The
cardboard box on the rack above my bus seat held what was left of my
possessions. In a few hours they would belong to God, and so would I. I
watched the street outside, mesmerized as cars wove through eight lanes
of traffic. On a billboard, an electric blonde advertised cigarettes,
then suddenly morphed into a giant banana flaunting a reed skirt and
long, dark eyelashes.
"You been to the city before?" A man with a
black T- shirt waved his hands, brushing my shoulder with his too- broad
gesture. He stared, waiting for an answer.
"Yes, I was here in January."
"Really? You look like you never seen a city before. Where're you from?"
I shifted in the seat. Was it supposed to be this personal between passengers on buses in New York?
"Texas."
"Texas?" The man was loud. Other people in the bus turned their heads to look. "What's a kid from Texas doing in New York?"
I
wasn't a kid. I was nineteen and I'd just finished a year in the honors
program at the University of Texas, with good grades. I didn't see why I
should explain to a loud man on a bus that I was in New York because
the only thing I'd been thinking of for the past year and a half had
been coming to this city to give myself to God. But not answering would
have been rude.
"I came to see some sisters."
"Oh, you got relatives here." He seemed satisfied, but his conclusion wasn't accurate.
"Not those kind of sisters. Catholic sisters. Nuns."
"You're coming to New York City to see nuns?"
"To become a nun."
He
drew in a whistle as his eyes traveled my body, perhaps looking for
some sort of deformity, or maybe, if he was Catholic, a halo. I
possessed neither. I didn't expect him to understand. Even my family
didn't understand.
The man grew quiet, and I grew less tense. Soon
I didn't see the buildings or the billboards anymore. I saw Mom, Dad,
my five sisters, and my brother all lined up on the tarmac that morning,
waving their eldest off. Four- year- old Heather's hand had never
stopped waving -- only she seemed to understand the joy of my adventure.
Kathy, just thirteen months younger than I, had cried most of the
night. She'd said, as she had for weeks, "Mary, you're wasting your
life." I'd told her that I'd chosen the best life possible, a life of
love, but that morning she'd refused even to look at me. Mom waved but
didn't smile. She'd been so insistent that I at least finish college.
I'd explained that when God calls, you don't put Him on hold, but she
didn't get that, either.
It had been even worse when Dad had taken
me to the airport in January for the preliminary week the sisters
called "come and see." The plane was delayed, and while we sat waiting,
he put his hand on my knee and looked into my eyes, then at my suitcase,
the floor, then me again, without saying anything. When tears began to
puddle in his eyes, he left without a word or a glance back.
The
bus jerked to a halt at Grand Central Terminal. I reached for the rack
above, but the man in the black T- shirt saw me and lifted the box
before I could. "Best of luck, kid," he said as he placed the box in my
hands, then added under his breath, "Pray for me, okay?"
I nodded
and smiled, edging my way along the aisle. I told myself to be more
careful about judging people in the future. As I stepped off the bus, a
wave of heat slapped me -- not the familiar heat heavy with refinery
fumes and Gulf Coast humidity, but an undulating heat of asphalt, steel,
and bodies. I looked for the man in the T- shirt, but he was gone. All I
saw were swarms of people -- hurrying, determined people who all seemed
to know where they were going.
I knew where I was going, too. I'd
taken a taxi in January, though the first three cabs to stop had
refused to venture into the South Bronx. This time the sisters had sent
directions, and I'd memorized them: shuttle bus to Grand Central, the #5
subway, a five- block walk.
God, I prayed,
lead me through this scurrying city. Lead me to You.
I walked down steps that smelled of urine. On the platform, I flinched a
little as trains rushed past, then marveled at their jackets of neon
graffiti. I clutched the strings on my box. I'd heard stories of men
with knives on subways, and lately the evening news had dwelt on the
"Son of Sam." The serial killer, who police said believed he was
possessed by the devil, shot women with long dark hair. My hair was sort
of dark but short. According to Walter Cronkite, women in New York had
bought out the city's entire stock of blond wigs and were on the verge
of panic.
God, take care of me. I'm working for You now.
When
the #5 pulled up, I found a seat and cradled my box. A suitcase would
have been easier, but the sisters had said they didn't use them, or
purses, either.
