Sister didn’t reveal any emotion. “Are you saying you’re considering the convent?”
“Yes…”
“Do you feel you have a vocation, Joanna?”
“Yes.”
Sister sighed. “I don’t want to discourage you, especially if God is calling you to the religious life. But it’s important that you enter the convent for the right reasons. Not because you have a broken heart.”
Joanna understood Sister Theresa’s concern. “I feel God purposely took Greg out of my life. It was His way of asking me to work for Him.”
Sister regarded her steadily. “God doesn’t want to be your second choice, Joanna. He wants to be first in your heart.”
“He is, Sister. He was until…until Greg and I became involved. I want to serve as a St. Bridget’s Sister of the Assumption.”
Sister Theresa paused. “Nothing would please me more, but I want you to wait.”
“Wait?” Joanna was ready to enter that very moment. Greg wasn’t right for her. They’d led each other into sin and she so desperately wanted to be at peace with God again.
“Give it six months,” Sister Theresa added.
Reluctantly, Joanna nodded.
“Have you mentioned this to your parents?”
“Yes.” It hadn’t gone well. Her mother insisted that Joanna was just reacting to the broken engagement. Her father, on the other hand, had encouraged her, which only infuriated her mother.
“Give it six months,” Sister repeated, “and if you’re still convinced this is what you want, then I’ll recommend that you be admitted in February as an incoming postulant.”
Part 2
BRIDES OF CHRIST
As a bridegroom rejoices over his bride, so will God rejoice over you.
Isaiah 62:5
4
ANGELINA MARCELLO
1958 to 1972
As Angie disembarked from the Greyhound bus that September morning in 1958, she was impatient to start her new life. The farewell scene with her father lingered in her mind. Still, she couldn’t allow his disparaging remarks to spoil her first day at the convent. He seemed so sure that entering the order was wrong for her, but if that was true, why did her heart burn with zeal for God?
Her father found it hard to let her go, Angie realized with a swell of compassion. She loved him all the more for his willingness to step aside and allow her to follow her own path, despite the fact that he was convinced she’d made the biggest mistake of her eighteen years.
He’d wept openly as she boarded the bus, the tears streaming down his cheeks. She would always remember her last sight of him: as the bus pulled out of the station, he’d taken the handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. Then with slumped shoulders, he’d turned and walked away. She’d watched sadly, wishing she could have spared him this grief and knowing she couldn’t.
Despite Angie’s eagerness to enter the religious life, she was nervous. She arrived in Boston midafternoon and caught a cab that deposited her in front of the motherhouse. She was cheered to see that the wrought-iron gates were open wide as though to welcome her. Carrying her small battered suitcase—originally her mother’s—Angie walked resolutely up the brick walkway to the convent’s entrance and rang the bell.
“Angelina. I see you made it on your own.” A tall nun, so thin and sleek that she resembled a crane, stepped forward to greet her.
Angie didn’t recall meeting her before.
“I’m Sister Mary Louise. We met briefly when you made your application. Don’t worry if you don’t remember me. You met a lot of us that day.”
Angie smiled in relief. There’d been so many, and their faces and names were a blur in her mind.
“I’m the Postulant Mistress. We’ll be having tea shortly. Now, come inside and make yourself comfortable. Several other girls are already here.”
She was ushered to a formal room furnished with a dining table and chairs. Angelina recognized Mother Superior there; she also saw three young women, obviously the other postulants. What surprised her was the immediate sense of connection she experienced. These girls, who sat self-consciously at the table, sipping tea and munching cookies, would become her new community. Her family.
“Mother Superior, I’m sure you remember Angelina Marcello,” Sister Mary Louise said, escorting Angelina to the older nun.
Angelina hesitated, uncertain if anything was required of her, such as bowing or genuflecting. She knew priests kissed the Bishop’s ring, but she wasn’t up on etiquette for meeting such an important woman.
Sister Agnes’s smile was warm and encompassing. “Of course I remember Angelina. You come to us from Buffalo, New York. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Angie nodded, holding herself stiff for fear of saying or doing something wrong.
“I thought so. Is there a chair for Angelina, Sister?” Mother asked and Angie was offered an empty place at the table. As soon as she sat, Mother Superior introduced her to the others. “Meet Karen. She’s from Boston and Marie is from Columbus, Ohio. Josephine comes to us all the way from California. We’re so pleased you’re here to be part of us.”
By the end of the day, Angelina had been introduced to twenty women ranging in age from seventeen to twenty-two. The postulants were served an early dinner, with only Mother Superior joining them. Because they sat across from each other, Angie and Karen had a chance to talk.
“Did your family bring you?” Angie asked, aware that most girls had been accompanied by their parents and sometimes siblings.
Karen gazed down at the polished tile floor and shook her head. “They were unhappy with my decision.” Her hair was dark and straight and fell to the middle of her back. She had a pretty face, Angie thought.
“My father was too,” she confessed. This trip to Boston was the first time Angie had traveled anywhere outside of New York State. She’d worried about making the trip by herself but in the end, she’d managed quite nicely. That reassured her, in some small way, that she’d made the right choice.
