Waiting to Believe

by Sandra Bloom

  She reached out to make another play on Lisa’s game, when she heard the rustle of Mother Mary Bernard’s habit. The old nun drew up to their table. “Solitaire for you two? I don’t think so. There’s a game of Monopoly over there.” She nodded across the room. “Go join it now.”

  Kacey glanced at the small group of elderly sisters hunched around the worn board. Then up at her superior. Feeling a shudder of resentment, Kacey rose without a word and left the room.

  The next evening, Kacey asked Lisa, “Will this canonical year ever end?” They were seated side by side at a large table, doing paint-by-numbers. Kacey was painting Jesus praying at the Mount of Olives. Lisa’s was Moses, parting the Red Sea. The pictures, when completed, would be given to children at the nearby orphanage.

  Lisa dipped her brush into cobalt blue. “I think we’re through the worst of it.”

  “I don’t know,” Kacey replied. “Sometimes I think I can’t take another hour of it! It’s like a prison sentence!” She added, “It’s worse than a prison sentence. At least there you can get time off for good behavior!”

  Kacey had tried fervently to be “good,” but the studies were relentless. She was overwhelmed at the otherworldliness of her existence, the lack of relevance to real life.

  Though she had thrown herself into her studies and into prayer for enlightenment, she hadn’t made much progress in her spiritual journey. Still, she felt dedicated. She believed she was where she should be. She could think of no place she’d rather be. Greg’s wife? At the University of Minnesota? Working at her father’s bank and caring for the family? No. She was determined to make a difference in this world. The religious life would be her vehicle.

  As a high school junior, she had stumbled upon the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer and had been struck with his strength in the face of impending death. She still carried a quote of his on a scrap of paper tucked in her prayer book. She had placed it there the night she entered Blessed Sacrament Convent, and often, as she crawled into bed, she opened the slip of paper and read Bonhoeffer’s simple statement of faith: “Who am I?” Bonhoeffer wrote from a German prison, condemned to death. “They mock me, these lonely questions of mine. Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!”

  And silently, Kacey continued to insist, Yes, I will be yours. I am yours! It’s enough! It is enough!

  23

  At last, the year of intense religious study ended, and Kacey was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing her family. Her lonesomeness had not lessened. She feared she was slipping away from them, on a freight train that kept moving through the night. There was no turning back.

  She began counting the days in her head. She dare not mark them off on a calendar. Her preoccupation with the world would be noticed—and addressed. But no one could control her thoughts.

  Who would be taller—Maureen at sixteen or Gerald at fifteen? And Joseph, her little Joey. Thirteen last month. Was he still full of wonder? So inquisitive?

  Perhaps most inconceivable of all, Bridget was now seventeen. The same age Kacey had been when she entered the convent. She had no idea what thoughts, what dreams, filled Bridget’s head. She tried to remember her own senior year.

  Greg. How important he had been, and now how far removed from her life. Still, she had had a dream of him, so intense that she was shaken to her core, ashamed of the quivering still present in her body as she awakened. She had reached down and touched the creamy leftovers of her dream.

  Was Bridget struggling with those feelings? Was there someone urging her to go farther until she would be swept away? And if so, would she ever tell Kacey?

  Kacey understood her experiences were carrying her away from the family, but still she wondered, Do they miss me? Do they still love me?

  The service marking the end of the canonical year was brief. Kacey knew it was significant, but mostly, she wanted it to end so she could be with her family. She felt shy as she approached the tight, little circle waiting for her in the great room. Her mother looked pale, unsure of herself. But she wrapped her arms around Kacey and held her tightly, saying nothing in greeting. Kenneth waited his turn. The children all hung back. A year is a long time to be apart. They had changed. All of them. Well, perhaps not her father. He looked tanned and happy. Handsome as ever. Maybe even more so. There were streaks of gray springing up in his thick charcoal hair. As he embraced her, she felt the fine fabric of his new suit.

  “Another great day!” he exclaimed, “Another step forward!”