I'm going to live free, I told myself,
like the lilies of the field and the birds of the air.
The
heat and the crowds and the news stories had made my stomach queasy. I
checked my pocket for the envelope I'd safety- pinned there -- my
passport and money were safe. I'd collected the $700 from my summer job
as a technical writer, my savings, and money from selling my French
touring bike and electric typewriter. The sisters had insisted on money
for airfare to return me home if things didn't work out, or to send me
to Rome if they did.
My friends had thrown a "penguin party" for
me a week earlier, a beach party -- "black and white dress required in
honor of Mary's new wardrobe." These public school classmates of mine
didn't even know my nuns wore white saris trimmed in blue, yet they
squatted around the campfire debating the odds of my perseverance. Some
claimed the girl who took on the school board in editorials was
constitutionally incapable of a vow of obedience, that a star of the
debate team, known for humiliating her opponents, wouldn't last ten
minutes in a convent. Others countered that I was the kind of person
who, once she decides something, will see it through, even if it means
taking the layouts of the school newspaper home with her, working on
them all night, strapping them to her bicycle the next morning, and
delivering them personally to the printer to avoid missing a deadline.
They said once I put the habit on, I'd die in it.
I enjoyed
confounding their expectations. These were the people who had voted me
Most Likely to Succeed. I wondered if they knew how little that title
meant to me. That gathering on the beach was only the second party I'd
been to since moving from Michigan when I was twelve. My first act at my
new junior high had been to speak to a group of kids in a corner of the
gym. Seconds later a spitball smacked my head and I heard -- as did
everyone else -- a boy on the bleachers shouting, "Nigger lover." No
one, not the five black kids at school nor the seven hundred white kids,
accepted any of my approaches for the next three years. When I started
earning debate trophies some of my teammates began to tolerate my
presence, and Kathy and Kelley and Monica seemed to enjoy working on the
newspaper with me, but boys continued to spit on me on the bus, where I
was the only rider over sixteen. My classmates all had cars or hitched
rides with friends. The penguin party was a nice gesture, probably
prompted by their curiosity about my choices, but I doubted these
acquaintances understood my outsider's pride in values beyond the
mainstream. They didn't know the secret thrill I felt on the streets of
Austin when, watching couples walk hand in hand, I savored my
relationship with the Creator of the Universe, who shared my every
moment, awake or asleep. They didn't know that living the gospel of
poverty and love with God constituted real success.
I got off the
train at Third Avenue and 149th Street and began the five- block walk
from the subway to the sisters' house. Pulsing Spanish lyrics pushed
thoughts of home away. A fruit stand hawking mangoes and papayas caught
my eye, until I sensed boys in front of an electronics shop eyeing me. I
shifted my box nervously from hand to hand.
God, keep me safe, I prayed.
A
train passed overhead. Kids my own age break- danced under the el,
their boom box momentarily overpowered by the train. The smell of hot
dogs increased my nausea. I stepped around some broken glass and turned
onto East 145th Street. My heart beat a little faster when, midway down
the block, I spotted a three- story building behind a high brick wall,
barbed wire coiled at the top, a small sign to the left of the gate:
Missionaries of Charity. I opened the gate and stood before the door. I swallowed, and hesitated just a moment.
I
juggled the box, smoothed my hair, then rang the bell, my hand
trembling. Staring at the door, I saw Heather's last wave, Kathy
refusing to look.
Dear God, I prayed,
please send someone to open the door.
I set the box on the sidewalk -- and the door swung open. A short, dark
woman with puffy cheeks, a blue apron over her white sari, smiled at
me.
"Welcome," she said. The door clicked as she shut it behind me.
Sister
Rochelle took my box and nudged me up a short flight of stairs toward
the chapel. "Say hello to Jesus," she whispered. I knelt on the rough
carpet. A large wooden crucifix hung behind the altar, with two words
pasted on the wall next to Jesus' head. When I read them, I felt as
though Jesus spoke those words directly to me:
I thirst.
I'd
barely begun my silent prayer when Sister Rochelle said, "Come now.
We'll take your things." She led me upstairs, climbing quickly. I heard
chickens clucking. Nuns keeping chickens in the South Bronx -- what
surer sign of self- sufficiency and disregard of convention could I have
asked for?
