I THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

The story 

of a 

Benedictine Sister 

by 

~ Sister Jean Marie, O.S.B. 

I~ 

GRAIL PUBLICATIONS 

St. Meinrad Indiana 



" 

" I 

," 

'" 

\ 

" 



THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

The Story 

of a 

Benedictine Sister 

by 

Sister Jean Marie, O. S. B. 

GRAIL PUBLICATIONS 

St. Meinrad Indiana 



NIHIL OBSTA T: 

JOSEPH G. KEMPF, PH.D. 
Censor librorum 

IMPRIMATUR: 

,1, PAUL C. SCHULTE, D.o. 
Archbishop of Indianapolis 

June 29, 1955 

Deactdifled 

Copyright 1955 by 

St. Meinrad Archabbey, Inc. 

GRAIL PUBLICA TraNS 
St. Meinrad , Indiana 



Dedicated 

TO THE MOTHER OF GOD 



CONTENTS 

PREFACE . . . .. .. . v 

Chapter One 

YOU WANTED TO BE A BENEDICTINE 

Chapter Two 

A BENEDICTINE POSTULANT 7 

Chapter Three 

IT WAS ALL SO NEW 14 

Chapter Four 

IN THE KING'S SERVICE 21 

Chapter Five 

GOD'S VINEYARD 29 

Chapter Six 

YOU FOLLOWED HIM INTO THE HILLS 45 

Chapter Seven 

IT WAS SUCH A SUMMER 60 

Chapter Eight 

WOULD TROUBLES NEVER END? . . . . .. .. .. . . . . . . 70 

Chapter Nine 

THE PICTURE WAS BLURRED 7() 

Chapter Ten 

LOVE AND SHADOWS 86 

Chapter Eleven 

. . . THEY SHALL NOT DIE, BUT LIVE FOREVER 98 

Chapter Twelve 

SICKNESS CHANGES THE WORLD 100 

INVITATORY 108 

IV 



PREFACE 

" . . . and let us beg God to supply by THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

that which by nature IS lacking to us." 

-Rule of St. Benedict 

Consulting your watch you had noticed that it was time for you to 

do your usual typing for Sister Justina. Sister Therese had always done 

that, but when she had died Reverend Mother had sent for you . "You 

type, don't you, Sister?)) ( Sister Edgar always said typing was as im-

portant to a Sister as cooking to a young wife. She herself had taught 

you typing). "Do you think you can type for Sister Justina for an hour 

on Saturday in Sister Therese's place?)) Mother asked, and she looked 

worried. You had thought of your already crowded program-and then 

far away you seemed to hear Sister Cyprian's high-pitched voice, "Always 

making excuses, aren't you? You're the only one in the house who has 

anything to do.)) You had smiled when you remembered how the words 

had irked you. ''I'll try, Mother,)) you had said. 

So with your skirts flapping in the rough wind you had made yom 

way down the path to the front door, through halls, and up stairs until 

at last puffing you had stood before Sister Justina'S door. 

You had opened the door after a soft rap, and had already removed 

the cover from the typewriter when Sister Justina spoke. "Sister, here 

are some leaflets Mother gave me on vocations. lVhat do you think of 

them?)) You had gone over, and as you did you noticed that Sister had 

looked tired, and the lines on her face seemed deeper than ever. And 

then as you looked th1'Ough the leaflets you felt the resentment rising up 

v 



VI THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

within yOtt . Gay n01)ices strolling along flowered paths. Sisters playing 

tennis, Sisters praying in a beautiful chapel, with only the hcdos missing f 

Y ou had put the leaflets down abruptly and reached for the paper you 

were to insert in the typewriter. "Sister Mary Ellen, you ha·ven't an-

swered me," Sister Justina had .raid with a touch of impatience. "I think 

they're, they're- well, hOr1'idf" YOll had said, like a child groping for 

the right answer. Sister Justina turned and said half-.rmilingly, "That'.r 

a prelly broad .rfatementf ~Vhc/t dOll't Y0lt like about them?" And you 

had said to her: 

"They aren't honest, and they're sentimental. ~Vhy don't they put 

on the front page, 'Come join Ollf carefree group; you'll have every-

thing Yotl want . . . and the mms are all so .rweet and charming.' 

"Where is the Cross; draped with pink silk for fear it might frighten? 

But His love for us is revealed on the Cross-and our love for Him is 

proved and purified by the crosses we accept for H is sake. Do we chal-

lenge the girl of today to respond with courage to that Love which im-

plores her to accept? Oh no, we might discourage her, so we tell her 

how attractive convent life is-and then wonder why she's unimpressed. 

She call have these pleasures and more in the world. And never given 

c/ glimpse of the crucified Savior, she turns away disappointed and tmin-

.rpired. Why should we bOlher to compete with the tl'orld when we are 

dedicated to a kingdom that is not of thi.r world; to the peace that 

Christ has promised-but only if we 100 Jhare the cross and in ollr 

weakness find His abiding strength." 

A nd Sister Jtlstina had seemed so Ie/ken aback, thaI I started to apol-

ogize, for il was the mosl I bad said al olle time for as long aJ I could 

remember! But she had smiled and said quietly, " I think it's true. We 

don't help gidJ to see Benedictine life as it really is, and so they either 

turn away unimpressed, or come to the convent only to be dismayed by 

the first diffiettlty that confronts them." And I remember wishing half 

out loud that someone would write what it is REALLY like to be a 

Benedictine. And Si.rter Jtlstina had said, "Why don't YOU?" 



You Wanted To Be A Benedictine 

WALKING to ' church one spring morning your mind was in a turmoil. You were a senior in high school and it 
was nearing the end of the year. Just last week you had pur-

chased your gown for the senior dance. You had looked for a 

bargain. You must have given the clerk in the dress shop a 

shock. She had smiled challengingly and held up a strapless 

evening gown with the words, "This is very cheap." You had 

looked straight at her and answered, "In more ways than one!" 

Perhaps you shouldn't have but you enjoyed her chagrin as she 

hastily put the garment away. Now the dress with all the frills 

was bought, but you weren't too happy. All year a figure 

seemed to glide before you-a Benedictine Nun-the one that 

you might be. There was a soft voice too, a voice which you 

tried to hush, but it always came back, faint and persistent, like 

a rainbow in the sky. 

You started to evaluate the boys you knew. Dick? Vh uh, 

he was too boastful. Bill? No, he was so rude sometimes. Jim? 

Well, he was like a big brother, nothing more. And so you 

went on and on, but you always ended up by telling yourself 

that you could never sit across the table from any of them for 

the rest of your life. Did you want God-yes and no. In fact 

you had worried a little, and Mother thought you were ill. She 

1 



2 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

had insisted on your having a physical check-up. So you went, 

thinking all the while: "He can't help me decide what I want 

to do." Finally you were in the doctor's office and he was test-

ing your heart with an impersonal, professional air. You would 

have enjoyed saying after the heart testing, "Should I be a Bene-

dictine?" You wondered what he'd say. "You'd think I was 

the skeleton of a grasshopper" ran through your head. Now 

he was shaking his head. "You're physically perfect," he said 

in a puzzled tone. "Really!" you wanted so say sarcastically-

only you didn't. Instead you left the office. You didn't care 

to linger. 

Last night shortly after dinner you had gone down to see 

Father John, the old pastor who had baptized you and given 

you your First Holy Communion. To you he was the kindest, 

most understanding person you knew. You felt that you could 

tell him anything. You said, "Father," and swallowed hard. 

Then you blurted it out. " I want to be a Benedictine Nun." 

You closed your eyes then and took a deep breath. When you 

looked again Father was wiping his glasses and gazing out of 

the window. His voice was low, "So, you want to be a Bene-

dictine. Why a Benedictine?" "Because," you said with the 

naiveness of a child, "You've always told me so much about 

the holiness and simplicity of their lives. " "Wait now, Mary, 

you won't attain that saintliness in a day, nor a year. It will 

take a lifetime. Are you quite sure you want to be a Bene-

dictine? If you have prayed over it, go, with my blessing." You 

whispered, "Oh, yes, Father, I really think I can make the grade. 

At least, I can try." 

When you came out of the rectory after talking to Father for 

about an hour it seemed that the stars in the sky were candles 



YOU W ANTED TO BE A BENEDICTINE 3 

put there just for you. You walked slowly drinking in the beau-

ty of the night-and then you remembered the party! Con-

sulting your watch you found you had exactly thirty minutes 

to get home and to make ready. You forgot about the stars as 

your feet picked up speed. How could you forget! Two min-

utes before time you were ready. Your older sister had looked 

at you disapprovingly. She was sharp, and always ready at least 

fifteen minutes before time. 

The party was like all the rest. You enjoyed the music, the 

laughter and the fun as you always did. Sitting across the 

table from Jim you leaned forward and said, "Jim, what would 

you say if I told you that I was going to be a Benedictine nun?" 

Jim had put his glass down abruptly and stared. "A what?" he 

had gasped. "A nun," you said again, a little annoyed. "No, 

you'll never make a nun. Don't misunderstand. They are good 

holy women, but well, you just don't fit into a picture like that. 

Shall we dance?" You were angry-angry at Jim for what he 

had said, angrier at yourself for having told him. You had 

thought as you danced that you'd tell no one but your parents. 

Jim hadn't taken you seriously, so he wouldn't repeat the story. 

The stars had gone out of the night and it was cold and lonely 

-no one seemed to care. When you finally arrived home you 

had knelt at the window for a long time praying your rosary. 

Wasn't the Mother of God listening? Finally you had put your 

head down and sobbed, "Mary, my mother, I need you so." 

The only answer was the murmur of the spring breeze as it 

rustled among the budding leaves. But somehow Mary seemed 

to have heard your prayer for peace seemed to enfold you in 

its arms and you slept. 

Tomorrow came; you would tell mother and dad, but no 



4 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

one else. You didn't want your mind shattered with doubts as 

it was last night. So you broached the subject when you were 

alone with them. Dad had put his paper down very slowly and 

regarded you with puzzled eyes. Mother's eyes had smiled as 

she said, "I always wanted one of my girls to be a nun." Dad 

had been skeptical. "If it were Susan I wouldn't be so surprised. 

She is so practical that I would almost picture her as a Mother 

Superior. But you, Mary, how can you ever do it, you with 

all your love of life ?" Mother frowned and said, "Now, Dad, 

do you think God wants a convent full of old maids ?" You 

had made it clear to both of them that this was to be a secret. 

You just wanted to slip away softly, without noise or fuss. 

So it had been left at that. 

Spring came and went. Graduation was a thing of the past. 

The class Will had mentioned that you would be a gym teacher, 

so none of them guessed that you were leaving to work for 

God , to feed the hungry and comfort every heart that would 

ask you for help. 

July and August days passed on gilded wings. You would 

never forget that summer with its song and laughter. You 

swam far out into the lake sometimes, just to see what it would 

be like to be alone. You danced and met people, trying all the 

while to study each personality. Getting along with people was 

so important in the convent and in your new work Father John 

had said. Often you were just a little dazzled by it all and won-

dered if you could ever leave it. You had written and it all 

was arranged. You were to enter on September 8th, the Blessed 

Mother's birthday. Even your clothes had been taken care of. 

You had ordered them from a firm that sold religious goods. 



YOU lV ANTED TO BE A BENEDICTINE 5 

September 7th you had said good-bye to mother and dad at 

the station. They would tell the rest of the family and explain 

that you just couldnt' say good-bye. It was raining-the soft, 

gentle rain that you always loved . . Was the world perhaps 

shedding tears because you were leaving it? Dad had looked 

away when it was time for farewells, and had talked in a loud 

voice so as to distract you. Mother's eyes were misty with rain 

or tears you had noticed. "Remember," she whispered, "No 

life is a bed of roses. Always trust God and everything will 

be all right." Then before you knew it, the train had moved 

away from those two dear ones. You had pressed your nose 

to the pane, and tried to see them but they were gone. 

Then it came to you as a shock how much everything meant 

to you. You felt sobs in your throat which were struggling to 

reach the surface. The train slipped past lakes and hills on 

and on. You had wanted to be a Benedictine, but how much 

did you want to? It had seemed the devil himself had taunted 

you that God couldn't possibly satisfy the longing in your heart. 

Then you had closed your mind and read, prayed and watched 

your fellow passengers. 

It seemed ages before the train finally pulled into the station 

not far from the Benedictine convent. The station was dingy 

and you found it hard to get a taxi. The driver was friendly 

but also curious. "I suppose you have a relative at the con-

vent," he had said. "No," you answered. "A friend perhaps?" 

