“Ana, my dear,” she said, righting her spectacles that had been dislodged during their embrace, “how wonderful to see you.”
Out of breath after her sprint, and reaching down for Sister Josepha’s cane, Ana replied, “It’s wonderful to see you too, Sister. And it’s a miracle that you’re here because I was just thinking about you. Just now,” Ana said, pointing excitedly toward the window. “When I saw you I was…I was remembering…”
“Didn’t you receive my letter?” Sister Josepha asked, frowning as she took her cane.
“Well, yes, but my head has been filled with so many things that I forgot you were coming today.” Ana then noticed that the driver had left Sister Josepha’s small suitcase propped against the gate. She’d bring it in as soon as Sister Josepha was settled in her room, but for now she wanted nothing more than to spend a few minutes with her.
Sister Josepha nodded sympathetically and took Ana’s arm as they began to walk toward the house together. “You must lean on your faith during these difficult times, Ana, it is your ultimate consolation.”
“I try, but you know I’ve always been a coward.”
“I know no such thing,” Sister Josepha snapped. “You’ve survived what few people can imagine. My goodness, whenever I think back to how well you managed when I brought you here, I’m in awe. You had every reason to be angry and afraid, but you adjusted without a trace of bitterness in your heart.” She smiled sweetly. “A coward could never do that.”
Ana patted Sister Josepha’s hand affectionately. “But you were always with me. If you hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have survived anything and I wouldn’t be here now.”
Shaking her head, Sister Josepha stopped to catch her breath, and then she looked up to admire the great house towering before them. “God has blessed us both,” she said. “And he will bless us again.”
Sister Josepha resumed her slow pace up the front steps, and when they stopped again to rest, Ana said, her voice trembling, “Oh, Sister, sometimes I fear that I’m being punished for my sins, and that God is angry with me for not having done enough.”
The older woman didn’t respond right away, and Ana took her silence to mean that she agreed. But Sister Josepha was momentarily preoccupied with looking back at how far they’d come, and then forward at how much farther they had to go, to determine how much longer she needed to rest. She sighed and looked fully into Ana’s apprehensive face. “I suppose that there are some who would disagree with me, but I believe that we are the ones who punish ourselves, not God. And,” she said, taking firm hold of Ana’s arm as they continued up the steps to the front door, “the path he has chosen for you may not be as obvious as you think, Ana. You must remember that he is not confined by your fears and your doubts.”
“Sister, if I could see my path I’d run down the length of it as quickly as I could.”
Sister Josepha shook her head. “My suggestion is that you don’t go running off anywhere right now, my dear,” she said.
Once they entered the house they went directly to the kitchen, where Ana prepared tea and toasted several slices of bread that she spread generously with butter and jam. Sister Josepha said a brief blessing over their breakfast, and they ate in silence as the morning light grew more vibrant around them. It was extraordinarily comforting for Ana to see Sister Josepha sitting there in the kitchen. Her presence filled the house and Ana’s heart with a tranquillity that gave her momentary respite from her torment, and she was able to eat an entire slice of bread and jam because of it. Just as she did when she was a child, Ana felt that as long as Sister Josepha was near, she could survive whatever lay ahead.
When they finished their breakfast, Sister Josepha said, “I would like to see him now, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind, but his medication makes him very sleepy, and he won’t be able to speak with you until he wakes up.”
Sister Josepha nodded. “It isn’t necessary that I speak with him or that he speak with me.”
Ana led Sister Josepha upstairs, and when they entered Adam’s room the older woman promptly sat in the only chair and reached into her sleeve for her rosary, twisting it around her chubby fingers as it was her custom to do. Ana knelt next to her and lowered her head. She hadn’t prayed the rosary for years, but as she spoke the words of the Our Father and the Hail Mary, and as she listened to Sister Josepha recite the holy mysteries one by one, it seemed that only yesterday she’d kept her own rosary tucked into her sleeve.
After one full day and night in the jungle we came upon a dirt road that was used for transporting workers between the villages and the coffee plantations. In a couple of hours we found ourselves on the back of a truck headed for a nearby plantation, and later that day, thanks to the kind generosity of the plantation owner, on a bus that would take us directly to San Salvador.
For several weeks after our escape, Sister Josepha devoted herself to getting me out of the country. At that time, claiming political asylum in the United States after the massacres that had taken place wasn’t so difficult, but the legal details and paperwork involved when traveling with an orphaned child were more complicated.
During the weeks that Sister Josepha and I were together in San Salvador as she filled out endless forms and met with officials from both countries, it never occurred to me that I would be leaving El Salvador to become anything but an American nun. I knew this even though I hadn’t experienced my calling like a distant voice from heaven whispering to my heart, seducing me with angelic visions of divine ecstasy. Instead, God had grabbed me by the shoulders and placed my feet squarely upon the path toward a religious life, and I wasn’t about to argue with such an unequivocal message.