  Once again, Annie was missing. It had been more than two years since Kacey had seen her. This once-powerful force in Kacey’s life had become a ghost.

  Maureen was wearing makeup now, but the red of her lips was too bright, the eye shadow a shade too dramatic. Still, her smile was Maureen. She offered it as Kacey took her in her arms.

  The boys, scrubbed and dressed in their finest, were all arms and legs, unsure how to greet her. Gerald punched her arm. “Nice going,” he said.

  “Yeah,” added Joseph, who stood in his brother’s shadow, his discomfort obvious.

  Kacey punched Gerald back, but she could not resist sweeping an arm around Joseph’s shoulder. “Joey,” she said, “I can’t believe how grown up you look—and just as handsome as Dad!” Joseph flushed with pleasure.

  Finally there was Bridget, who waited, silently, to move into Kacey’s embrace. She clung to her big sister, burrowing her face into Kacey’s shoulder. Kacey could feel the sharp angles of her body. Too thin! Too thin! She held Bridget at arm’s length, looking intently into her sister’s face. “There’s no meat on your bones, girl!”

  Bridget’s smile was slow in coming. “I’m fine, Kacey.”

  “You must miss my cooking! Are you in charge these days?”

  The boys laughed. “No one’s in charge.” Gerald said. “That’s the problem!” Rose’s face registered immediate offense. She began to utter an objection, but Kacey took her by the arm. “C’mon, everyone! Let’s get something to eat!”

  It was good to be together in that sweet, sweet circle.

  24

  “Sisters! Your attention!” Mother Mary Bernard’s voice rang out, commanding and demanding, as she stood at the head of the long dining room table. All eyes were on her as she proceeded with the announcement everyone had been anticipating for weeks.

  Kacey’s jaw tightened at the sound of her superior’s voice. Throughout her two years in the convent, she had struggled to admire and respect the mistress of novices, but there seemed so little joy in the brittle, stern-faced old nun.

  Her precise manner of speaking was a constant irritant to Kacey. Why can’t she speak in contractions like real people do? She supposed Mary Bernard considered contractions too personal. Not appropriate for God’s work.

  God’s work. There was the rub. Wasn’t Mother Mary Bernard doing God’s work? Kacey’s own thoughts were far from godlike. Why did she feel such antipathy toward her superior?

  Kacey snatched her attention back to the stern nun standing before her. “I have posted the summer work assignments on the notice board. These assignments are nonnegotiable. Each one has been given the utmost thought and assigned in order to bring glory to God.” A pause. Then, “When you are through with breakfast, you may go to the board and find your assignment.”

  Kacey’s heart beat faster. “For those of you who have been chosen to serve at Camp Apple Acres, meet me in the great room to get details of your assignment.”

  For the first time in such a long time, excitement bubbled in Kacey. She had tried to dismiss her growing anxiety over the summer assignments, recalling her disappointment at not being given the name she had requested. She remembered Lisa’s observation: “Maybe you wanted it too much.”

  Kacey wanted to work at the camp for children with disabilities. She wanted to be out of doors, in the woods, by the water, under the sky. She wanted to hear children
laughing, singing. But maybe, maybe she wanted it too much.

  Her breath was coming in short bursts as she walked up to the posting and scanned the list for her name. And there it was: “Sister Mary Laurence. Camp Apple Acres.” Hooray!

  Camp Apple Acres was a thirty-minute ride from the convent, at the end of a narrow gravel road. Each mile in the rattly old bus took them deeper into the woods and farther from all vestiges of civilization. Kacey loved it! Finally the bus slowed, and she saw a waist-high stone fence off to the left and then a wooden archway with a hanging sign, “Camp Apple Acres.”

  “This is it,” Sister Helena shouted cheerfully. “Everyone out!” And four habit-clad novices clamored for the door.

  Kacey stretched in the full sunlight, thrusting her arms up in a joyful burst of thanksgiving. Beauty lay on every side. Grand pine trees lined the length of the stone fence. Knee-high ferns swayed everywhere. Lupines stood at attention, scattered throughout. Deeper in the woods she saw blue spruce and balsams intermingled with her favorite, paper birches. This is more like it! Her heart leapt as she drank it all in.