"No," you said again. Your funny bone was working now, and 

you had taken special delight when the man removed his hat 

and scratched a bare spot on his head. But you soon forgot 

him as he turned up a street and drove up a driveway lined 

with spruce trees. There was St. Joseph in a circle looking so 



6 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

kind . "Thank you, St. Joseph, for welcoming me," you haJ 

said. Then, before you knew it, the taxi had stopped. 

The next thing you knew you were standing on the doorstep, 

and the taxi was disappearing down the driveway. "Ring the 

bell, then step inside," the sign had said. So you did . A nun 

had seemed to appear like magic, for you hadn't heard her. 

"Could I see the Mother Superior ?" you asked timidly. She had 

taken you to a parlor where everything was spotless, and then 

she was gone. In a few minutes another Benedictine had ap-

peared. She had looked at your bag, then immediately back at 

you. "You're the new candidate, aren 't you?" she had said. 

"Yes, Sister," you had replied. She walked over and took both 

of your hands. You had looked up straight into a pair of quiet, 

understanding brown eyes. "You must be tired, and hungry. 

I'll see that you have something to eat, and a rest. Would you 

like to say hello to Our Lord ?" You nodded and Mother had 

led the way into a beautiful chapel. Here you will honor and 

glorify God's name by chanting His praises day after day in 

the Divine Office, the main work of Benedictines. That had 

been one of the things that had led you here. You wanted to 

praise God on earth as the angels did in heaven. You had 

looked up at the Tabernacle, and all your troubles seemed to 

disappear for a moment. You had taken the first step in a 

grand adventure with Our Lord . " J want to be a Benedictine, " 

you had whispered, "To love You only, now and forever." 



A Benedictine Postulant 

IT was over-you took a deep breath. You were walking up the hall after being received into the Benedictine Community. 
The click of your high heels echoed and re-echoed down the 

long empty corridor. It was all so new, so strange. The novice 

mistress, Sistet Edgar proceeded you into a room and the door 

closed quietly. The first time you had looked into her eyes you 

had been startled. They were such peaceful, serene eyes, with 

just a bit of humor. 

Then you saw the dress. To yourself you had whispered, 

"Christ, 1'd do this for no one but You." Sister Edgar was 

watching you without seeming to. After you were dressed she 

had held a mirror before you. Gone was the tailored suit, the 

sheer stockings and yet, somehow your heart rejoiced. It had 

all been like a strange dream until you heard Sister Edgar say, 

"We always let the postulants sleep late. You won't have to 

get up until a quarter of six." You had almost gasped audibly. 

Of course, she was joking, but one look at Sister Edgar's face 

confirmed her statement. You had never liked to get up early. 

A quarter of six, indeed! That was a good time for the birds. 

Everything is so different here, you had thought. 

Everywhere you turned you met strange faces. You were in-

troduced to the five novices and four other postulants. At 

7 



8 THE HELP OF H1S GRACE 

recreation you were subdued, and you knew that they were all 

watching you, and hiding their feelings behind polite conver-

sation. Would you ever fit in, you had wondered. Then when 

you were in your alcove with the soft tread of footsteps about 

you and the silence broken only by the movement of the white 

curtains, your courage had broken and when you had final! y 

gotten into bed tears came making your pillow damp. In years 

to come that silence was to be most welcome to you after a 

hard day in school. Now the world you had left seemed to take 

on brighter colors and your new life here seemed drab. Finally 

you fell asleep. You were awakened by someone touching your 

pillow. It was dark and the dormitory was chilly. "Time to 

get up," a voice whispered. You had put one foot bravely 

out-ugh, but it was cold' When you were finally dressed you 

found a postulant waiting to take you to chapel. She reminds 

me of Susan, you had thought, so practical, so efficient. You 

had entered the chapel and shared a pew with another postulant. 

The Mass began and there was a quiet hush about you. You 

glanced around and were surprised. Everyone seemed absorbed 

in what was going on at the altar. A peace that you had never 

experienced before seemed to be all about you. Now the priest 

was distributing Communion and the flickering candles on the 

al tar threw a soft, glowing light on the nuns who filed to the 

Communion rail. When the nuns came back you noticed that 

the oldest nun came first, followed by the younger. Again 

you noticed the quiet calmness of their faces. A soft touch on 

the shoulder reminded you that it was your turn. You went up 

and as you did you whispered, "Please God, make me a good 

Benedictine." And after Communion only one thought filled 

your mind. "It is good for me to be here." The saints in heav-



A BENEDICTIN E POSTULAN T 9 

en must have smiled, wondering if you expected to stay on 

Tabor for the rest of your religious life. Calvary would not 

stay hidden too long and you needed this glimpse of God's 

grandeur to stimulate your courage. 

So the days in the convent slipped by. At first there was so 

much novelty you had forgotten to be lonesome. Fall had 

seemed to be a blaze of bright colors, like your life. Even the 

studying, dishwashing, and cleaning had a special appeal. The 

long prayers had left your knees stiff at first, but that too was 

disappearing. 

December 1st had brought with it a beautiful snowfall, and 

your first real homesickness. Sister Edgar insisted on ten-minute 

walks each day. Up and down you would walk in a path lined 

with the trees, whose branches interlocked, forming an arbor 

overhead. They had been heavy with snow that day. Then 

the world you had known beyond the convent suddenly took 

on an appealing beauty. Gone was your peace, your joy! And 

with your heart pounding you had gone to Sister Edgar's office 

to tell her you had no vocation. 

Her quiet voice answered your knock with, "Deo." "Gratias," 

you replied through your tears. Before you knew it you had 

told Sister the whole story. She had never interrupted, just 

sat and listened. "Maybe if 1 went home and entered when 1 

was about twentY-'eight," you had said feebly. A flicker of 

amusement changed to one of concern as Sister Edgar 's eyes 

turned for a moment to the white loveliness outside. "Yes," 

she murmured, " take everything you can from life, and give 

God the rest. What makes you think God would keep your 

vocation on ice?" " 1 don't know," you had stammered. Sister 



10 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

Edgar had a way of explaining things-she made them so 

simple. You had always seemed to see the stars shining in the 

heavens after she spoke, no matter how dark the night. Then 

she had gone on saying, "Do you think the devil wants you 

here? Haven't you any faith in God? God has chosen you 

and you wish to forsake Him. Remember this, Mary, God will 

never force you to be a Bene9ictine in His ranks. " She had 

talked for a time and you had left the office knowing that what-

ever happened you would remain if God willed it. 

The days before Christmas were filled with activity but YOll 

missed the stores and the crowds . You no longer could roam 

about at will. The novices had all given vivid accounts of 

Christmas in the convent, but you were quite sure they were 

exaggerating. The day before Christmas found you just a little 

tired. After supper you had climbed the stairs and gone into 

chapel. You stood in the doorway spellbound until Sister Inez's 

forefinger had brought you back to earth , and you had heard 

her whisper, "Go ahead. " Only the colored lights on the trees 

were lighted and the chapel seemed aglow with warmth and 

beauty. "Had Bethlehem been like this?" you had wondered. 

There seemed to be such a mystery about this Christmas. You 

had wanted to stay there forever and ever watching the blue 

and golden lights throw shadows everywhere; knowing that 

God was in His Tabernacle. Then the nuns had sung the 

glorious Christmas hymns of the Liturgy and you knelt, drink-

ing in the beauty and love of your first Christmas in the con-

vent. It was all so heavenly, you hated to see it come to an 

end. The spirit of Christmas had lingered until after Epiphany, 

and then slowly faded away. And you remembered that Sister 

Edgar had said to always keep Christmas in your heart. 



A BENEDICTINE POSTULANT 11 

The months slipped past slowly molding you, taking some of 

the dross of the world from you. Sometimes you had missed 

the attention the outside world had given you, the smiles, and 

the compliments. But strange as it seemed the trials and hard-

ships seemed to have brought a quiet love of God. And often 

in chapel you begged St. Benedict to make you just what God 

wanted you to be, to teach you humility and the loving obedi-

ence of Him who was obedient unto death. 

Sister Edgar had told all of you that obedience was your big 

vow, so you had worked hard to do things just right. The Di-

vine Office was the Benedictine prayer, and when you learned 

that it was the prayer of the Church, of the Holy Father, of all 

priests, you were thrilled. And if the Latin in which it was 

chanted did not flow fluently from your tongue you had studied 

all the harder. Often you had felt Sister Janice'S eyes upon 

you when you stumbled over the syllables at class. Her pronun-

ciation was clear-cut, like a bell. ''I'm awfully clumsy," you 

would say to God, "but I'm doing my best." You had always 

felt He understood. 

Spring came and everything became alive. The birds broke 

out in song; the trees began to bud; the grass began to quick-

en beneath your feet. Soon it was Easter. The convent had to 

be cleaned from top to bottom. You had been surprised to see 

the teachers in the convent pin up their habits and go to work 

with a scrub bucket in one hand and a cleaning cloth in the 

other. Then you had remembered the Holy Rule of St. Bene-

dict which said that the nature of a Sister's work did not dis-

tinguish the daughter of St. Benedict but her humility. 

The liturgy of Holy Week had been so sorrowful, so solemn 

with the spirit of the suffering Christ. Then Easter dawned, 



12 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

so joyous and real that the Resurrection seemed to have hap-

pened throughout the convent. N ow you were looking forward 

to being clothed in the Benedictine habit. "In May," Sister 

Edgar had said. 

You hadn't known if it was a wing or not, but you had a 

hole in the shoulder of your candidate's cape. You had never 

been too handy with a needle. Just the same you had proceeded 

to patch it. You had sewed it on very carefully and on holding 

it up for inspection found to your dismay that the patch had 

been sewed on the outside. All the novices had laughed glee-

fully. Now you would have to rip it off and put it on under 

the dim night light, for the bell had rung for night prayers. 

You sighed later as you stood there after Compline ready to 

sew the patch on once more. Looking up when a shadow had 

fallen in front of you, you had beheJd Sister Kathleen. With 

a smile and a sign she had taken the cape from you , and had 

deftly sewn on the patch. In the soft light her face looked kind 

and gentle. It had occurred to you then that Christ's virtues 

shone in all about you. 

You had thought May would never come, but at last it was 

here. Six of you had gone into retreat eight days before re-

<;eption. Now the day was nearly here. "Tomorrow," you had 

thought, ' 'I'll belong to Christ in a special way." You were 

sitting under a tree in the orchard listening to the hum of in-

sects and feeling a cool breeze on your face. Your heart had 

been very full. Far away you had heard shouts from a baseball 

game. You remembered suddenly how you had never missed 

a baseball game and the excitement that always swept over you 

during a game. Here you were, a modern girl sitting under a 



A BEN EDICTINE POSTULATE 13 

tree with nothing to amuse you and really and truly liking it. 

You had looked at your postulant dress and laughed. 

Night came and you scarcely slept. You had been so excited. 

Finally you fell into a deep sleep in which you dreamed of base-

ball, home, and your postulant dress. Everything was mixed up. 

The five o'clock bell made you spring out of bed. Then you 

fell back on your pillows, for you had remembered that on re-

ception day you slept late. Mass wasn't until eight. The irony 

of it had been that you couldn't sleep. You were wide awake. 

Someone put out the light and you heard the last novice tiptoe 

down the stairs. You had wanted to call out, "Never mind 

being quiet. We're all awake." After a while you got up and 

touched the folds of the satin gown hanging there waiting for 

you. You had looked out of the window at the rolling lawns 

sprinkled with dew, at the trees swaying gracefully in the morn-

ing breeze. All the world had seemed rosy, like the dawn. You 

had thought they would never come to tell you it was time to 

go. But at last you had heard a soft step on the stairs and a 

hushed voice said Mother was waiting. How you ever got to 

chapel you had never seemed to know. Walking up the aisle 

you had felt like a strange, new person. God had let you walk 

on clouds for this special occasion. You would never again 

wear the cape with the patch. From this day on for a year you 

would be a Benedictine novice. You had looked up at the altar 

as the organ played a hymn, and the nun's voices filled the 

chapel. In the Tabernacle, the center of an altar tastefully 

arranged with flowers, was Christ. He had stooped down and 

chosen your heart among the many of the world for His own. 

"Christ," you had prayed, "Keep me here as Your own until 

death comes to unite us forever." 



It Was All So New 

THE satin gown you had worn had given way to the coarse serge of the Benedictine habit. You had felt its rough-
ness, which signified the life you would lead. The veil had 

become a heavier white, and the coif around your face felt tight, 

as if it were shutting out the world you had known. The whole 

ceremony had been so lovely, so unreal. 

While the choir had been singing the strains of "Holy God," 

you had looked up and told Him you loved Him so. You had 

been so young, so untried. How little you had known of the 

trials of Religious life which await every follower of the Cruci-

fied . Love is proved in deeds-not in words. But that would 

come only when God knew you were ready. 