“I think this is such a beautiful life,” Karen told her. Her eyes held a dreamy look. “The habits are lovely, aren’t they?”
Angie’s smile was vague. She’d never stopped to think about the habits or that she’d soon be wearing one herself.
A few moments later Sister Mary Louise appeared in the refectory doorway and signaled them to follow her. They paraded through the convent, through a series of corridors and passageways, arriving at a heavy wooden door.
“This is the entrance to your dormitory,” Sister explained. Angelina had been a visitor earlier in the year during her high school retreat, but it had all felt so different then.
With the others, Angie slowly entered her new living quarters. The soon-to-be postulants clustered together, their shoes clattering against the stone floor. No one seemed willing to walk all the way inside.
“Come in, come in,” Sister Mary Louise encouraged. Then one by one, she led them down the hallway and assigned them rooms.
“This will be your cell,” the Postulant Mistress told Angie. “I put you next to Karen.”
Angie’s eyes linked with the other girl’s and they shared a smile. It would be good to have a friend, especially one who understood how difficult it had been to go against her father’s wishes. As soon as Sister Mary Louise pointed out her room, Angie moved inside, curious about the place where she’d be spending so many hours. It was stark, with only a bed, table and lamp, similar to the one she’d slept in just a few months earlier. She couldn’t help wondering how many other young women had prayed and slept and struggled with doubt and fear in this very room. How many other women had come to St. Bridget’s Sisters as she had, with a heart longing to serve? How many had stayed and how many had left? These were things she might never know.
Sister Mary Louise hurried into Angie’s cell. “Here are your new clothes.” She set a stack of folded garments on the end of the bed.
Angie waited until the nun had left before examinin
g the unfamiliar garb. She could hear nervous giggles coming from the other cells. She discovered black woolen stockings, which she put on after the plain cotton underwear. Next was a dark tunic with long sleeves; they fell past her fingertips and she had to fold them back over her wrists. Then came the black vestlike shirt and pleated ankle-length black skirt, followed by a short cape. Last were the shoes—what she’d always thought of as “nun shoes”—one-inch-thick heels that laced up.
When Angie had finished changing out of her street clothes and into her new ones, she stood in the cell doorway. Sister Mary Louise nodded approvingly when she saw her. “Does everything fit?”
Everything hung loosely on her, but Angie suspected that was exactly how it was supposed to be. “I believe so, Sister.”
“Very good. Now we’ll give you a veil.” She set Angie down on a stool in the hallway and retrieved a hairbrush from her pocket. With swift strokes, she pulled Angie’s hair severely from her face and fastened it in the back with hair clips, then secured a veil to her head. Only a few wisps from her bangs were visible.
Soon all twenty of them were dressed and veiled. “This is your introduction to St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption,” Sister Mary Louise explained. “During the induction ceremony a few minutes from now, Mother Superior will read a special prayer. I want you to bow your heads and listen carefully. Absorb as many of the words as you can and hold on to their meaning. This prayer is asking God to grant you whatever you need to be a good nun.” Sister Mary Louise paused briefly, glancing around at the assembled postulants.
“Let me add,” she said, her expression serious, “that this time as a postulant is a period of testing. You are asking for the privilege and honor of becoming a novice. You are studying us and we’ll be studying you to ensure that you genuinely belong with us.”
The Mistress of Postulants paused for a moment, meeting several girls’ eyes. “There will be many questions you will answer in the next year. Important questions. But first and foremost, you must decide if you are ready to set aside your own selfish desires and replace them with a close relationship with God.
“You will learn the lessons of obedience and poverty. From this moment forward, you own nothing. Everything you have, right down to your toothbrush, belongs to the Order. You must be absolutely ruthless in your rejection of the world.”
Angie gave a deep sigh. She was ready to relinquish the world, ready to cast aside all that she owned and would inherit, including the family restaurant. She wanted this life and was determined to pursue it wholeheartedly.
“For many of you, silence will be your greatest struggle. It is just one of the ways we use to empty out all the clutter in our minds. Silence allows God to fill our heads with His thoughts. Grand Silence begins shortly after dinner at seven-thirty. You are not to speak until the next morning. All of this will be further explained in due course. Now follow me.”
Sister Mary Louise led them into the chapel for the short ceremony in which they were officially welcomed as postulants into the motherhouse. After that, they were taken back to the dormitory.
Sister Mary Louise stood in front of them. “I know that most of you are feeling confused and a little numb. It’s been a busy day, one that signifies the beginning of an important stage of your lives. You will pray together, eat together and study together. However, you’ll be separated from the professed sisters at all times, except in chapel and during meals and Sunday evening recreation.”
Angie’s head was swimming. There seemed to be so much to remember.
“In the morning the alarm rings at four-forty-five. As soon as you hear the bell, you will rise and immediately kneel beside your bed and recite the Our Father. You are to remain silent from the time you hear the bell until after Mass. The bell indicates silence and offers each of us the opportunity for a short daily retreat as we lovingly prepare for Mass.”
All Angie heard was the ungodly hour at which the alarm rang. Everything after that was a blur. Four-forty-five in the morning. But, Angie reminded herself, this time set aside for prayer was the very reason she’d entered the convent. She’d come searching for the way to serve God to the fullest.
