Seven Sorrows of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Sister Philomène and Mariette are working with Sister Agnès in the laundry. Weak rain is easing down the cellar windowpanes, and two frail light bulbs hang from green electrical cords woven through the joists overhead. Sister Agnès is at an ironing board while Mariette and Sister Philomène crank rinsed corporals through old hand mangles.
Warm water that smells like grapefruits is sheeting grayly on the rollers as it presses from the wet linen.
Sister Philomène has a prayerbook open on a white cupboard that holds boxes of soap and starches, and she’s whispering a novena to Saint Joseph as she turns a green iron wheel. She shows greater effort and then stares with astonishment at the rollers, seeing her white habit somehow caught up in them and rumplingly squeezing through.
Sister Philomène bashfully tugs her habit out before grinning forgivingly at Mariette.
Weeks later Sister Philomène is sitting in formation class with the four other novices while Mother Saint-Raphaël first upbraids them for their tepid essays on spirituality and then invites the postulant to read from an exam that Sister Saint-Denis has just corrected. Each of them hates Mariette as she stands there prettily, shyly, with shaking hands, and reads:
“We know from Church teaching that the soul has no true pleasure but in love. And we know from our experience that extreme bliss can only come from extreme passion. When we unite these ideas, we see how important it is for God to be away from us and be the one we pine for but cannot have, for desiring God invigorates us. Desiring him, but never fully having him, we cannot grow tired or slack. We know the joy of his ‘hereness’ now and then, but were his distance and indifference all we had, it would still be sufficient if we sought and cherished it.
“Even for the complete and immediate possession of his heart, I would not have passive tranquillity. And so I prize my hours of penance and rapture as the greatest blessings that were ever mine, and I would rather be condemned to know him no more than to know him without feeling the ardor and fervor that his presence inspires.”
Mother Saint-Raphaël stops her there and gives Mariette permission to sit with the novices as she takes up the theme of Christ’s passion versus theirs. Sister Geneviève is giggling at something Sister Pauline has said, but Sister Philomène leans toward the postulant and whispers, “Will you please let me read that for meditation?”
Mariette smiles and hastily writes slantwise on her exam before she passes it. Sister Philomène reads, “I knew you’d understand,” and hides it inside her textbook.
—And you became friendly?
—Yes.
—You knew little about her till then?
—We have no histories here. We try to live wholly in the present, just as God does.
—Yes?
—We talked about our childhoods. She dressed her dolls as Jesus and Mary, just as I did. She played in a habit just like the one that her sister Annie wore. She whipped herself with knotted apron strings. She rebuked temptations against chastity by lying naked on thorns.
—She seems to me quite ordinary.
—Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?
In November. Sister Philomène has shoved the six great refectory tables against the walls so the floorboards can be scrubbed, and Mariette is with her on her hands and knees, scouring the wood with sand and powdered lime and a pig bristle brush.
Water shines on a floor darkened to a sienna brown and Mariette’s black habit and scarf are mirrored as she works.
She is barefoot and her skirt is pinned up as high as her thighs in order to protect the habit’s cloth from stain. Faint brown hairs stir on her calves as she moves. Her heels and toes are pink with callus.
She stops scouring with a shocked expression and she hesitantly rises up until she’s kneeling there with her hands joined in prayer. Her wet blue eyes are overawed as she
Sister Philomène and Mariette are working with Sister Agnès in the laundry. Weak rain is easing down the cellar windowpanes, and two frail light bulbs hang from green electrical cords woven through the joists overhead. Sister Agnès is at an ironing board while Mariette and Sister Philomène crank rinsed corporals through old hand mangles.
Warm water that smells like grapefruits is sheeting grayly on the rollers as it presses from the wet linen.
Sister Philomène has a prayerbook open on a white cupboard that holds boxes of soap and starches, and she’s whispering a novena to Saint Joseph as she turns a green iron wheel. She shows greater effort and then stares with astonishment at the rollers, seeing her white habit somehow caught up in them and rumplingly squeezing through.
Sister Philomène bashfully tugs her habit out before grinning forgivingly at Mariette.
Weeks later Sister Philomène is sitting in formation class with the four other novices while Mother Saint-Raphaël first upbraids them for their tepid essays on spirituality and then invites the postulant to read from an exam that Sister Saint-Denis has just corrected. Each of them hates Mariette as she stands there prettily, shyly, with shaking hands, and reads:
“We know from Church teaching that the soul has no true pleasure but in love. And we know from our experience that extreme bliss can only come from extreme passion. When we unite these ideas, we see how important it is for God to be away from us and be the one we pine for but cannot have, for desiring God invigorates us. Desiring him, but never fully having him, we cannot grow tired or slack. We know the joy of his ‘hereness’ now and then, but were his distance and indifference all we had, it would still be sufficient if we sought and cherished it.
“Even for the complete and immediate possession of his heart, I would not have passive tranquillity. And so I prize my hours of penance and rapture as the greatest blessings that were ever mine, and I would rather be condemned to know him no more than to know him without feeling the ardor and fervor that his presence inspires.”
Mother Saint-Raphaël stops her there and gives Mariette permission to sit with the novices as she takes up the theme of Christ’s passion versus theirs. Sister Geneviève is giggling at something Sister Pauline has said, but Sister Philomène leans toward the postulant and whispers, “Will you please let me read that for meditation?”
Mariette smiles and hastily writes slantwise on her exam before she passes it. Sister Philomène reads, “I knew you’d understand,” and hides it inside her textbook.
—And you became friendly?
—Yes.
—You knew little about her till then?
—We have no histories here. We try to live wholly in the present, just as God does.
—Yes?
—We talked about our childhoods. She dressed her dolls as Jesus and Mary, just as I did. She played in a habit just like the one that her sister Annie wore. She whipped herself with knotted apron strings. She rebuked temptations against chastity by lying naked on thorns.
—She seems to me quite ordinary.
—Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?
In November. Sister Philomène has shoved the six great refectory tables against the walls so the floorboards can be scrubbed, and Mariette is with her on her hands and knees, scouring the wood with sand and powdered lime and a pig bristle brush.
Water shines on a floor darkened to a sienna brown and Mariette’s black habit and scarf are mirrored as she works.
She is barefoot and her skirt is pinned up as high as her thighs in order to protect the habit’s cloth from stain. Faint brown hairs stir on her calves as she moves. Her heels and toes are pink with callus.
She stops scouring with a shocked expression and she hesitantly rises up until she’s kneeling there with her hands joined in prayer. Her wet blue eyes are overawed as she
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