It had been such a wonderful day. Your whole family had 

been there. Mother had been so concerned about your health , 

dad had been proud, and even Joe had forgotten to tease you. 

Susan had been more serious than ever and had whispered to 

you, before saying good-bye, that she was engaged. You had 

treasured every moment of that day. 

And then as you tripped happily through the hall , a little 

clumsy in the new garb, you felt a hand on your arm. Turning 

you looked straight into the keen eyes of Sister Justina, a pro-

fessed Sister. You had always found it a pleasure to talk to 

14 



IT W AS ALL SO N EW 15 

her on recreation days. She was always so interested. Someone 

had told you she was quite literary minded. She had handed 

you a slip of pink paper. "I wish you'd keep it," she had said 

with a smile and was off. It was nearly the end of the day and 

you had thought of the song, "When You Come to the End of 

a Perfect Day." The poem on the pink paper had startled you 

-one part especially which said: 

"Jesus, my Spouse, e'er now I pray 

Keep my heart when thrills have passed away 

In days to come--frozen, alone, 

May my love then be more Thine own. 

When life seems most too hard to bear, 

May I thank Thee that Thy Cross I share." 

This all puzzled you so and looking at everything through rose-

colored glasses you had not dreamed that suffering had so many 

strange forms. 

That night you had lain awake for a long time going over the 

whole day while the darkness and God's love enfolded you. At 

last you had fallen asleep. 

A Benedictine novitiate either makes you or breaks you, some-

one had said. St. Benedict wanted the members of his Order 

to be tried to see if they truly sought God. You had sat at 

your desk one afternoon deeply absorbed in "The Life of Fa-

ther William Doyle," the book given you for spiritual reading. 

You were thrilled at his heroism, and had imagined how you, 

too, would do great things for God. "Sister Mary Ellen, were 

you studying the stars? I called you twice." It was Sister Edgar 

standing beside you. "Yes, Sister," you had said, rising with 

haste and scraping the chair as you did so. "In the convent we 

move quietly," she had said. Glancing up you had looked 



16 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

straight at Sister Matilda. Her eyebrows were slightly raised 

and you had seen the mocking smile in her eyes-at least you 

interpreted it as such. And Father Doyle had gone back to 

the trenches ; you were too angry at Sister Matilda to feel like 

a martyr. You followed Sister Edgar to the office, careful to 

walk quietly. She had talked that day and had given it to you 

straight. A Benedictine must be ready to face humiliation with 

a smile. That and many other things were brought to your 

attention. "As you are as a nov ice, so you wi ll be as a pro-

fessed Sister," she had said. 

You had gone back to the nov itiate with many misgivings. 

"Golly," you had thought, lIsing slang only now and then in 

your thoughts. " I didn't know anyone could be so imperfect. " 

A few months ago Sister Edgar had told you to take one thing 

at a time-so you had taken the absent-mindedness. That got you 

into the most trouble. The bell ! You had completely forgotten 

the time. You had made a dive for the door, almost colliding 

with Sister Ida in your haste to leave and, hurrying down the 

hall with your ve il almost straight out; Sister Edgar's words 

had seemed tauntingly to follow you, "You walk too fast, too. 

Can't you manage to get to chapel thirty seconds instead of two 

seconds before time?" And as YOLl flew past Sister Florence, 

you heard her say, "There seems to be no religious decorum 

any more." You had felt very small and lonely that day. Fa-

ther John had said it wouldn't be easy, and it wasn't. 

It was hot, so terribly hot. You shifted your position in the 

straight-backed pew. The chanting of the choir had gone on 

and you had felt drowsy. Your clothes had stuck to you. Funny, 

but you hadn 't felt a bit like praying. Why was it that you 

had experienced no kind of exal tation from the Divine Office ? 



IT W AS ALL SO NEW 17 

Did everyone feel like this? Your eyes had drifted to Sister 

Georgia across from you. She sat very erect. In fact, her posi-

tion had made you feel stiff. You had tried to concentrate on 

the psalms, but a fly distracted you again. "My God, I want 

to love you, even in this heat!" you had thought. You had 

asked Sister Edgar about this indifferent feeling at Office. Her 

right eyebrow had risen slightly at your question. "Do you go 

to Divine Office to praise and give glory to God, or to get 

crumbs of a great inner peace for yourself?" she had asked 

mildly. The Office was the Benedictine work, the work of God, 

and you praised Him regardless of feeling. It was like a great 

symphony carried by Angel wings before His throne. You 

praised Him in the heat and in the cold; when filled with joy 

and when your whole being was tired. You offered God praise 

for all that He is, for what He had given you, and for those 

who forgot Him. Sister Edgar had made it as simple as that. 

Summer had passed and Fall had come, splashing the land-

scape with its richest colors. Leaves skipped gaily along the 

driveway-everywhere. Before long the trees had stood bare 

and shivering until the snow had gently clothed them in shim-

mering white. 

Then with the coming Spring you had felt a change in you 

for in May you would promise God your chastity, poverty, and 

obedience. And though Canon Law allowed you to promise 

for only three years, your heart would say, "Forever." The 

days had passed so slowly it seemed, for you had been so anxious. 

As the time drew closer you had longed desperately to kneel 

before God's altar and consecrate to Him forever, all that you 

were, all that you could ever be. 

Then one day you had seen a nun do something that seemed 



18 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

rude and unkind. It had surprised you for it never occurred to 

you that nuns were quite human, and had different homes and 

backgrounds. Sister Edgar ·had found out about the scene you 

had witnessed. "So you were perhaps shocked, Sister Mary 

Ellen?" she had said quietly. "No, Sister," you had answered, 

"but I was surprised." "Good, I'm glad that is your reaction. 

Remember that you came here with plenty of rust, and all your 

failings. So did everyone else. You came seeking perfection, 

and only by striving will you attain it. Christ was never shocked 

at the Jews. He loved them but not their sin, and He prayed 

for them. You must imitate Him-love and pray for your 

Sisters when they make mistakes. Trust God and do your best," 

was the advice she had given you. 

Once again it had been May, and in ten days you would be 

God's own in a special way. Your heart was singing. It was 

nearly time for your second retreat. You had been watching a 

robin perched on a branch of apple blossoms when you heard 

footsteps near by. "Sister Mary Ellen, Sister Edgar wants to 

see you in her office." It had been Sister Johann's soft voice. 

"I hope there is nothing wrong," she had added. You had 

wondered if there was. Oh, yes, you had tried, but you broke 

things, laughed when you should have been sober, stumbled 

over the lessons at Office, and so many other things. You had 

breathed a prayer. "Straighten things out, Blessed Mother. It 

just seems as if 1 can't stay out of trouble," you prayed, as YOll 

knocked at Sister Edgar's office door. 

Before you had time to get your breath you had seen the 

yellow telegram on Sister Edgar'S desk. It was so brief, and 

yet so clear. "Dad seriously ill ." You had felt so still and 

numb inside. Sister Edgar spoke gently: ''I'm awfully sorry, 



IT W AS ALL SO NEW 19 

Sister Mary Ellen, and if you wish, you may go home to see 

your father. But if you do you will have to make another year 

of novitiate because the year must be uninterrupted, according 

to Canon Law." "What do you think I should do?" you had 

whispered in a hollow voice. "You must decide for yourself, 

Sister. The decision must be yours. Go to chapel and ask the 

Holy Ghost for guidance," had been the quiet answer. You 

had thought over all the pros and cons as you knelt there for 

about ten minutes. Then you felt calm and your mind had been 

made up. ''I'll make vows, Sister," you had told Sister Edgar 

in a choked voice, "I am sure God will take care of Dad, and 

I can pray for him." Sister Edgar smiled. "I was hoping you 

would decide that," she said softly. "God will not be outdone 

in generosity." 

The days of retreat had slipped past one by one, and at last 

the day had arrived. You had felt serious and sober that May 

morning when you were to promise God to give Him the great-

est gift you had-yourself. You had known you couldn't ex-

pect anyone from home but still you thought, "Maybe someone 

will come." You had read your vow formula through with no 

stumbling. It had been so good to be near God and feel His 

strength. You had experienced joy and had known that your 

father would get better-you had just felt it. 

It was over now and you had walked down the aisle to the 

strains of "Holy God." The other five novices had been greet-

ing their fond parents and relatives. You had looked quickly 

around and then your heart had fallen down to your ankles. 

There was no one there for you-not even a friend. "Thank 

you, God, for the cross," you had said, and your throat was 

hot and dry. 



20 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

You had gone to the refectory and had eaten breakfast with 

the other newly professed. Everyone was so kind, never men-

tioning anything that would make you think that you were 

alone. You had scanned the special delivery letter at your place. 

Dad was much better and they would come to see you soon, 

but they just couldn't make it today. You had felt relieved. 

The Sisters were leaving to be with their parents. Sister Johanna 

had lingered. "Sister," she had said, "you could have dinner 

with us. Mother would be delighted." You had been touched . 

"No, Sister," you replied, "I'll get along fine and just celebrate 

with the nuns." "If you should change your mind, it 's still 

all right. I have the necessary permission. " You had said, 

"Thanks," and turned away to hide your emotion. 

As you walked out of the refectory Sister Placida had stopped 

you. "Didn't anyone come;" she asked, "Oh, you poor child." 

That did it! The tears came like a cloudburst. "Now, now," 

you had heard a voice say. Someone had taken your arm. A 

door had opened and closed. "Sit here," someone had said. 

Glancing up through your tears you had seen Sister Edgar. 

"Cry it out and you'll feel better," she had advised. "If only 

no one had given me any sympathy," you said through your 

tears. The storm hadn't lasted too long, and then you were 

yourself again. The rest of the day had passed happil y. Y Oll 

couldn't be sad with so much rejoicing around you, and the 

knowledge that God was pleased with you. 

For a long time that night you had lain awake staring out of 

the window in your alcove at the perfect picture of God's 

stars. "Somewhere beyond," you had thought, "lived Christ 

and His gracious Queen." "My God, I love you much, very 

much ," you had whispered as you had fallen asleep. 



In lhe King's Service 

YOU had thought it would be so easy. When you had done practice teaching the children were always responsive, and 
it hadn't seemed hard either for the experienced teachers. And 

the book on teaching had had so many examples about different 

children, and how you should act. You had never dreamed 

that children could be so different, but these children all were! 

You had sighed and glanced at the little boy in the front 

seat with tear-filled eyes. If it were Sister Enid she'd know ex-

actly what to say and do, but she had taught for fifteen years, 

and was an expert. This was only February in your first year 

of teaching, and everything seemed to be in a slump. Now what 

should you do-consult the book which never seemed to have 

an answer for your third graders? If only Sister Enid would 

come around, she'd smooth the whole thing out. You remem-

bered her saying at lunch that she would be supervising some 

basketball game so there wasn't a chance. Anyway you had 

thought with a shrug of your shoulders, '.' It's about time I fight 

my own battles and solve my own problems." 

"James," you had said after clearing your throat and sending 

a swift prayer heavenward for help, "Have you finished?" The 

head shook and the tears rolled faster. "Here, I'll help you," 

you had said. Then you had noticed how drawn the little tear-

21 



22 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

stained face was. In no time you had finished and James was 

smiling. The smile looked like the sun shining on a tired pic-

ture. You had dismissed him then. You'd have to check his 

record in the office and see what his background was. Maybe 

Sister Jane could help. She was from town and knew almost 

everyone. She'd supply what the record didn 't. 

Just then you had heard a slight tap on the opened door, and 

Sister Jane was standing there. ''I'd like to walk home with you 

tonight. What time do you go?" she was saying. "You're an 

answer to a prayer," you had said after you had told her the 

time you were leaving. "Do you know James Gallen?" you 

asked. Sister Jane smiled, " If you mean Walter Gallen 's son, 

yes. I have his brother in 8th grade." "Is there anything about 

his background?" you questioned. "His card in the files sug-

gests everything is fine." "You can tell you're new at this! 

Those cards don't reveal very much, except the occupation of 

the parents, etc. James' father has a good position, but he 

drinks. His mother is inclined to nag, and lives in a social whirl . 

Be kind to James, Sister. He gets plenty of neglect at home. 

Most of all he needs love and understanding. As Sister Enid 

always says, 'We are teaching children, not subjects.''' With 

that she had gone, leaving you with the puzzle of James solved. 

You had made your plans for James with a prayer that you 'd 

bring God's love into his woebegone little life. 

