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draw
attention to myself.”
    She remained standing at the window, waiting
for Mother Theodora to speak.
    “Mickey, all of us go through periods of
struggle. At times, it may be a personal grief, or sometimes a dry
period in your spiritual growth, or a time of questioning your
vocation. In such a small community, any difference in behavior
will be noticed, but we try to respect each other’s privacy.
Sometimes it’s hard to know how to offer support without intruding.
I don’t think you’ve tried to draw attention to yourself. I think
your efforts to isolate yourself and not be noticed have had the
unintended effect of drawing the notice of Sister Rosaria, who is,
after all, very experienced in watching and observing.”
    She came around her desk to stand next to
Mickey, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s natural to
grieve, Mickey. And it’s important not to try and wall off your
grief. God uses these times of vulnerability and frailty to touch
us in ways he can’t when we are feeling strong and in control.”
    Mickey nodded and wiped a tear from her
cheek. “I like strong and in control better, though.”

 
    Chapter 7
    Mickey woke at the usual time on Thanksgiving
morning, even though the community had been given permission to
sleep in until six, with Mass beginning the day at six-thirty. She
dressed silently and tip-toed from the dormitory. Once in the
hallway, she hurried to the cloakroom to get her heavy cloak. She
opened the door to the enclosure garden and gasped. Three or four
inches of snow covered everything, and the snow was still falling
in large, feathery flakes. She stepped out from the covered stone
walk and lifted her face, letting the heavy flakes tickle her skin.
The snow created an even deeper hush than normal.
    Mickey felt a childish desire to dive into
the snow and make a snow angel, but she suspected the senior nuns
might feel that was inappropriate, angel or not. She settled for
scooping up snow and packing it tight, then hurling her snowball at
one of the trees. The snowball splattered against the dark trunk,
leaving a telltale white lump on the bark. She made and threw
several more snowballs, her breath forming clouds of steam that
hung in the cold, damp air. She had another snowball packed, her
arm drawn back and her foot up like a big-league pitcher when she
was startled by the sound of the door opening behind her.
    Turning, she saw another nun entering the
courtyard. Sheepishly, she held the snowball while the other nun
approached. As she drew near, Mickey recognized Sister Anselma in
the dim grey light. Sister Anselma stood with her hands tucked into
her sleeves, her long, black veil and cloak giving her a very
dignified air. Mickey was suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must
look. Her short veil had slipped, and the snowball was melting into
her frozen fingers. She opened her mouth to speak, but remembered
she couldn’t break Silence. Finally, she closed her mouth, tossed
the snowball over her shoulder and walked back inside shaking her
head.
    Sister Anselma watched her go with a bemused
expression.
    By the time the nuns were assembled in their
stalls, the public pews had filled nearly to capacity. As the bell
rang to signal the start of Mass, there was no sign of Father
Andrew. The peals of the bell faded away and still no priest. A
very faint rustle of unrest had begun to move through the community
when, suddenly, he appeared in the door of the sacristy,
straightening his chasuble as he walked to the altar. Mickey tried
to keep her eyes on her prayer book, but there was an audible
tremor in his voice as he began the Introit. She stole a glance
toward the altar and was shocked at the dark circles visible under
his eyes, even from a distance. As the nuns sang their responses,
there were slight lapses where Father Andrew seemed to struggle to
find his place. Mother Theodora subtly altered the tempo of the
responses to give him more time, and the community followed her
lead.