“Following chapel and breakfast, you will start your first classes.” Angie nodded eagerly; she’d always enjoyed school and these would be the most vital lessons of her entire life.
That night, Angie slipped into the long flannel gown the convent provided and crawled between the coarse sheets of her bed.
The classes that first day were full of valuable information, some of it familiar, some brand-new. Angie took careful notes.
“The history of our order gives us a rich legacy,” Sister Mary Louise said, “thanks to the woman who founded St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption. I know many of you have already heard the story of Fionnuala Wheaton.”
Angie had read about the life of this wonderful Irishwoman before she was accepted into the convent.
“What can you tell me about her?” Sister asked.
The room was silent, and then Karen tentatively raised her hand. “I know she was married to an English landowner.”
“She was widowed at an early age,” Angie added.
“That’s correct,” Sister said, smiling appreciatively in Karen and Angie’s direction. “Fionnuala and William had a good marriage. They were devoted to each other.”
“She was disappointed that they’d never had children,” another postulant said.
“Yes, but we know this was all part of God’s plan. God had other things in mind for our founder.”
Angie was beginning to understand that God’s ways were not those of the world.
“After her husband’s death, Fionnuala was devastated by grief and turned to the Church for comfort. The priests of St. Bridget’s Parish encouraged her in acts of charity. Soon her generosity was widely known throughout the region. It wasn’t long before other widows asked to join her. The small group decided to live and work together. It was Fionnuala’s intent to heal the sick and educate the poor.”
Angie sat up straighter. This was her heart’s desire, too—to help the poor, to teach, and endlessly offer herself to whatever work the Church asked of her.
“In 1840, with the approval of Pope Gregory XVI, St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption formally received the blessing of Rome and was established as a religious order.”
“This was in Ireland?” one of the girls asked.
“Yes.” Sister smiled at Bonnie, the girl whose cell was across from Angie’s. “These were the days of the terrible potato famine and as you know, many Irish immigrated to the United States. Conditions were deplorable in Ireland and in the United States, too, as the immigrants struggled to make new lives. In an effort to help, St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption sent many young nuns to America. They arrived in Boston and established the convent here. Soon the demand for nuns was high, and by the turn of the century more and more women were offering their lives to the service of the Church.”
“When was the motherhouse transferred here?” Karen asked. “From Ireland, I mean.”
Sister Mary Louise walked toward the blackboard. “Just before the first of the two World Wars. We’re proud of our order, which has grown and expanded through the years. As of today, we have ten convents situated across the United States. I’m pleased to tell you that we are one of the most prominent religious orders in the country. God has continued to bless our efforts.
“While the motherhouse here in Boston is our oldest convent, it isn’t our largest. That honor goes to our convent in Minneapolis, Minnesota.”
Angie had read about the Minneapolis convent in the brochure she’d received at the time of her high school retreat. The Sisters worked as nurses at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital and teachers for the thriving Catholic schools within St. Peter’s diocese.
Besides attending her classes, Angelina was required to fulfill housekeeping duties around the convent. Her first assignment was in the laundry room, situated next to
the kitchen. After several weeks of bland meals, Angie could remain silent no longer, especially when she realized the cook planned to make spaghetti.
“Let me help,” she suggested. She’d already finished sorting and folding that day’s clean laundry.
“Help?” The cook, an older woman hired from the community, looked up at her in surprise.
“I’m Italian. I know about herbs and spices.” She dipped a spoon into the bubbling red sauce on the stove and tasted it, then slowly shook her head. Her father would throw himself in front of oncoming traffic rather than serve anything this bland. “Bring me the basil,” she said with such authority that the lay cook hurried to comply.
Searching through the spice rack, Angie added a pinch of this and a handful of that, tasted, tested and wasn’t satisfied until she had something that at least resembled the sauce she knew and loved.
That evening the sisters raved about the meal. The two nuns who’d drawn kitchen duty tried to explain that it had been Angie’s work, but it was risky to give her credit. Angie had been assigned to the laundry, not the kitchen. Not once was she ever asked to cook, although the other postulants helped prepare meals on a regular basis.
Whenever the mail arrived, Angie searched for a letter from her father, but she never found one. Karen didn’t hear from her family, either. Angie’s father could come up with no more effective way to discourage her. It was with a heavy heart that she offered up her disappointment to God.
At the end of her first year, in which she’d received only one terse letter from her father, Angie entered the novitiate. This was known as the contemplative year of silence. Speaking was allowed for only half an hour each evening, and all contact with family was prohibited. She never knew if her father wrote during that year but suspected he hadn’t. He was still angry with her.
Nor did he write during her second year as a novice. She spent her days in prayer, studying Scripture and Church history and performing household tasks. The slow, peaceful days in this year of silence helped to shape her thoughts. They taught her patience and a willingness to yield her life to the dictates of God and Mother Superior. By the end of her time in the novitiate, Angie was approached by the Mistress of Novices regarding her new name as a professed sister. She was asked to submit three, but final approval rested with Mother Superior.