The months had slipped by, and before you knew it June and 

the closing of school had arived. You had loved them all very 

much, from Jean, who was so angelic, to Mike who always tried 

your patience. Everything was finished now . You had sat at 

your desk for a long time thinking of the many things that had 

happened. The desks were so empty, and you had felt so lost, 



IN THE KING'S SERVICE 23 

as if the memories in this room were silently slipping away. 

You had been the only new teacher, and the personalities of 

the others had seemed so different. 

You had locked the desk with a sigh, glanced once more at 

the empty desks, and started for the door. The key in the dobr 

had an empty click, and you felt lonely. "You hate to say good-

bye don't you?" You had heard a soft voice say. Turning 

you had looked straight into Sister Ruth's dancing brown eyes. 

Your expression said, "Yes." "You'll get over it," Sister Ruth 

continued. "It will give you that feeling every year, but after 

a while you won't mind it so much. Then along comes a class 

that is really hard to manage. You've .tried all the tricks you 

know and some that are new, but nothing works. So when you 

close and lock that door you give a big sigh of relief. See you 

at the co"nvent." Sister Ruth hurried off, and you knew why. 

Waiting at the end of the hall was Sister Walter. She had been 

saying her rosary with a patient expression as she waited. Sister 

Walter was noted for never wasting a minute, as well as for 

always being five or ten minutes early. You had walked slowly 

down the hall knowing that you would never forget this year. 

"Help them become good men and women, dear God," you 

had prayed. 

Summer brought with it retreat. Your soul had felt as if it 

had been washed with refreshing summer rain. You had 

learned to love Sister Patricia, your Scholastic mistress, as much 

as Sister Edgar, although they were so different. Yet, it had 

been made so clear to you that you must regard your superior 

as the voice of God. Perhaps some day you would find it hard 

to obey that voice when it came from a person with an un-



24 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

attractive exterior. Could you take obedience then with a smile? 

The question sometimes had troubled you. 

It had been a sultry day in mid-summer and you were scrub-

bing a floor in the basement. A scurry of hurried feet caused 

you to look up. Sister Edna, who would never think of causing 

a disturbance, stood in the door. "A pipe burst," she gasped. 

You had heard the drip of water coming from the kitchen. The 

moment you stood in the door laughter ran through your whole 

being. Sister Elaine was turning off the water which was flow-

ing on her upturned face, while Sister Lillian was rubbing her 

hands together saying softly, "Oh, my." By this time Sister 

Edna was at your side. One look at you and she had said in 

a breathless voice, "Sister Mary Ellen, don't stand there and 

laugh. Do something. Get a man!" So you both had ended 

up by mopping up the water in the kitchen, with Sister Edna 

now and then casting angry glances at you much to your secret 

amusement. 

So many amusing things had happened in those three years 

that elapsed between first and last vows. There was the time 

the Scholastics had put on a pantomime for Reverend Mother's 

nameday. An older Sister had trained you. None of you was 

graceful but you had been the clumsiest. Your motions seemed 

to be only a matter of chasing flies . That night you had all 

walked down to the community room perspiring beneath your 

;white gowns. Sister Inez had sung " Nearer My God to Thee" 

in her deep alto voice and the rest of you had gone through 

the motions of the pantomime. Sitting in the very front row 

with over-grown smiles were your former Scholastic associates. 

They had tried to make you laugh. However, you had all man-

aged to be quite sober. 



IN THE KING'S SERVICE 25 

There had been the time Mrs. Gerbs had brought her daugh-

ter's Sister doll to show you. "She calls it Sister Marjorie," she 

had beamed, "I told her she should call it Sister Mary Ellen, be-

cause it looks just like you. " "You can dress a doll up in a 

Benedictine habit, but that doesn't make it a Benedictine," you 

seemed to hear Sister Patricia say again as she had so many 

times. You had smiled as you studied the doll 's blank face, its 

helpless hands. "Beauty is only skin deep. If you're a good 

little girl that's all that matters." You remembered your mother 

had said this when you were a child and your older brother 

Dick had teased you about your turned-up nose and freckled 

face. Mrs. Gerbs had gone off happy, unmindful that she had 

caused an inward shudder by comparing you to a lifeless doll. 

Then there had been the serious and beautiful things. The 

retreats, forty hours devotion, Benediction with candles sending 

their soft light in all directions, like the graces which God so 

freely bestowed. There had been hours spent in front of the 

Blessed ,Sacrament with the thought of your heavenly Bride-

groom so very near to you. The little irritations and failings in 

daily life had seemed so very small in comparison to everything 

else. But all this had lasted just so long, and quickly, silently, 

shortly before last profession, dryness descended upon you. Your 

whole soul had been like the Sahara Desert- no life, no feeling, 

only a barren numbness. Gone were the scent-filled prayers. 

Doubts assailed you-were you good enough, would they keep 

you? 

You had sat in the summer house near the Sisters' cemetery 

where you could see the life-sized crucifix of Christ. He was so 

blackened, His face so beautiful, so sad. You had always come 

to this very spot, and talked things over with Him when the 



26 THE HELP OF HIS CRACE 

stars had gone out of your sky, and the going was rough. Some-

times the snowflakes would fall softly and soothingly on that 

Face you loved; again the autumn leaves would blow persistent-

ly against the base of the crucifix, seemingly to beg for mercy 

like the souls He had died to save. When the trees had been 

bare and everything was dreary He was your forsaken Christ. 

The day before last vows you had sat guietly looking up at the 

Face. You had felt that your very heart was slowly turning to 

stone. Life had never seemed so dear, so sweet in that world 

you had left behind. You prayed your rosary, and tired to medi-

tate on the sorrowful mysteries. "Mary," you whispered at the 

end of your prayer, "Help me." It had been then that peace 

had come to you, and you had felt the protecting folds of her 

mantle. She would always be with you beneath the cross, 

strengthening you, giving you the courage to follow Him. And 

wasn't that, after all , what St. Benedict wanted? You would 

never attain perfection, but you would always pursue it. Your 

star had been shining again high in God's blue heaven. 

The next day had been like a dream. You had gone up and 

given everything you had or ever would have to Christ. Lying 

under the pall you had asked His Mother to present to her 

crucified Son your whole body, soul, mind and will. Your earth-

ly heart was unable to hold more happiness. You arose to don 

the choir cloak with a new feeling, a new joy. As you walked 

to your place in chapel your hands tenderly grasped the candle 

which symbolized your life. As you kissed it and handed it 

to the Bishop everything seemed to sing in your heart. The re-

ligious life before you had been so mysterious. You had not 

been able to see the hopes and fears , joys and sorrows, failures , 

and successes which were a part of every life spent wearing the 



IN THE KING'S SERVICE 27 

religious habit. Too soon everything was over and the choir-

was singing "Holy God." You had walked slowly from chapel 

with the other newly-professed. 

Mother, Dad, Joe and Ann had been waiting for you. Dick, 

you knew was somewhere in Europe with the armed forces, but, 

where was Susan? "Susan couldn't come," Mother had said 

quickly, almost too quickly. "Bob is sick," Joe had added hastily. 

"She's been married three years now, hasn't she?" you mused. 

By that time you were in the parlor, and everyone was talking. 

Dad looked at your ring with the IHS, and thought it beautiful, 

Mother studied the seventy-two pleats in your choir cloak and 

marveled at the fine piece of work. As for Af].n she had tapped 

the toes of her high-heeled kid slippers, and told you how long 

the services had been, and how she had thought you would die 

before they ever raised the pall. She was a junior in high school, 

and was bored just like you used to be when anything was long. 

Joe had teased you with pretended astonishment at your cotton 

hose and sensible shoes. 

The dining room had been tastefully decorated and everyone 

had enjoyed it. Joe said he was amazed at the good cooks they 

had here. He thought all Sisters did was pray. The Sisters 

waiting on table with white aprons and cuffs were smiling 

pleasantly as they served everyone. You had been so proud of 

them. 

The day had seemed to pass on silver wings, and before you 

- knew it you were praying Matins in chapel. You had thought 

of Susan and how they had evaded questions about her. When 

Mother .had kissed you good-bye she had whispered, "Pray for 

Susan, Sister Mary Ellen." "Why didn't they tell you?" you 

had wondered. "Why all the secrecy." You had been dis-



28 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

tracted and during one whole psalm. ''I'm sorry, God, " YOLl had 

said and gone on fighting distractions. 

Darkness had set in when you reached the dormitory after a 

wonderful day, and from your window that night you had 

watched little fleecy clouds chase each other across the sky. 

The moon had thrown silver shadows on the trees, the wind 

sighed as it entered the open window. Your religious life would 

be like this. Some places you would be able to see and under-

stand, as you could see the gleams of moonlight. Other places 

would be shadows, like the trials which you would not com-

prehend. "Let me bring Glory to Your name," you had prayed 

to the God on His throne beyond the sky. "May I always con-

sider what You want me to do. And, dearest Lord, let me love 

you more and more as the years slip by." You had smiled in 

the darkness and slipped between the cool sheets to dream of 

the humility that St. Benedict so patiently and unfailingly de-

manded in his Holy Rule. 



God's Vinevard 

THE bell went off with its usual unmusical five o'clock sound, ending your dreams of brooks, trees, and flowers. You 
had yawned, sat up, and made the Sign of the Cross. As you 

closed the window and turned on the light you had shivered 

in the chill autumn dawn. Everything was always so silent, you 

had thought. Sister EW1ice's closing of the door had reminded 

you to hurry a little. You had remembered your meditation as 

you walked down the hall. Was Christ still there telling you, 

as He had told the apostles long ago, that He would make YOll 

a fisher of men? Through the hallway windows you had looked 

up into the early morning sky where a few stars still glimmered. 

You had slipped into the chapel already partly filled with nuns 

making their usual early morning visit. Everything had been 

so calm, quiet and peaceful. It was hard to believe that only 

a few hours from now you would be thrust into the highways 

and byways of school life. You had offered Him the day, beg-

ging His help. 

The bell had rung for Office, "Aperi Domine," Mother Gerard 

began, and the rest of the choir joined in. Sister Mark had for-

gotten to intone the first psalm at "Prime" but Sister Janet was 

on her toes immediately taking it up in her sweet voice. "In 

case the priest forgets any part of the "Requiem" when she 

29 



30 7'I-lE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

dies she'll wake up and help him out," you had thought a bit 

impatiently. Then you checked yourself. You were getting 

your physical exercise jumping at conclusions. It was much 

too early to be judging someone who was much holier than 

yourself. "St. Joseph help us all today in school," you prayed 

while the words of the psalms fell from your lips like light 

snowflakes. "Give us counsel and patience at all times." At 

"Tierce" you had prayed to St. Thomas Aguinas that he might 

aid your community. You asked that God would give you all 

the gift of fortitude and the virtue of obedience. Before you 

knew it the choir was singing the "Salve Regina." It had seemed 

to fill every corner and nook in the chapel, drawing dow n the 

smile and blessing of Heaven's Queen. 

It was time for meditation, and as you had looked through the 

open window you could see the outline of the trees in the morn-

ing mist, and hear the soft whispering of the morning breeze. 

You said a fervent "Deo Gratias" to God for arranging things 

so that you could be near a window. You had closed your eyes, 

and you were walking with the gentle Master along the shore 

of the Lake of Galilee. The sun was rising in the morning sky, 

filling it with golden radiance. Far away there were boats on 

the bI ue waters of the lake. You had turned to the gentle figure 

in white, and touched His sleeve. ''I'm frightened," you whis-

pered. "So often in school I'm afraid. Mostly I fear myself. 

There is the dread of failure. Please help me." Then you had 

looked up into His gentle face. The sad, understanding eyes 

did not reproach you. The lips did not utter words of blame 

only, "You do your best; that is success." In the distance you 

had seen a lady in blue coming to meet you . Her robe moved 

gracefully in the gentle wind, and her face was shining, not 



GOD'S VINEYARD 31 

only from the sun, but with a great inner light. "She will help 

you, trust her," the Master was saying, and you had put your 

hand in hers as trustingly as a child. 

The sanctuary was all lighted now. The nuns had risen to 

their feet. The priest was beginning Holy Mass. "I will go 

unto the altar of God; to God, Who giveth joy to my youth, " 

you had prayed. The candles flickered softly, and you were with 

Mary, only the sun wasn't shining anymore. It was a dismal 

day, and the birds had stopped singing. You were in the nar-

row streets of Jerusalem, and there were dirty, unkempt men 

and women pushing against you. You had clung tightly to 

Mary. "Where is He?" you whispered. Then you had seen her 

face, so sad, so loving. "He is here, child; we will see Him 

in a moment," she had said. It was the Offertory and you had 

said, "Take, 0 Lord, and receive my health, my strength, my 

very life. Do with me just as You please. I embrace all lov-

ingly-sufferings, wounds, death; if only it will glorify You 

one tiny bit. " "That prayer consoles Him," the Lady had said , 

"because He knows you mean it." 