  Sister Helena gingerly climbed down the steps of the bus and motioned to the little group to follow her up the path to the administration building, a small log cabin. Approaching it, Kacey got a glimpse of the apple orchard off in the distance, dotting the open landscape like a Seurat painting. Down the southern slope of the orchard, the sun was glinting on the water of a small lake. Beauty everywhere. A shiver of pleasure ran through her starved body.

  The camp was owned by the county and run by a small, wiry young woman of boundless energy and limitless outdoor skills. Patsy Mason also possessed a loving commitment to children. Kacey felt an immediate connection. “This could have been me!” she thought as Patsy greeted the four novices.

  “I’m so glad to have you here for our month-long program! We have thirty-five campers with us and six full-time counselors on staff. You’re the frosting on the cake!”

  “Our girls,” she went on, “live with problems ranging from cerebral palsy to epilepsy to developmental disabilities. They’re between nine and twelve, and for most of them, this is their first camping experience, so we want to make it terrific! We want them to remember this summer for the rest of their lives!”

  The novices spontaneously burst into applause. How refreshing it was to be allowed to react!

  Patsy continued, “I’ve got a lot of paper for you to read and absorb, including your job descriptions, and more to tell you about what your lives will be like, being with us eight hours a day. But first, how about coffee and a Danish? Hot out of the oven!” The novices grinned at one another as they fell in behind the new boss, who led them toward an open-air dining hall. The smell of freshly baked pastries mingled with the pungent scent of pine.

  As Patsy laid out plates and cups, Kacey approached her. “Excuse me, Patsy, but I’ve got a question.”

  “I’ll try to answer, but I’ve only been here a couple weeks myself.”

  Kacey couldn’t withhold a sheepish grin. “Oh, it’s not about camp. It’s about the Twins cap you’re wearing. I wonder if you could tell me how they’re doing. The last I heard, Killebrew was having back spasms and Bernie Allen had a groin injury.”

  Patsy threw back her head and hooted. “A woman after my own heart! So you haven’t given up on the world completely!”

  “Well, my access is pretty limited,” Kacey admitted, “but I’ve been a big fan through the years.”

  Patsy handed her a cup of coffee and motioned her to sit. “Put your mind at rest—Killebrew’s just fine. I think he could stand to lose a little weight, but he’s fine. Allen had to go on the DL, though. They’ve brought in Jerry Kindall to play second. Remember him? He’s from St. Paul.”

  “Oh, sure,” Kacey replied. “He played for the U of M. I remember when he got his first shot in the majors—he said if he could just keep his batting average as high as his weight, he’d do okay.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I wish he could put on some of Killebrew’s pounds! He’s good in the field, but he doesn’t bring much power to the plate, and they could really use it.”

  Kacey reached for a Danish. “They’re struggling, huh?”

  “In seventh place.”

  Kacey groaned. “Well, it’s a long season. They could still make a run for it.”

  Patsy gave Kacey a long look over the brim of her coffee cup, “You are a woman of faith.”

  25

  “Sister Mary Laurence! Sister! Come right away!”

  Kacey ran to Bonnie Peterson’s side in the craft cabin. Tears coursed down the glue-streaked face of the eleven-year-old.

  Kacey knelt before her, reaching to wipe at her tears. “What is it, Bonnie? What’s wrong?”

  “Someone’s being mean to me—or a mouse or a rat or something!” A small trace of spittle seeped from the corner of her mouth.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My papier-mâché is all nibbled!” Her eyes, too large for the small face, were wild. Kacey cradled the distraught child.

  Rocking her, Kacey whispered, “No one would try to hurt you, honey! It was just an accident, but we can fix it! Really, we can!” Taking the hem of her habit, she wiped at Bonnie’s face. Tiny smudges of glue transferred from Bonnie’s cheek to the habit. “Look, we can cover those ragged edges with a little ruffle of ribbon! It’ll look great! Better than ever!”