Finally, the day came when I boarded a plane with Sister Josepha bound for the United States. I kept my eyes closed and my face pressed against her as I prayed during most of the flight, certain that at any moment the plane would fall out of the sky. Even before we landed, I knew that my life would change dramatically, but I wasn’t prepared for how different it would be. Naturally, I’d heard that in the United States luxuries such as indoor plumbing and electricity were common, but to see it with my own eyes was astounding. At home, only the rich plantation owners or the professionals who lived in the city enjoyed such comforts, but here they were available to everyone.
The first day I bathed indoors, I wondered what my mother would’ve thought to see me standing beneath an endless stream of warm water as I washed myself clean. She might’ve considered it a waste because at home the water that remained after a bath would’ve been used to water the small vegetable garden that grew behind our hut, but here it disappeared down the drain forever and I had no idea where it went. How Carlitos would have enjoyed walking into a darkened room only to flip a switch on the wall and see it suddenly filled with light. No doubt his eyes would’ve widened with wonder, and then he would’ve laughed as he switched the light on and off, not stopping until Tía Juana smacked him on the side of the head.
As amazing as these comforts were, even more amazing to me was how quickly I adjusted to them. In only weeks I couldn’t imagine how I’d ever lived without electricity and indoor plumbing, and this provoked an aching in my heart because it pained me to think that my family would never know these wonders for themselves. For the rest of my life whenever I saw water flowing freely from the faucet I would think of them.
Soon after we arrived in Sister Josepha’s home state of California, she found a school for me near her convent in Los Angeles, but shortly thereafter informed me that she’d been reassigned out of state and that I would continue living and studying at the all-girls Carmelite school, the same school she had attended. I was deeply saddened to be separated from her, but as far as I was concerned the convent was my new home, and to stray from this place would’ve been like disobeying my mother when she ordered me into the sewing cabinet. I didn’t entertain the idea even for an instant. I devoted myself to learning English, to preparing myself through studies and prayer
for the next phase of my life, and the early years passed quickly.
Although some of the other girls and I lived at the school during the week, the sisters allowed me to visit my friends and their families on some weekends, so in this way I was exposed to bits and pieces of life beyond the protective walls of the convent. I found it interesting, but it never occurred to me that the loud and colorful world where the other girls lived could ever be mine. It was a messy, sprawling, cluttered affair that spun around in many directions all at once. It was a world filled with complaints about parents, gossip about friends, and unceasing devotion to beauty, with particular attention given to the size of various body parts and the styling of one’s hair. And although ours was an all-girls school, there was an ever-present fascination with the opposite sex.
They tried to include me in this talk, and I did my best to follow, but I always felt awkward and out of place. I was as hesitant as one is when presented with an exotic and unidentifiable plate of food. You might try it once or twice for the sake of politeness, but if you find it unappetizing you certainly don’t serve yourself a heaping plate of the stuff. It didn’t nourish me. It was an adventure for my palate and nothing more.
And so I hovered about the periphery, aware enough to know that my place was to listen and to try my best to absorb the unique flavors of this other world, but their talk and worries about boys and clothes seemed rather silly. When all was said and done, they still had their families and their secure and comfortable homes where they’d sit around the table together and laugh and talk about their lives as I remembered doing with my mother and my aunt and cousins. When you had all of this, what was there to worry about?
Sometimes I wondered if I would ever become infected with this strange but somehow wonderful disease, for despite all of their dramatic suffering, I could see that they were happily sick with it. But I came to accept that I’d acquired a mysterious immunity. Whenever I returned to the convent after one of these weekend visits, I felt such a sense of relief wash over me that sometimes I’d start weeping uncontrollably. This I understood as my soul’s joy at finding itself home again. I desperately needed the quiet structure of the convent, the peaceful predictability and the continuous presence of God that Sister Josepha had always said would never disappoint me. In this place I couldn’t hear the howling or the profane laughter of the National Guard. I couldn’t hear the desperate cries for help, the agonized wailing of mothers beseeching God to intervene and save their children. There was no need to call out for God to find me here because he was always present, like the flickering candlelight and the fragrance of incense that permeated the air.
I now had my new holy family, and the thought that one day I’d be referred to as “Sister” filled me with wonder. I’d never been anybody’s sister before, and I considered it the most beautiful word known to man. And to think that my sisters would be women from all over the world and all backgrounds, black, white, Asian, and Hispanic. I marveled that there were a few sisters from India as well. How I longed to be a member of this international community that revered and dignified all individuals equally. Once these dear ladies donned their habits, they were one in the eyes of God, although their faces shone more brightly and more distinctly than ever.
During my junior high and high school years, Sister Josepha and I wrote to each other frequently, and I relied on her to keep me informed about what was happening in El Salvador, as watching too much television, even news programs, was highly discouraged at the school. She informed me that after years of denying that the village massacres had happened, the El Salvadoran government, as well as the United States, were admitting that some human rights violations had taken place. Investigations had begun, but the conflict between the U.S.-backed ARENA party and the rebel FMLN party continued, and the innocent were still dying. My first sunrise prayers were always for the families who struggled to survive in the midst of poverty and war. And as always, I rededicated my life, my every breath, to those who had already died.