You had seen Him now through a crowd of modern people, 

people you knew. His robe was soiled now with blood, and the 

spittle of men; His face disfigured and filled with pain. You 

had so wanted to run to Him at least to wipe the blood and 

dirt from His Face. Then you had seen the figure of a nun do 

it with such tenderness. You had looked up into Mary's face , 

and she had nodded in answer to your unspoken question. It 

was someone you knew; someone with whom you lived. 

You had heard the bell ring for Consecration, and you had 

looked at the tiny white Host and chalice, and through eyes of 

faith saw Christ hanging. You had gone back two thousand 



32 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

years and were still clinging to Mary. The sky was dark, and 

the earth shook. "Can't I help Him?" Your voice seemed 

swept away by the rough wind. "I thirst," the Figure on the 

cross had murmured through tortured lips. Y au had looked 

about for water, but there had been nothing but the cold, dark 

earth. Mary pressed your hand, "He means souls, Sister Mary 

Ellen. The souls of the children you teach." You had looked 

up into the suffering face and promised, ''I'll do my best, my 

very best." You had still been beneath the cross when Sister 

Janet had tapped you to remind you of Communion. Christ 

had died on the cross for you. "Make my soul beautiful for 

Him please, Mary," you had begged as you tried to make a 

perfect act of Contrition. With the Host, peace descended into 

your soul. Again you were with the gentle Christ, and He was 

pleading for your love. He was asking you to carry His warmth 

and kindness into a cold, cruel world that had forgotten Him. 

You hadn't wanted to go. You had wished to remain here for-

ever just loving Him. The candles had been extinguished. Only 

the sanctuary lamp flickered in the semi-darkness. 

Reverend Mother rang a tiny bell , and you had gone up to 

the cell you shared with Sister Eunice to make your bed and 

bring down the things you needed for school. After breakfast 

you had started off for school with Sister Augusta. 

A light dew had fallen and glistened on the grass. You had 

been able to smell the scent of spruce trees along the path. The 

sun rising in the east looked rosy and glad. On the street chil-

i dren hurried on. "They always are on time the first day and 
II the last," Sister Augusta had remarked . As you entered the 

il school she added, "Will you be ready to go home at eleven-

/I thirty?" ''I'm ready right now! " you answered, unmindful of 

I 
I 

Iii 



GOD'S VINEYARD 33 

the promise you had given Christ. Sister Augusta had laughed 

a little. "God bless your day," she said as she went down the 

hall. 

The stairs creaked as you climbed them. You heard the noise 

and bustle of boys and girls waiting to get into the room. "Good 

morning," you said as you unlocked the door. "Mornin', Sister," 

came from ten lusty throats. "Gary went to public," Dennis 

informed you before you had taken two steps. "He wants to 

play football." You had worked hard with Gary and the thought 

that football was more important than a Catholic school edu-

cation hurt. They were all around your desk now, talking about 

their vacations. "But I'm glad to get back to school," Diane 

had said tossing her pigtails. "You get sick of doing nothing." 

You had been relieved when the Mass bell rang and they were 

in rank. Tomorrow they would be Sister Margaret's problem. 

The second bell had rung and the halls and stairs echoed with 

marching feet. Before going into church you had seen Gary 

slip into rank. He had looked in your direction then and smiled. 

"Why, Gary," you said with relief, "1 heard you went to public 

school. Did you change your mind?" "No, Sister, but my fa-

ther changed it for me." The church had been stuffy so you 

had asked Jim and David to open the windows. "Christ bless 

Gary's father for sending him back, even if Gary can't be classed 

among the angels," you had prayed. The late-comers were trail-

ing in now. Father Albert was beginning the Solemn High 

Mass to the Holy Spirit. We and our 700 pupils surely need it 

you had thought! You started your rosary-the joyful mysteries 

today. It hadn't been peaceful like the chapel. Paul looked at 

John as if he wanted to say something, then looked back at 

you and changed his mind. 



THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

There had been a sudden gasp and you saw Pat had fainted. 

You had gone quickly to him. Pete and Larry were gallantly 

holding him in a kneeling position. "Spread him out on the 

seat," you had whispered desperately. "First-aid junior certifi-

cates issued to them last year, and they had forgotten every-

thing," you thought. Then as Pat came back to reality you 

had taken his arm and slowly escorted him to school. The couch 

in the first aid room was in use, so you had gone to your class-

room, and made Pat sit with his head on the desk. As you had 

started to open the windows Pat, who was always anxious to 

help said, "Want me to open the windows for you, Sister?" 

You had explained to him that you weren 't anxious to have 

him faint again. So you had gone back to church just in time 

to meet the ranks coming out. 

They had squirmed in their seats as they waited for Sister 

Angelica to come and take them to 8th grade. At last she had 

stood there reading their names as they shuffled to their feet. 

Meanwhile you had arranged everything on your desk at a 

ninety degree angle-but you had known it wouldn 't remain 

that way! You had never been able to have the papers on your 

desk in an artistic pile. They always had looked as if they had 

been blown there. "Good-bye, Sister," Mike had whispered as 

he edged past. "Be good to those darlings who are coming 

in ." 

For a moment all was quiet. Sister Angelica hurried in hand-

ing you a report card. "He'll be in your room, Sister. Both par-

ents are fallen-away Catholics. Be good to him." Karl Taylor's 

report was a revelation. His marks had been just passing in 

spite of the high intelligence which he had. At the end of the 

I report his teacher had written with perfect penmanship, "Karl 

Ii 

/: 



GOD'S VINEYARD 35 

does not study. He wastes time and annoys others." You had 

thrust the report quickly in your desk at the sound of many 

approaching footsteps. There your pupils had stood waiting 

for a signal. "You may choose any seat you wish," you had 

said and smiled. The books had said you should never smile 

the first day, but you usually did anyway. After a mad scramble 

the smoke seemed to clear. Wonder of wonders-the girls were 

all in the back while the boys sat quieti y in the front seats. You 

had read their names and had them rise. You would try to 

connect some part of them with their names so you'd remem-

ber them. "Karl Taylor," you had said. 

In the front seat a little boy got hurriedly to his feet. Your 

eyes had met and it had seemed that you were friends immedi-

ately. His brown eyes danced and his freckles fairly shone. "He 

won't be my problem child this year," you thought. "Your 

books are in the desk," you were saying. "Each one has a num-

ber. Give me your name as I call the number of your book. 

Karl you will remain a few moments while I make out a record 

for the office." 

In no time they were all gone but Karl . You had taken out 

your pen and started to fill out the registration slip. After it 

was finished Karl had leaned over your desk and said con-

fidentially, ''I'm a bad kid, Sister." "Oh, I wouldn't say that," 

you had answered while you thought of the report in your desk 

which resembled a battlefield. "The teacher last year said I 

was the worse kid she ever had," he continued. "Were you?" 

you asked. "Well, I don't think you are so bad." So Karl had 

gone on telling you all about his faults and failings. "Tell you 

what, Karl," you had said as you lined your rollcall book. "I'll 

gIve you a medal of the Blessed Mother, and say three 'Hail 



36 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

Marys' every night so that she'll make you a good boy." "1 

don't know any prayers," Karl had promptly answered. You 

had been aghast at this, but quickly hid your dismay by search-

ing through a desk drawer for a medal. "You bring your cate-

chism here and you can read the prayer until you know it," you 

said. Karl had gone off with his catechism and medal after you 

explained the "Hail Mary," leaving you alone with your 

thoughts. "I know, 1 didn't do you justice, Mary, when 1 ex-

plained you to him, but you do the rest, please," you prayed. 

A soft rap at the door had made you turn from your work. 

The little girl tossed her golden curls and handed you a note. 

"Please write the number of girls and boys in your room. Also 

have their names, etc. , in the office as soon as possible. " You 

had patted the little girl's head, then went back to your work. 

The morning was filled with interruptions. The last knock was 

Sister Susan who had told you there would be a meeting with 

the pastor at one-thirty. You had hurried downstairs, and found 

Sister Augusta waiting and both of you had hurried home. You 

didn't want to be late for Divine Office. 

As the convent door closed behind you, a feeling of rest had 

come over you, for you were leaving the noise of the world for 

a time. After washing your hands you hurried into chapel just 

two minutes before Office started. You had said Sext in grati-

tude for your vocation. "But maybe, dear Lord," you said 

looking at the golden Tabernacle, ''I'd bring more glory to your 

name if 1 prayed for these children instead of trying to teach 

them." You knew the answer to that. Christ had not given 

you a contemplative vocation. You must have a Martha's hands 

and a Mary's heart. During "None" you had asked St. Mary 

Magdalen to obtain for you the virtues of Chastity and Poverty. 



GOD'S VINEY ARD 37 

It was soon over and you had begun your examination of con-

science. Charity had seemed to be your biggest failure. You 

would try not to talk about anyone today, especially Sister Maria 

who appeared so superior. "Jesus, meek and humble of heart; 

make my heart like unto Thine," you prayed. 

You had filed out of chapel after praying the "Angelus." At 

dinner you said the usual prayers in Latin. There had been a 

general scraping of chairs. The table reader read the usual 

books, then had started a new book. Sister Helena's mortified 

eyes had lifted for a brief moment as she scanned the book, 

then rested again on her plate. You had remembered then that 

she was to be the next reader. The book was about a mystic, 

and after the first paragraph you had decided you didn't like 

it for table reading. After the washing of dishes at table a bell 

had rung with a hurried tinkle. You had all arisen, prayed and 

filed out of the refectory praying the "Miserere" on your way 

to chapel. At "Vespers" you had prayed for the Holy Souls 

and asked to obtain the virtue of devotion. "Heaven knows 

I've been distracted plenty today," you had thought as you tried 

to concentrate on the psalms while Karl's freckled face seemed 

to take the place of each period and comma. 

Sister Augusta was waiting at the door when you had arrived, 

out of breath as usual. "We'll just make the meeting, I think. 

I know what he is going to say," you had said. You had just 

finished unlocking your door when Sister Irma came down the 

hall. "Let's sit near each other," she had said. "You've been 

here eight years and I've been here nine. Order is heaven's 

first law, you know." You had taken a pad along to jot down 

the things you were to remember. As Father gave his usual 

talk you tried to recall what you would tell Officer Herlie that 



38 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

the patrol boys would need, "2 raincoats, " you wrote, "2 patrol 

belts and badges." "Order is heaven's first law," Father said 

loudly. Sister Irma had given you a quick kick and you had 

both laughed silently. Her chin had indicated Sister Evelyn, 

a scholastic, who was writing down every word Father said 

with great rapidity. The meeting ended and you returned to 

your classroom. ''I'm putting a sign on this door, 'Do not dis-

turb, ' " you had told Sister Irma. "There were so many knocks 

today I'm surprised the door is still standing." 

You had settled down to type the information for the office 

when a few bangs on the closed door had reminded you that 

your dream of a quiet afternoon was at an end. There stood 

Tom and Joe, your two problem children from last year. "Could 

we help you, Sister?" Joe asked. "Yes, come in," you said 

with a sigh. Then you brightened. "You can wax the desks." 

"Didn't we have those butterflies and cat-tails up last year?" 

Bill asked looking around. "Maybe," you had thought, "I 

should have put those stiff pansies up for a change." By the 

time the afternoon was over Jake had walked in eating an ice 

cream cone. "Sister, look at that guy," Joe said. "He comes 

when all the work is done." "Oh, he can empty the basket." 

you had suggested. "Sister, I ain ' t stayrn'," Jake pleaded. 

"None of us are," you replied. "As soon as the basket is emptied 

we'll lock the door and go home. " "I'll empty it, Sister, but 

I just came up to see if these guys were workin'. " So, they had 

gone on all the way down to the street. You were glad Sister 

Augusta enjoyed them for two of them had decided they were 

gOll1g your way. 

You made your way up to third floor on reaching the con-

vent. After washing you had doused your face with cold water 



GOD'S VINEY ARD 39 

to keep you awake during Matins. You had said Matins to 

obtain the gift of wisdom. (God had known you needed it.) 

The chapel was hot and stuffy, and you had felt drowsy and 

distracted. All your good resolutions and fervor had disap-

peared into thin air. Office had ended and you were still at 

sea trying to find some pious thought to cling to. 

"Sister Philip is sick tonight. Hers is the only extra tray." 

Sister Barbara had said when you had gone in to carry trays. 

After fifteen minutes of tray carrying you had settled down to 

read "Vigil," a book which never failed to give you some inspira-

tion. Later at supper the book about the mystic had been resumed. 

You had almost felt the dislike for the book among the nuns. 