  The child in her arms looked at Kacey with awe. She reached out to touch the ribbon Kacey had picked up from the craft material lying on the table. “Oh, Sister,” she said, “you’re magic!”

  Kacey tried to distance herself from Bonnie’s admiration and her own affection for the child. Neither was encouraged. She was here to be the agent of God. Kacey the individual no longer existed.

  Still, she could not deny the deliciousness of being sought out and being able to speak throughout the day.

  Kacey was getting into the relaxed rhythm of camp life, though she regretted that the novices could not stay overnight with the campers and counselors. It was impossible, she understood, and she felt shame that she even wished for it.

  “You play a mean guitar, Sister!” Patsy Mason smiled at Kacey as she poured herself a cup of morning coffee. She held the pot up, and Kacey reached across the table to take a refill.

  Kacey chuckled. “I don’t know that camp songs are much of a test!”

  “I s’pose not,” Patsy acknowledged. “But I heard a few riffs coming from the music barn yesterday that I never heard around my Girl Scout campfire!”

  Kacey spooned sugar into her coffee. “You play?” she asked.

  “Oh sure, doesn’t everyone? But nothing like you!” Patsy leaned back in her chair, her coffee cup held up to her chin. She was watching Kacey intently. “Do you miss it?”

  The question startled Kacey. She shifted slightly. “I do, as a matter of fact. I miss it. I miss a lot of things.”

  “I’m not surprised. You seem—”

  Kacey interrupted her. “So you were a Girl Scout.”

  Patsy did not seem to notice she’d been cut off. She raised her three fingers in the Girl Scout pledge. “Girl Scout Council of St. Croix Valley.”

  “What about scouting as a career? You seem like a natural.”

  “Oh, I tossed it around in my mind for a while,” Patsy replied. “But I don’t think so.”

  Kacey reached across the table and picked at a doughnut half-eaten on Patsy’s plate. “Well, what then? What’s calling to you that you can’t resist? Are you in college?”

  “U of M. I’m a junior, but I don’t have a firm grip on a major. I’ve changed it three times already!”

  “Oh, dear,” Kacey responded sympathetically, though she couldn’t fathom such indecision.

  “I s’pose you knew from your first communion that you were going to be a nun, huh?”<
br />
  “Not at all! It was slow going. I resisted at every turn!”

  Patsy swirled the coffee in her cup, staring down into it as she spoke. “That’s a candid response. You’re full of contradictions, aren’t you?”

  Kacey took a swallow. “Just giving you the facts, ma’am.” This was not a conversation she wanted to have. “Duty calls! Time for finger painting!”

  The woods and wildflowers grew lusher with each passing week. What a gift! And part of the gift of this place was the sweetness of young voices, the abandonment with which Kacey was greeted each morning. She was a favorite with the little band of campers and the teenage counselors as well. The counselors watched her, intrigued by the occasional twinkle in her sky-blue eyes. They wanted to get to know this leprechaun disguised as a nun.

  Even though Kacey’s reason for coming to Oak Alley, the counselors’ cabin, during afternoon rest period was to compare notes on one of the children, she was secretly pleased to be in the unguarded midst of the bubbly teens.

  A portable record player sat on a dresser. The tinny sound blasting from it invaded her sensitivities. “It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a dog . . .” The voices were not familiar to Kacey. The harmonies were tight. The beat was driving. Music had changed in two years.

  The girls had tacked posters on the rough wood walls. She recognized Peter, Paul and Mary. Bobby Vinton. Elvis. But above one of the beds was a wildly colored poster of six young musicians in suggestive poses, smirks on their faces. It’s too intense, Kacey thought; too intimate in a peculiar way. She stared at the poster for a moment. “Who are they?”

  Cindy Skoglund was incredulous. “The Rolling Stones!” She laughed as she turned down the volume on the phonograph.

  “Never heard of them. Is that who’s singing?”

  “No, no, no! That’s the Beatles!”