphere.

But before it was Christmas, it was Advent. And Advent was the focus and the fulfillment for those who labored in prayer and meditation during the four weeks leading up to Christmas. “Come, let us worship the King who is to come,” they recited together during matins the first two weeks, and then, moving closer to Christmas, “Now the Lord is near, come let us adore Him.”

The weight of those days drained Kacey of energy. She had difficulty concentrating on the rituals, trouble committing to the intensely reflective spirit enveloping the convent. Shame soaked through her.

No matter what prayers she prayed—or tricks she played on herself—she continued to think wistfully of the Christmas frenzy she had often resented growing up. Family traditions, unwieldy and difficult to maintain, took on a new, sweet significance as she remembered them, beginning with the cutting of the Christmas tree. Last Christmas, Annie had not been home from college in time to be a part of it. The first break in tradition. And now, she, too, was absent.

No Christmas tree would mesmerize her this year. No smell of fresh-cut balsam. No chaotic gift opening or screams of delight.

Now, with all the sisters in the convent, she waited somberly. “
Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel!
” they sang, but in her secret heart, Kacey whispered the words to an old favorite,
“I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams . . .”

Miles away, Kenneth stood before the living room windows, watching the flakes settle on the porch swing and cover the boughs of the evergreens like fluffy white caps. The first snowfall of the season, and just in time for Christmas.

He thought of Kacey. Out of reach. Out of their lives. He could see her, moving through the house, bringing the ornaments from the upstairs closet, setting up a gift-wrapping station on the library table in Kenneth's study. It didn't matter much to him who would be doing those tasks this year. What mattered was that it wouldn't be Kacey.

An idea stirred within him. He ran his finger down a long list of numbers beside the phone and dialed.

“Greg! Kenneth Doyle. How are you?”

“Mr. Doyle! This is a surprise!”

“Well, I heard you were home for the holidays. Thought I'd take a chance at catching you.”

“Yeah, I got home two nights ago. I'll be here ‘til New Year's Day.”

Kenneth paused for an instant. “Well, listen, Greg. We'd all sure like to see you. Any possibility of you stopping over tonight?”

Now it was Greg's turn to pause.

“Unless you've got a date or something,” Kenneth added quickly, though he was surprised that the words stuck in his throat.

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I guess I'm just a little surprised to hear from you.”

“I don't know why. I told you last fall I wanted to stay in touch. You're like one of the family. That hasn't changed.”

Greg's hesitance was obvious. “I don't know, Mr. Doyle.”

“None of that! You get on over here! Have a cup of Christmas cheer with me. With
us
!”

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse? I'll see you in an hour.”

Placing the phone back on its cradle, Kenneth was pleased. Fall had been lonely. He had missed Kacey's warmth and her calming presence. He'd be glad to have some connection to her this night.

“Rose!” he called. “Rose, pick up the living room! We're having company!”

Rose looked up from the kitchen table where she was working a crossword puzzle. The supper dishes were still on the table, the pots in the sink. “Who's coming?” She stood and walked to the refrigerator. Her drink needed more ice.

Kenneth came to the kitchen doorway. “Greg's stopping by.”

“Greg? How'd that happen?”

Kenneth was irritated by the question. “He's home for Christmas, so I asked him to come. Is that a problem?” His tone was combative, the smile gone from his face.

“Just caught me by surprise, is all.” Now she added more Jameson over the fresh ice and walked past Kenneth to the living room.

“Could you just pick this place up a little?” he asked again.

Rose gave him a cool look. Hand on her hip, she met his glare. “Oh, I could, but then, so could you. You're the one extending the invitation. Why don't you just take care of it?”

“For God's sake, Rose! Why does everything have to be a battle? I thought you'd be glad to see Greg!”

“I will be, but I—”

“All right! All right!” he interrupted. “I'll take care of it!”

He reached down and picked up a greasy popcorn bowl from the floor. Newspapers were strewn over the davenport. A day-old piece of toast lay on the coffee table along with one dirty sock. Gerald's hockey skates and stick occupied the recliner, the blades still damp.

Kenneth strode across the living room in giant steps, opening the door leading upstairs. “Bridget! Maureen, Gerald! You, too, Joseph! Get down here right now!”

“Well, that's more like it,” Rose whispered as she walked back out to the kitchen and her crossword puzzle.

The four tumbled down the stairs in quick response to their father's command. “We didn't do anything!” Gerald exclaimed, his eyes wide.

Kenneth couldn't suppress a grin. “No, but you're going to! Clean up this room, and Bridget, the kitchen, too. Greg's coming over.”

Greg! Delight spread across all four faces. The pickup began.

“He's here!” Joseph shouted. The headlights of Greg's truck made a wide arc as he slowly maneuvered it into a U-turn in the driveway. The snow continued to fall. Kenneth opened the back door as Greg trudged through the unbroken drifts. Clapping him on the back, Kenneth sent snowflakes flying. “Good to see you, Greg!”

“It's good to see all of
you
! Thanks for the invite, Mr. D.”

Rose stepped forward and put her arms around him. “Greg,” she said as she laid her hand on his cold cheek.

Gerald was unsure how to greet him. At thirteen, he was too old for hugs and too young for a handshake. “Hey, man!” he exclaimed. That would have to do.

Greg grinned at him, then mussed Joseph's black curls. He shrugged out of his letterman jacket, before turning to the girls. “And you two! Wow! You're looking great!” Bridget smiled and flushed. Maureen giggled with pleasure.

“Glad you could make it. We've got ourselves a blizzard out there!” Kenneth said gleefully.

“We sure do!” Greg agreed. “Hope I won't have trouble getting back home. It was pretty tough going!”

Kenneth clapped his hands, looked around at everyone standing in a circle, and declared, “I've got an idea! How about we cut our tree tonight?”

Rose shrieked. “You've got to be kidding!”

But the kids all jumped with delight.

“Why not? You know it's gotta be snowing when we do it. That's our tradition! And besides, we've got Greg! It'll be great!”

“Oh, Mr. Doyle, I don't know if I should—” Greg shifted uneasily.

“Sure you should! Come on, kids, get your boots! Rose, bundle up! I'll get the saw! It's the perfect night!”

The children scattered, but Rose stood in the middle of the kitchen. “C'mon, Rosie, get in the spirit! We'll get a tree and come back for hot toddies with the college man here!”

Before Rose could respond, Greg tried again to back away. “Really, Mr. Doyle, I don't think—”

“Nonsense! I told you: you're one of the family! Have you got warm gloves?”