It had seemed to penetrate the very atmosphere. Sister Carol 

had read on in her smooth voice. When she came to the part 

where the mystic had been told by God to leave her work to 

write Him love notes you had almost seen the forks suspended 

in the air. Beside you Sister Maria had chuckled very softly. 

You had heard Sister Gilbert say she thought they should select 

Benedictine saints if they were going to read about mystics. 

As for yourself, you had failed to appreciate it. Fortunately the 

Church had not spoken, so you had been at liberty to accept 

this mystic or not even believe in her. 

So supper had passed. Lauds, which came next was peaceful 

enough until the intoning of the "Salve" when Sister Janice, 

who was playing the organ, gave Sister Rose Ann the wrong 

pitch. Sister Rose Ann had made a brave attempt, and had gone 

flat. Later at recreation she was searching for Sister Janice 

whom she claimed was playing "Yankee Doodle" when she 

gave her the pitch. Sister Edna had stretched out in a chair 

and relaxed. "Only one hundred seventy-nine more days," she 



40 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

sighed wearily. Just then Sister Vincent brought forth a box of 

fudge. Now Sister Edna had opened her eyes wide and sat up 

very straight. "Where did you make the raid?" she had gasped. 

Sister Vincent's eyes had twinkled. "A mama came. She said 

her Ja,ckie liked me so well last year. Then 10 and behold , a 

box of candy appeared." 

Out of the corner of your eye you had noticed Sister Bede 

looking over her glasses with disapproval at such a fuss. Sister 

Bede seldom smiled. She had always been a bit of a stoic. 

When she had smiled you had wanted to stand in front of her 

to get the full benefit. Maybe you could even take her picture, 

you had thought. It would be like the sun shining on ice for 

a brief time, and Sister Vincent was like the sun. Sister Bede 

smiled now, for not even she had ever been able to resist Sister 

Vincent's sparkling personality . You had often thought that 

some of you might shine like the stars in eternity, but Sister 

Vincent would be the sun. 

Sister Maura started to ask about the candy. She was noted 

for her questions. "W rite the questions down," Sister Vincent 

had said, "and I'll answer them some day when I have time. " 

You had looked about, and remembered the remark about Sis-

ters never doing anything. There was not a single bored face. 

Two Sisters were on the floor working out some kind of a chart, 

while others were playing the radio. In the midst of this Sister 

Philip had come in to tell everyone who was interested that 

there was chocolate cake being given out in the kitchen. There 

had been a scramble for the door, and soon some of you were 

feasting. "Y ou' d think they never got enough to eat," Sister 

Joan said, trying to look serious and not succeeding very well. 



GOD'S VINEY ARD 41 

You had gone back to the recreation room to have a good time 

until the bell rang. 

When recreation had ended and Compline began, a deep 

silence filled the whole convent with peace. No one would 

talk until after breakfast the next morning, unless Charity or 

some obligation demanded it. Now a deep quiet had seemed 

to descend on everyone as a soft blanket containing God's mys-

teries. Shadows had fallen and the day had come to an end. 

Again you had been with God's Mother, only now the sun had 

set in the west and the pink and gold glory in the sky had dis-

appeared with it. You had been thankful for everything as you 

said goodnight to Christ in the Tabernacle. You had walked 

from the silent chapel to take your rest filled with peace. 

The year had been so peaceful-too good to be true you had 

thought. You had known from past experience how suddenly 

things could change. And change they had. Without any warn-

ing, Dick Morris, one of your best patrol boys, had become diffi-

cult. Sister Angelica, the principal, had sent for you, and told 

you bluntly that he must be corrected. Dick had been insolent 

to Sisters in the school; he had shown no respect for anyone 

lately. You had known that she was right, but you knew too 

that you were in for plenty of trouble. So you had gone over 

your line of attack carefully, only it hadn't worked. Dick was 

obstinate, and refused to understand, even after your patient 

explanation. Besides he had told his mother a fantastic tale 

about throwing snowballs, which she had believed and never 

bothered to verify. Once you had been tempted to call and ex-

plain, but you had remembered Christ. Did He go to the Phari-

sees and explain the situation? Your anger had slowly mel ted 

like mountain snows, and in its place was a bruised feeling. 



42 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

Dick had used every trick he knew to undermine your authority, 

to turn others against you. In a few cases he had succeeded. You 

had felt helpless. Never before had any boy that you knew 

used such low tactics. 

Two months had passed, and there had been no change in 

Dick's attitude. It was nearly the end of school. You had 

hated to see any boys leave school for the summer in that state 

of mind. In spite of defeat you had decided to make one last 

attempt. You had prayed and begged the Holy Spirit to en-

lighten you, but everything in you had gone dead and you were 

afraid. After you had sent for Dick you had stood at your class-

room door waiting. 

Once when you had been a child you had gone tramping 

through the woods too absorbed in the flowers and trees to 

notice the storm clouds gathering. The storm had come upon 

you quickly; the lightning had flashed and the thunder had 

rolled. You had stood trembling against a tree, too frightened 

to move, while the rain lashed its fury against your body. 

You had felt as panicky now as you watched Dick saunter 

up the hall, head defiantly thrown back, the chip on his shoul-

der at a perilously sharp angle. You had clutched the crucifix 

on your rosary, and stood your ground. Dick's tongue had 

lashed at you and you had suddenly felt a quiet strength, as if 

Someone was in back of your encouraging you. You had spoken 

calmly, of sportsmanship, truthfulness, etc. Once you had 

thought you saw Dick soften and some of the defiance leave 

his face, but you weren't sure of anything anymore. You had 

ended up by telling him you would check on him as well as 

pray for him. You had gone into the classroom and closed 

your door. The rain pounding angrily against the window had 



GOD'S VINEYARD 43 

reminded you of Dick's words. For a quick moment you had 

thought how easy it would have been to lie to Sister Angelica 

about Dick a month ago. You had seemed to hear Joe's voice 

in the far distant past when someone had cheated in a basket-

ball game for you, "If you can't win without cheating it's better 

to lose." 

"Christ, I love you," you had said in your heart as you began 

the arithmetic class. The only answer was the patter of rain, 

and the incessant movement of your class. You had known 

you weren't at your best. Everything had been as flat as a cake 

without baking powder. 

At dinner you hadn't been hungry. You had taken a cup 

of tea and a cookie. Everything was very informal when you 

had dinner cafeteria style at school. Sister Irma sitting across 

from you had glanced briefly at you and murmured, "Dick Mor-

ris again ?" You had grinned, a feeble grin that had looked as 

if you had found it on a sunless street. You were glad for once 

to escape the usual chatter, and get the afternoon over quickly. 

Finally school had closed and you had been checking your last 

spelling paper. "Alone? That's a little unusual," you had heard 

a voice say. Sister Irma had come in, pulled a front seat down, 

and studied you for a moment. "I came in to give you a talk-

ing to," she said at last. "Please, not tonight," you pleaded. 

"Now you listen to me," she began. You had noticed that her 

eyes were deep pools, and even her sturdy freckles were serious. 

"You have to stop worrying about Dick. I had him one year, 

and he's enough to make your nerves stand up and dance a 

jig. I know how you feel but God knows you did your best. 

What more can you do? Perhaps you did plenty of good, only 

God knows, and He's not telling." Now it had seemed that 



44 THE HELP OF HiS GRACE 

you had changed your drenched clothes, as you had after the 

storm in your childhood. Mother was gently reprimanding you. 

"Thanks, " you had said, ' 'I'll do as you say. " So you had walked 

home feeling as if there was a rainbow over your shoulder, and 

God had put a pot of gold there. "God bless people like Sister 

Irma," you thought. 

In the days that followed Dick had gradually lost his mask 

of resentment. Nevertheless a barrier seemed to have come be-

tween you. You had prayed for him for a long time, often 

when you were weary. 

School had closed with the usual hurry, and you had taken a 

last look at the deserted room to see if you had forgotten any-

thing. You had closed the door then on mistakes and failures 

of the year. 

At the door of the convent yon had met Mother Gerard. 

"Well, Sister Mary Ellen, have yon finished in school?" she 

asked. "How long have you been at St. Mark's School?" 

"Eight years, Mother," you replied. "Eight years," Mother re-

peated, as if !llaking a mental note. You had wondered if that 

meant a change. The only answer had been the echo of your 

footsteps as you made your way through the quiet halls. Would 

the next year find you among the nuns who packed their suit-

cases and trunks, and went off to a mission for the school year ? 

There always had been a lonely feeling when they left. They 

had been like the birds who left their homes for the winter, only 

they had gone in search of souls, not a sunnier climate. You 

wondered! 



You Followed Him Into "The Hills 

IT was August the fifteenth .. The first streaks of dawn came slowly in the east, and though early, the chapel was filling 
rapidly. This was the day you received your assignments-

"Tickets" you had all called them, "Assignments" had seemed 

much too formal. Each convent had its own unique name. You 

had noticed the white envelopes staring at you from each pew. 

You walked a little faster than usual and your prayer had been 

brief and straight from your heart. "Sister Mary Ellen," ( the 

type on your envelope had been dark and frightening in the 

dim, quiet chapel). Somewhere the silence had been broken by 

the ripping of paper, and you had joined in. It hadn't been 

exactl y a surprise. "Your obedience for the year is 5th and 6th 

grades in Laca." 

You had knelt motionless for a moment trying to visualize 

Laca for you had heard so much about it. You remembered 

what the Sisters who went there had said. "It was in the coun-

try. The house was old and often occupied by rats and mice. 

The children were simple and lovable." Many of the versions 

had been different, depending on the individual personality who 

described it. Now you had thought, you would go into this hill 

45 



46 THE HELP OF HiS GRACE 

country, but God would be near as He always had been so it 

wouldn't be too bad. 

You had always felt a little lonely at this time of year when 

the Sisters left for their various missions and those at home 

spent long hours in school. Often you had taken long walks 

through the orchard with its ripening fruit, or to the Blessed 

Mother's grotto where the leaves were slowly turning colors. 

You always had found it hard to say good-bye to the nuns when 

they left, and were happy when they returned for the summer 

when the hills were green and lovely. Now you yourself were 

one of those to leave, and it had been different. You had fel t 

as jf you were going into a new, unknown land, and since you 

had always loved new things there had been gladness in your 

heart. 

Soon, almost suddenly it seemed, you were on your way to 

Laca. The driver talked and the Sister with you answered. You 

had been too busy watching the scenes to pay much attention, 

but now and then Mr. McNell said something about roastin ' 

ears. You had learned later that "roastin' ears" was corn. It 

was late in the afternoon when you had arrived there, and the sun 

was throwing its golden glow on the daisies and wild flowers 

that grew so profusely everywhere. Sister Marion who had 

known this country place with her eyes closed, pointed out the 

gleaming cross on the church . The car stopped and you were in 

a new land. 

The new mission house had rusty red bricks. It stood beside 

the school. They both had appeared old as if someone had 

built them long ago, and then had forgotten their existence. 

On the hill the church had stood silhouetted against a blue 

sky. Everything had seemed bathed in sunlight. 



YOU FOLLOWED HIM INTO THE HILLS '17 

Many strangers had been there to welcome you. Some had 

peered with curious eyes at all the Sisters who were newcomers. 

You had liked their simple ways at once, and you enjoyed the 

well-prepared chicken dinner. The day closed with Benediction. 

Inside, the church had been cool and quiet. Here and there a 

footfall had sounded very softly. When you had heard the 

high school boys sing Benediction you had wanted to stay there 

forever, it was all so beautiful. Too soon it was over, you had 

filed out, and still the spell of the evening and Benediction had 

been upon you. "My but they were flat tonight," Sister Lucille 

beside you had exclaimed. You had come back to earth again. 

"I thought they were beautiful," you had meekly said, and knew 

from the smiles that your musical appreciation was null and void. 

While unpacking your things you had heard a tap at the 

door, and Sister Lucille's head had come into view. "Get your 

pitcher and come on," she had said. W as she trying to tease 

you, you had wondered? Sister Elaine had paused in her un-

packing to tell you you weren't at St. Joseph's Convent where 

water was plentiful. Even though you were skeptical you had 

followed Sister Lucille up the steps and around the church. 

"Where is this water?" you had asked suspiciously. "Right 

here," Sister Lucille answered with a grin. You had stopped 

short, and with an open mouth looked at the rain barrel. "But 

there'll be all kind of bugs and crawlers," you finally gasped. 

"We boil it before using it," Sister Lucille said patiently. "Ugh," 

you had grimaced. Both of you had laughed long at this. 