With the exception of the year she had knee surgery and was required to stay off her feet, Sister Josepha and I saw each other almost always during the Christmas season. The order had moved her to a Catholic school in New Mexico and she was teaching social studies there. She was quite happy, although she hoped that she would soon be given the opportunity to open her own school for orphans from the Indian reservation. She encouraged me to join her once I finished my religious and academic studies, and I hoped that the order would consider it as magnificent an idea as I did. Often I pictured Sister Josepha and me working side by side while wearing our holy uniforms, for by then I’d be a consecrated servant of God. This image filled me with such joy that I avoided thinking about it at night, as my anticipation didn’t allow me to sleep and I’d stay awake for hours.
The week following my high school graduation, I was delighted to write Sister Josepha to inform her that I would soon begin my own postulancy with the Carmelite Order of the Holy Family and that I would embrace the vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience with all my heart, just as I promised her I would all those years ago. I received a card from her the following week. It was a beautiful card that depicted a shining golden cross and a young woman in a white veil kneeling before it, her face subtly illuminated by the light of the cross. Sister Josepha had taken the trouble to find a card with a picture in which the novice had a dark complexion like me, and she wrote that I was her spiritual daughter and would always remain in her prayers. This is the only card in which she didn’t include news of home, although I was aware that the peace talks between the El Salvadoran government and the FMLN rebels had broken down. I was nonetheless hopeful that soon God would confer the peace I’d found in my own life upon my country. Only this could lightly ease my guilt over having escaped the horrors of war, for it seemed to me that the painful ugliness of my past had finally been overshadowed by this beautiful if hazy notion of heaven on earth. Surely, with time, my vision would gain clarity and strength and my present life would be filled with nothing but the splendor of God. And then, finally, the evil of politics and the cruelty of man would be swallowed up by the unfathomable peace and beauty of God’s love.
During the first two years of my novitiate, I fell smoothly and effortlessly into the structured cadence of convent life. At five in the morning, when the prayer bell rang, my eyes were already open. I was only too eager to rise from my bed and experience another dose of peaceful bliss, another day that would put healing and distance between me and my past.
I believe that my superiors were as happy with me as I was with them. By then I’d lived with nuns for so long that I knew better than anybody how to walk as though I were floating on a cloud, and how to maintain custody of the eyes, taking care not to assault anyone with my probing stare should I pass them in the hall or on the stairs.
When I graduated from the lighter veil of the postulant and was finally able to wear the heavy white veil worn by a true novice, I was overjoyed. I adored my new veil and took great pleasure in the feel of its weighty drape across my shoulders. When I removed it in the evening and glanced at my shorn head, plain, long face, and somber eyes in the mirror, it seemed that I was looking into the face of a stranger, or perhaps I was looking at the hapless state of my soul without God’s strength to guide me. Whichever it was, I kept these encounters as brief as possible.
Over time I came to understand that I’d been born to this life, and often while I was deep in prayer my thoughts turned to my mother. I saw her wise eyes watching me and I could tell that she was pleased to see that I’d avoided the pitfalls she’d warned me about in this life. Perhaps God had been speaking through her and this was the path she’d been directing me toward all along. And while kneeling for endless hours ensconced within the quiet of the sanctuary with the rosary wrapped around my fingers, I was able to understand that without the tragedy of my past, I never would’ve met Sister Josepha, and I never would’ve come to the United States, and I never would’ve received
such a fine education and learned to speak English as well as I did. No doubt, my mother would’ve been quite happy with this development.
“I hope you can see me, Mama,” I whispered. “I hope that my service and dedication to God is enough for all that you suffered and lost.”
First and second year novices were rotated between the most menial chores at the convent, which included cleaning, laundry, and kitchen duty. My first assignment was in the kitchen, and although this required me to get up an hour earlier than usual, I relished the opportunity to chat with the other sisters as we prepared the meal. I enjoyed the sounds of the kitchen, the plates clinking, the rush of water in the sink, the smell of bacon frying, fresh bread baking, and coffee brewing. All of this commotion reminded me of village life, and by then my soul had healed sufficiently to endure the memory.
Breakfast commenced and concluded with a prayer and was eaten in silence. Lunch and dinner were structured in a similar fashion, except that sometimes at the dinner hour spiritual music was played over the speakers and one of the sisters or perhaps a visiting priest might edify us with a reading while we ate, always in silence.
The days proceeded in this peaceful and predictable fashion from the moment we woke in the morning until we lay our heads on the pillow at night, with rare interruptions. This endless flow of tranquillity was as amazing to me as the turn of a faucet. To see clean, clear water running on and on from a spigot always gave me pause to reflect upon God’s boundless generosity and benevolence.
Vigil Page 5
