Chapter One
Sister Mary Beth
As a novitiate, a novice nun, I have made my “simple” vows, to which I am religiously, and spirituality tied to for a certain amount of time. So, for the next three to five years, I will find my place in the Catholic Church. I’ll try many things in order to determine if I want to be cloistered or not. I was given the name Jacqueline when I was born, but when I was confirmed in the Catholic Church in tenth grade, I chose Elizabeth as my patron saint. Now, I’m Sister Mary Elizabeth, but most everyone calls me Beth. I look at myself in the ancient mirror in the bathroom that I share with forty other nuns, all of them older than me. I adjust my wimple, making sure my hair isn’t seen. While not a requirement, I love not having to worry about it. It’s unruly at best, a complete mess at worst. Wearing the habit makes everything easier for me, but it doesn’t come without drawbacks. Grabbing my rosary off the hook by the sink, my outfit is complete with sensible shoes. Smiling, I turn and leave the dormitory-style bathroom and grab my suitcase. I only packed a few habits, some jeans, and sweatshirts along with a pair of sneakers in there. Our order is a dress for comfort kind, as long as it isn’t too showy, it’s fine. Since I don’t know what exactly I’ll be doing in my next venture, I like being prepared.
This is the best order for me since I don’t always have to wear a habit. I am barely twenty and serving the Lord is my calling, I think.
I was placed in a Catholic orphanage twenty minutes outside of Allentown, Pennsylvania when I was just three years old. I was later told my parents died in a car crash, leaving me all alone in the world. I was in the car too. The only survivor of the six-car pile-up one snowy night. That’s why I have faint but very noticeable scars all over the lower half of my body. I was trapped in my car seat for hours before rescue workers even realized I was there. I know that I survived for a reason and I believe that this is it. When the time came, I chose to go to public school over the parochial school at the orphanage, so I at least have some knowledge of the outside world, but this convent is home. The only home I can remember. I don’t remember my parents, nor do I have a picture of them. This is the only life I’ve ever known, so is it any wonder why I don’t want to leave? Why I feel safe here? But that feeling can’t last forever, I know that. For the first time, I am making my way out in the world while bettering the Church.
One of the last things I have to do before they will let me take my final vows is to assist a new parish priest in setting up a brand-new church in Wisconsin. Mother Superior says that this is just one more test in a long line of tests to determine where my place is. I will be his secretary until he no longer has need of me then I will go back to Pennsylvania and move on to the next test. It should be easy; I think as I board the plane that will take me to Waukesha. It’s just southeast of Milwaukee. Never having been this far west, I am excited about doing some work other than charity or cooking and cleaning for the other nuns. I file that thought away because that reason alone makes me question everything, I ever thought I wanted in life.
On the plane, I run my fingers over the smooth beads of my Five Decade Rosary as I pray. I pray for the safety of this plane and all on board as well as the strength and guidance needed in order to be of service to Father O’Riley. Once I am finished, the woman seated next to me grabs my hand and we say the Lord’s Prayer quietly together. This isn’t the first time something like this happened due to the way I am dressed, and I am sure that it won’t be the last. The woman, Denise, and I chat about her children during the flight. I push down the pang of sadness I feel at the thought of never having children. There are still things I am coming to terms with about being a nun that I’d never admit out loud. Children are one such thing.
Arriving in Milwaukee, a lot of people stare at me. It’s one of the drawbacks. I choose to ignore them because I am not a public spectacle, but I know my habit raises a lot of eyebrows as I head from the plane to the passenger loading area outside. As a Benedictine nun, my habit is pretty traditional and basic. I shiver as I stand on the curb. It’s cold and I didn’t think to bring a coat for some reason, though it was cold at home. I am going to have to fix that immediately. It’s a different kind of cold here. Blistery and wet, I freeze as I wait for my ride. Father O’Riley is known as the bad boy priest, in that he does things a little differently than that of most priests. He’s also rumored to be incredibly handsome, but that means nothing to me. Men don’t turn my head. I don’t know about this bad boy-ness yet, but what I do know is that he is late. The longer I stand out here, the more upset I get. Just because I have dedicated my life to the Lord, doesn’t mean I don’t get pissed.