The boiling of water had become quite natural to you before 

very long. There had been the time when you had forgotten to 

get your jug filled with drinking water. You had turned on 

the drinking water, or what would have bee~ drinking water 



48 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

at home. You had looked long at the sulfur water which came 

from the faucet, before trying it on your teeth. Your teeth had 

felt as if they were coated with copper. "Never again," you 

had resolved. It would be a long time before water ceased to 

be a problem in Laca. 

Never had you forgotten that first day of school. The quick 

silence when you had entered the classroom before Mass; al l 

the eyes had been focused on your every move. You had noticed 

the appreciation each had for posters or anything else in the 

room. They had stood as you had called their names. It had 

all been a novel experience for you. 

The countryside in October had been beautiful with the bright 

blue sky above the picturesque hills. Once you had coaxed Sister 

Evelyn to climb one of them. It had been grand to stand where 

you could look down into a valley of sunlight, dotted here and 

there with houses. Sister, who came from Germany, had found 

it hard to keep up, but you had enough enthusiasm for both of 

you. "Ve did go a long vay," she told the Sisters at supper that 

night. 

That same week there had been a dance in the school hall. 

You had been awakened by the music. For a time you listened 

to the popular music, and then suddenly they were playing a 

very old song. The Man from Galilee had given you your first 

invitation during that song. You had lain between the cool 

sheets and remembered it all. You had been dancing with Tom 

when He came. ''I'll See You in My Dreams" someone in the 

orchestra had sung in a deep voice. And then He was there un-

sought for , undesired. He beckoned to you but you had no 

wish then to follow Christ through the twisting roads of the 



YOU FOLLOWED HIM INTO THE HILLS 49 

world in search of souls. He was more beautiful than the dawn 

and the dawn of a vocation was slowly coming into your soul. 

"No," you protested, "I can't give it all up." You had thought 

of Joan whom the boys didn't like, and then of Shirley who was 

fat and of Rita who was always buried in a book. Christ had 

shaken His head slowly because He had read your thoughts. 

He had left you a little sadly, but had smiled at you just once, 

and you had known you could never forget Him, but the world 

tugged at your heart strings. 

You had lost interest in the things around you for a moment. 

~his life had seemed to fade-----nothing was in it but emptiness. 

But the cross had frightened you, and you were uncertain. Could 

you give up everything to this God-Man Who had invited you 

to go into a new land and among strange people? If you went, 

where would you go? You didn't know any Sisters. Then you 

had thought of Father John. He knew the Benedictines, and 

loved them. If they were all right with him they were all right 

with you. But you were so uncertain of everything. You had 

suddenly shivered and Tom had looked down at you, and asked 

if you were cold. He had suggested getting his overcoat, and 

you had both laughed remembering the night you had worn 

his overcoat home, when the night had turned quite cold. The 

sleeves had dangled over your hands, and it had been ankle 

length. 

" ... Because I'll See Y all in My Dreams," and the song was 

finished. You had smiled into the darkness. Christ had taken 

your dreams from the dust, and swept them upward on and on. 

It had seemed strange that so many things from the past should 

linger with you, but they had seemed to fit into your life even 

now. 



50 '[HE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

The leaves had gone from the trees and the November winds 

blew harsh cold. You had stood in your classroom and looked 

for a moment at the grey ribbon of highway winding its way 

back to the St. Joseph's Convent, and the trees so bare against 

the slate sky. You had sighed for the motherhouse with its 

long, cool green corridors, the silent smiling nuns- and even 

the unsmiling ones. They would be coming from school now, 

closing the convent doors against the rain outside. 

You had left the classroom in a mixed state of mind. You 

liked it here, and yet you were lonely. St. Augustine 's saying, 

"Our hearts were made for Thee, 0 Lord, and they are restless 

until they rest in Thee," had fluttered through your mind. You · 

had thought of the bleakness of Christ's cross and you knew 

this loneliness was just a drop in comparison. No matter where 

you went the skies were bound to be sometimes grey, so you 

had just gone on. 

Advent had come upon you and then Christmas. Su.ch a glo-

rious Christmas! Christmas had always been the happiest time 

of the year for you. You had hel ped the Sister sacristan, and 

found such joy in the snow-white linens, and the crib with the 

fragrant pine surrounding it. And then with the strains of mid-

night Mass still ringing in your dreams you had awakened Christ-

mas morning to see the world outside wrapped in whirling snow. 

Mass that morning had been really Bethlehem. The electricity 

had gone out and the visiting priest had said Mass with the light 

of candles shining against the dark altar. The dim light re-

flected by the candles had fallen on the priest's vestments giv-

ing them a unique beauty. 

At dinner everyone had been so joyous. You had slept for 

a time in the afternoon. When you had awakened you had 



YOU FOLLOWED HIM INTO THE HILLS 51 

heard the cry of the wind, and upon looking out upon the hills 

had seen the deepening snow. Opening the door you had met 

Sister Monica laboriously making her way down the dark hall. 

"No light, no gas, no water, no nothing," she had said with a 

touch of humor. It was true. You had suddenly remembered 

that there were no electric lights. Supper that night by candle-

light had thrilled you. Divine Office recited by candlelight had 

made you think of the monks of old. How wonderful it must 

have been to pray by the light of candles, feeling and knowing 

that God was very near. It had seemed to you that all of nature 

was paying homage to the Infant King. 

"Dere is no vater," you had heard Sister Evelyn say in a dis-

couraged tone. Some of you had looked out of the window, 

and now everything was wrapped in a mantle of snow. The 

storm had subsided, to be replaced by a silvery moon in a clear 

sky. "We'll try the pump," Sister Jane had said consolingly. 

She never could bear to see someone in trouble without making 

a special effort to help. Some candles and vigil lights shone 

here and there in the windows of the dark house. Sister Agnes 

had laughed delightedly at the whole situation. "She'll find 

something funny at her own funeral," Sister Ann had once said. 

Outside it had been so beautiful, with the lamplight from the 

few houses shining in the white stillness. You had all carried 

water and shoveled snow by moonlight- that is, all but Sister 

Moruca who felt this was all a little beyond her! All too soon 

the lights had come on to remind you that this still was the 

twentieth century. 

During vacation a large filling had come out of your tooth. 

Laca boasted of no dentist. The tooth had ached so much that 

you had become irritable. You'd just have to see a dentist, but 



I 

t,[ 

52 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

how? A coal truck went to Austin each day. Since there had 

been no bus or train service Sister Leon had decided that this 

would be better than imposing on someone to drive in this 

weather. Besides, the Benedictines had a small mission house 

there where you could stay until you could get a bus to the 

motherhouse. 

The sky was clear when you and Sister Lucille had gone along 

a snow-covered road in the coal truck. Someone else might have 

complained about this unique mode of travel, but never Sister 

Lucille. You had often thought that shortly after her birth God 

had slipped a pair of rose-colored glasses on her nose for she 

found joy wherever she went. The Sisters in Austin were de-

lighted at seeing you and found out when your bus left for St. 

Joseph's. "One just left," Sister Lucy had said hanging up the 

receiver and trying to look mournful. "The next one is at six." 

When it was time to go, Sisters Maria and Benedicta had said 

it would not be Benedictine hospitality unless they accompanied 

you. When you had stepped out into the street it was storming. 

Darkness was falling fast. The bus station had been a mass of 

lights and people were going and coming. It was so very dif-

ferent from the quiet country you had left behind. You had 

hardl y been seated when the announcement that the bus would 

be an hour late had startled you all. 

A sailor in his teens had come over and greeted you. Sister 

Maria sensing that he that he was lonely had drawn him into 

a conversation. He had been fighting on a ship off the coast 

of Japan. He had been afraid, and he still was frightened when 

he heard the sound of guns. He blurted his story out like a 

small school boy, who was puzzled and uncertain in a world 

that had gone mad in its thirst for power. Sister Maria had 



YOU FOLLOWED HIM INTO THE HILLS 53 

waited until his story was finished. Thank God for Sister Maria's 

sympathetic nature which was never at a loss for kind, soothing 

words. She had smiled, and talked to the sailor until his tense-

ness had vanished. When your bus arrived he had smiled and 

nodded to everyone, but to Sister Maria his look was most grate-

ful as she passed by him and had pressed a medal of St. Bene-

dict into his hand. There were two things Sister Maria claimed 

never to be at a loss for-words and Benedictine medals. 

You were in the bus now. The storm had seemed to reach 

a wild fury. The driver had wiped the windshield and climbed 

into the bus with a worried frown. The bus lurched forward 

and you were on your way. Looking from the window you had 

seen little more than blinding snow. The passengers looked 

anxious. You had prayed your ro~ary, and as you did so had 

closed your eyes against the sea of faces about you. Three 

hours later you had reached town. A woman in front of you 

had gotten out of the bus with three sleepy little youngsters. 

The bus terminal had been warm. Sister Lucille had kept her 

eye peeled for a taxi. The lady with the children had peered out 

of the window, while one little boy kept clinging to her skirts 

and falling asleep. The door had opened and slammed, then 

an unfriendly face had glared at all of you. "Could 1 get a 

taxi?" the lady said pleadingly. "1 don't like takin' any taxi out 

in this kind of weather," was the rude answer. "That's what 

he's here for," Sister Lucille had whispered angrily. ''I'll take 

you all," he had finally said ungraciously after a brief pause. 

You had followed this man out into an angry night which 

seemed to blend perfectly with his mood. The lady had looked 

at you both as if seeking relief from the angry words. Sister 

Lucille had spoken a few words, and the lady had smiled. Her 



II 

II 

II 

III 
I 

III 

54 i 'HH HHLP Of HIS GRACE 

horne was near by, so the taxi driver went there first, then 

turned the car in the direction of the convent a mile or so away. 

The wind beat against the car, but the driver had said nary a 

word, as if he wished to deposit the two of you quickly with 

as few words as possible. In the darkness Sister Lucille was 

fumbling for the money for the taxi. "Can you open this?" 

she said handing you the wallet. "You don't have to get out any 

money. I'm not taking any," a gruff voice said in the darkness. 

You could hear Sister Lucille's subdued laughter. Before you 

knew it you were standing before a huge building that had 

loomed before you, and then blended with the fierce storm. 

The light from the taxi had flickered far down the driveway. 

The wind cut sharply against your face. 

Sister Marcia, who was a light sleeper slept just above the 

entrance. You had thought of the Holy Rule: "That the monks 

be not disturbed at unseasonable hours." "Sister Marcia," you 

had both called and the wind had taken your voices and carried 

them away. You had tried again, this time with results. The 

window above opened and you heard Sister Marcia 's "Who is 

it?" Before long you had both sighed with reI ief as you dropped 

your luggage in the room prepared for you, and listened to the 

storm raging outside. You had amazed everyone when you had 

appeared in chapel the next morning. "You never carne in this 

storm!" everyone who saw you after breakfast had exclaimed. 

A hurried trip to the dentist, the cavity had been filled and th e 

pain was gone. You were anxious to return to the country, be-

cause you hadn't wanted to be snowed in. 

The storm had died down and the roads were cleared when 

you started back to your mission. As the bus had climbed the 

hills on its way to Austin you had thought of New Years long 



YOU FOLLOWED HIM INTO THE HILLS 55 

ago. It had been New Year's Eve. There had been a tradition 

in your family to have a party at your aunt's house. This was 

about four miles away, and the whole family had gone in a big 

sleigh. You could still hear your father calling to the horses, 

the soft sound of the sleigh's runners gliding over the snow. 

You had always felt so secure, so good on that night. The In-

fant King had been as close as the stars. You had loved to 

look into the moonlit sky and then back at the snow sparkling 

in the white stillness of the night. Then you had imagined you 

were one of the shepherds of old worshiping the tiny King. 

You had breathed in the dry, cold air on those New Year Eves 

and drawn the blankets closer about you. Now it had been 

such a long time ago, yet you had longed for your dear ones 

as though it were yesterday. Tomorrow would be another New 

Year. It would be the beginning of another year filled with 

mistakes and failures, joys and sorrows. Just the same, each 

year brought you nearer to God and heaven. You would begin 

a new year at the mission house. It had filled your mind with 

resolutions as you journeyed on. 

The months slipped past. Winter snows melted, and dis-

appeared into the brown earth. A cool breeze replaced the 

north wind, birds began to sing. It was spring! Not only spring, 

but it was May, the month of Our Lady. You went to school 

that glad morning with a song in your heart, and a spring in 

your step. You had looked for a moment at the boys having 

a ball game just below the school. "I won't call them right 

away," you had thought. "Let them enjoy the morning sun-

shine." 