"This is the refectory for you aspirants," Sister
Rochelle said as we entered a room with a long wooden table, benches on
either side.
"These are your plates." She pointed to a bookcase
marked with numbers cut from calendars. Above each number sat a large
white enamel bowl with a small plate, an enamel teacup, and a saucer.
Everything was simple, clean, orderly. Above the shelf a plaque read,
The Aspirancy Motto: He must increase; I must decrease.
"There
are going to be twelve of you," Sister Rochelle said. "You are number
nine." There'd been nine of us at home. Nine was a good number.
Another bookcase stood nearby. "Your Bible goes here. Number nine."
She
took me up another flight of stairs. On the landing, we set my box down
in front of a large wooden bookcase with a sheet hanging over its
shelves. Sister Rochelle pulled back the sheet to reveal clothes folded
more neatly than any I'd ever seen, each little pile above its own
number.
"Number nine?" I asked, and she nodded.
The next
door led to a room with a slanting ceiling, a linoleum floor, and
thirteen cots crowded close, with barely room to walk between them. A
bare bulb hung from a black wire, and simple muslin curtains covered the
lower halves of the room's three small windows.
"This is your
bed, number nine." Sister Rochelle smiled again as she patted a thin
mattress in the corner. "I hope you brought your sheets," she said, and I
nodded. "The dormitory is a sacred place and no talking is allowed, but
your mistress will tell you all that."
Sister Rochelle headed for
the stairs. Over her shoulder, she said, "Now unpack your things and
feel at home." Already halfway down, she added, "The bell will ring soon
for adoration."
I sat for a moment on bed number nine, eager to
absorb the quiet. The attractions of the convent were pure, minimalist,
essential -- life without the additives. Everything about the convent
seemed to proclaim: Only God matters.
I was stacking my clothes on
shelf number nine, as neatly as I could, when I heard footsteps. A tall
woman with straight, shoulderlength brown hair and sparkling green eyes
rounded the corner.
"Hey, Mary!" she said, stretching out her
hand. "Sister Carmeline told us to expect another aspirant today -- I'm
so glad it's you." "Louise! Great to see you." Louise had been in charge
of the catechism program at St. Rita's Church, just next to the
convent, and we'd met in January. She was just a few years older than I
-- a recent graduate of the University of Virginia -- and played the
guitar at Mass. Her hand was warm in mine.
"What's an aspirant?" Louise
laughed, throwing her arms up in the air. "I'm developing a new
vocabulary.
We're aspirants because we're aspiring to be sisters, or
something like that."
We walked together to the dormitory, and
Louise pulled back the blue and white checked bedspread on number nine,
revealing a homemade mattress, not more than an inch and a half thick,
resting on the cot's iron netting. As we stretched out the bottom sheet,
the smell of fabric softener reminded me of home. "You mean you're
joining the sisters, too?" I asked Louise. "I thought you'd decided not
to."
"Yeah, well, I talked to Sister Andrea about it a lot. It's
been great to work in the parish, but I do feel something missing. I
want to give God everything, and I guess it's worth a try." Louise
pushed the tiny pillow into my way too big pillowcase and fluffed it up
as much as she could. "The sisters are excited that we'll be the first
group of aspirants in the U.S. Till now they've only had a few American
vocations, and they've all gone to London for aspirancy."
Excerpted from An Unquenchable Thirst by
Mary Johnson Copyright © 2011 by Mary Johnson. Excerpted by permission
of Bond Street Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights
reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without
permission in writing from the publisher.
Author Bio
Mary Johnson, author of
An Unquenchable Thirst: Following Mother Teresa in Search of Love, Service, and an Authentic Life, for
twenty years, as Sister Donata, she was a Missionary of Charity, a nun
in Mother Teresa's order, until she left in 1997. A respected teacher
and public speaker, she has been named a Fellow of the MacDowell Colony
and is on the board of the A Room of Her Own Foundation. She lives in
New Hampshire.
Ever been in love? I'm sure many of you have. How deeply do or did you love this person? What if this person didn't return your affections? How far would you go to profess your love for this person? Would you let this love consume your life? Is it love or obsession? I was thinking all of those things while reading The Lost Button by Irene Rozdobudko.