You had checked IQ tests taken the day before, then you had 

pushed back your chair and looked up into the wide, frightened 



56 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

eyes of a white-faced boy. "Sister," the boy had gasped, "Andy's 

lying in the road all bloody! A truck hit him! " The boy had 

sat down burying his head in his arms. "Sister Grace would 

know what to do. She loves first aid. " Your mind had raced 

desperately. You had run out and a few feet ahead of you 

Sister Grace and Sister Adelaide had been hurrying toward the 

highway with blankets. "So they knew," you had thought as 

you hurried after them. On the side of the highway quiet 

children stood. A mass of faces had swarmed before you, and 

then you had seen him-a still bloody little body lying on the 

side of the road. 

You had felt as if you were in a dream, watching a picture 

in which you had no part. Father's voice saying he thought 

some of the Sisters should tell Mrs. Hoff seemed to come from 

a distance. You had felt Sister Lucille's hand on your arm, and 

had followed her, taking a short cut through the field. Beside 

you Andy's two sisters cried silently. On a hillside someone 

plowed the green earth . The sun shone brightly throwing patches 

of gold on the green meadows, while not far away a bloody 

little figure had been lying. You had seen Mrs. Hoff, a hard-

working woman, busy with her hands in bread dough. There 

had been no fainting, no hysterical crying-just, ''I'll come. 

Mary look after Kathryn. She's crying." 

You had remembered nothing Mrs. Hoff had said on that 

walk. God had seemed to have held her heart and kept it from 

breaking. The church bells had rung. You could hear Andy's 

voice a week ago saying, "Sister, I didn't miss Mass or school 

once this year." "Dear God," you had prayed, "Don't let him 

die." The children had gone into church. Sister Grace held the 

wrist of the motionless figure. Mrs. Hoff had knelt down and 



YOU FOLLOWED HIM INTO THE HILLS 57 

said with a sob in her voice, "He's dead." You had heard Sister 

Grace's soothing voice, and then her whisper to you. "His pulse 

is getting slower. Try to comfort his mother." From the church 

on the hill the strains of the "Kyrie" drifted down. "Lord, 

have mercy on us," you had prayed silently. Andy's mother had 

first stopped to say a few kind words to the truck driver. She 

had turned to you and said in a broken voice, "It was hard to 

understand him, but he was a good boy." She would never 

.get any decorations for bravery, this courageous mother, but 

God would strengthen-and reward her. 

The doctor was there. He had come in from the neighboring 

town. His examination had· been brief, and now he had studied 

Mrs. Hoff carefully, as if he were choosing his words. "Is he 

hurt bad?" she had asked him. The doctor had looked toward 

the green hill where the boy was plowing and nodded. "Will 

he live?" She had asked in a low voice. This time the doctor 

had looked directly at her and said, "No." "Is he dead?" Mrs 

Hoff's voice had shaken. "Yes," was the quiet answer and the 

winds had seemed to bear the words through the tree tops, blow-

ing the sunshine from the earth. There had been tears in every-

one's eyes. Mrs. Hoff had been driven home and the few peo-

ple had left. 

You were walking through the playground where less than 

an hour before a small boy had dashed after a flying ball, 

straight into the path of an oncoming truck. Sister Adelaide's 

consoling words were to the truck driver. "Come in and I'll 

get you a cup of coffee," she said. ''I'm not a Catholic," he 

stammered, for the first time remembering that he was with nuns. 

Sister Adelaide had brought him into the convent. Sister 

Evelyn had coffee ready, as if her guardian angel had warned 



58 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

her that someone would need it. The man drank the coffee 

and he had told Sister of his unhappy life. His mother had 

been a Catholic but she had fallen away. You had gone back 

to a classroom filled with silence and tears. A pall seemed to 

have fallen on everyone. Andy, who had been their classmate 

was now in eternity. The lessons that day had been flat and life-

less, but no one seemed to care. 

At noon Sister Evelyn had looked concerned. The nllns had 

scarcely eaten. "Dey are all upset," she had told you. But when 

the days had passed and everyone was back to normal but you, 

Sister Evelyn had made it her business to speak her mind. After 

an indifferent, ''I'm not hungry," from you when a carefully 

prepared dish was set before YOll, Sister Evelyn had given you 

a brief talk. Poor Sister Evelyn who worried and fussed over 

the nuns as no one else did. "You can do dat boy no good. 

You cannot teach da children if you do not eat. You viII get 

sick. Now you do try to eat dis noon," she had said. You had 

. realized she was right. After a few days you had picked up 

the broken pieces and gone on. 

Soon it was time to go back to the convent. Although you 

had liked the mission you were anxious for home. It would 

be a treat to walk down the long, cool, green halls. You had 

stood for a moment looking at the nearby hills. The classroom 

cupboard and desk were cleaned, your trunk was packed in case 

Reverend Mother changed your assignment in the fall. Beside 

you your suitcases were packed and ready. 

Before long the car had come to take you back to the mother-

house. Behind you the mission house and school had faded 

away. The road had stretched before you like your future life 

in the convent. You had never quite known where it would 



YOU FOLLOWED HIM IN TO THE HILLS 'i 9 

lead. There had been mistakes and failures at that mission. It 

hadn't been all smooth going. There had been Sister Helen 

who thought you were very irresponsible, and had never lost 

an opportunity to let you know when you were wrong. As a 

novice you had dreamed of great deeds. You would do such 

wonderful things for God! How little had you realized that it 

wasn't in big things you served Him, but in the humdrum of 

everyday life. The smile for Him when you were tired, the 

tears you kept back when you were hurt. You had even man-

aged to make people think that nothing bothered you! 

The meadows and woods had slipped past, and soon you saw 

the gray of the convent shining like a silver lance in the late 

morning Slill. Behind those lillpretentious walls were hidden 

lives that were seen by God alone. A retreat master once had 

said, "You have many saints in your community." Who were 

those saints whom you had met day after day? You would 

never know. 

The car had stopped. You were home! What would the 

summer bring ? You had wondered about it as you climbed 

the steps and entered the cool hall. 



It 'lias Such A Summer 

OH, but it was grand to be home! The corridor had seemed miles of cool greenness. The friendly smiles and hand-
clasps had warmed your heart. The door had opened and Sister 

Patricia walked in, and sat for Il. moment watching you unpack. 

She was a perfect angel of a roommate. Every thing had been 

in order-just the way you liked things. The stand had fresh 

paper, the bed had been made up with crisp sheets pulled tight. 

On the window sill was a daintily arranged bouquet of roses. 

You had spoken your appreciation but Sister Patricia had brushed 

it aside. "Did you see the bulletin board?" she had asked 

abruptly. "No," you had answered, "I came up the other way. 

Did someone die ?" Sister Patricia smiled her exasperating smile, 

then said, "They might die when they read it." "Sister, what 

is it?" you asked. "A biology summer class, " Sister had said in 

an awed voice. 

The shoe in your hand had dropped with a thud. You hoped 

Sister was joking, but no she was going on. "Your name is 

one of the first ones. I'm so glad 1 had it. It was the summer 

you were sti ll sw imming in the lake and dancing in the mool1-

60 



IT WAS SUCH A SUMMER 61 

light. I wore my candidate's outfit and studied what cats were 

made of." The door had closed while you still sat holding the 

shoe. All the joy had gone out of you. You had looked into 

the mirror and had known your health was perfect, the doctor 

had said so last month. "No," you had thought, "there is no 

escape." Outside the wind rustled the leaves on its way to your 

open window. So, you had prayed to Our Lady of Perpetual 

Help and had continued your unpacking. Everything had 

changed. 

Retreat had opened that same night. The retreat master had 

read in a low monotonous tone. You had sighed, for you had 

so wanted someone to renew the life in your soul. Spiritually 

you had felt at a very low ebb. The chapel had been hot. Spir-

itual-reading books had all said retreats depended on you, but 

surely the retreat master counted. "He'll never set the world 

on fire or put it out if it is on fire, " you had heard Sister 

Mildred tell someone. She had sat in one of the conferences at 

an earlier retreat, and you had seen her slip out of the side 

door after the first ten minutes. You could just see her move 

restlessly in her seat now. 

The "Te Deum" at the end of retreat hadn't given you your 

usual lift. No matter what you did you had just felt as if 

everything were flat. You went through the usual exercises, 

you tried to pray but God seemed farther away than the planet 

Jupiter. Your will had loved God just the same while your 

mind was filled with distractions. "Mother of God, please tell 

Him I have no fervor. My heart isn't singing. It just seems 

tired and numb. I haven't felt like praying for ages, and the 

retreat didn't seem to help," you had told Mary when the re-

treat had ended. 



62 THf HfLP OF HIS GRACE 

" Biology class in the lab at 8: 00," you had read on your 

way to breakfast. Just the thought of it had spoiled your break-

fast. The toast had seemed cold, the coffee tasted weak. The 

martyrs of old went into the arena with a smile on their lips 

and joy in their hearts, while you went into a class you dreaded 

with drooping shoulders and a fallen chin! "Dear Lord, 1'd 

make a fine martyr!" you had told Him. Somehow you had 

felt that He understood. Only He could know and understand 

the aversion you had for any crawling thing. Even as a child 

the sudden jumping of a frog from high grass had caused you 

to scream, or a small non-poisonous snake gliding through berry 

bushes had brought YOll to a standstill in rigid terror. 

You had sat in your seat glum, yet trying to make yourself 

believe you would enjoy it all. The professor had soon ap-

peared. He had been short, stocky with dark-rimmed glasses. 

His square jaw and alert eyes had denoted no mercy. You 

had disliked him at once. His efficiency, everything about him 

annoyed you. Like St. Nick in "Twas the Night Before Christ-

mas," he went straight to his work. You had moved your right 

foot ahead of your left, and in so doing had caught a glimpse 

of Sister Edith's face. It had been filled with smiling rapture. 

The professor had dictated and you had tried to keep up, but 

you couldn't. By the time you had a word figured out he had 

been twelve words ahead of you. "Dear God, this is even 

worse than I expected, " you had thought. At intermission Sister 

Edith had beamed at you, "I think it's going to be interesting 

don't you?" "No," you had said through clenched teeth. Be-

fore the class ended the professor had said smilingly, "Tomor-

row we will have lab. I have some catesbiana preserved." 

"Whatever that is ," you had said to Sister Edith as you picked 



IT WAS SUCH A SUMMER 63 

up your notebook. "It's a frog," she had informed you, "I 

studied up on some of those scientific terms." "Then why didn't 

he say so? No matter what kind of a fancy name he uses a 

frog is a frog!" you had said with finality. 

Sister Edith had shaken her head despairingly. "Sister dear, 

sometimes you are as unreasonable as a child," she had said in 

her high little voice, and walked away. "Sometimes I almost 

hate her," you had thought-and then looked up at the crucifix 

and couldn't hate anyone when Christ had asked us to love one 

another, even as He loves us. 

You'd ask Sister Ann to work with you. She wasn't much 

more scientific minded than you were, and besides she was 

sweet and agreeable. If you had been a saint you'd have picked 

Sister Edith, but, as she had reminded you, you were still an 

unreasonable little child ! You had to smile when you had 

thought of how impatient she would be with your indifference 

to a catesbiana. You had felt better then. 

The next day had found Sister Ann and you waiting patient-

ly for the frog to be dropped into the dissecting pan. The pro-

fessor had presented each two Sisters with one. "He's afraid we 

migbt each want a cates/?iana," you whispered to Sister Ann. 

Unlike Sister Edith there had been no smile on her face but she 

smiled at this remark. Plop ! You had wanted to run out of 

the door beside you. In front of you resting pleasantly on the 

pan was the ugliest bull frog you had ever seen. Its eyes bulged 

and his whole appearance had sent a shiver through your body. 

Sister Ann had closed her eyes. "First we'll break the jaw," 

the professor had said rubbing his hands together in delight. 

~'We'll take turns touching it," you had said to Sister Ann, and 



64 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

and summoning all your courage you had followed directions for 

the jaw-breaking process. There was a snap, and the professor 

had been there congratulating you on the clean break, which 

had really been an accident. 

The morning had been like a nightmare. When at last it 

had been time to put the frogs back until the next lab period 

Sister Ann and you had both sighed with relief. "Did it go 

better today?" Sister Edith had said smilingly on her way out. 

"No," you had started to say stubbornly. Instead you had looked 

straight at her and said, "Maybe when I get to heaven I'll like 

playing with little bull frogs." Sister Edith's face had colored, 

and you had been ashamed of yourself. You had known she 

had scarcely any sense of humor, and now you had deliberately 

made her feel that you were making fun of her. You forgot 

the frog and remembered how many times you had done just 

that. Sister Edith had always been a bookworm. She had usually 

managed to get an "A." " If she wants high marks it's none of 

your business, Sister Mary Ellen. It wouldn't hurt you if you 

studied a little more," you had scolded yourself. 

Weeks had passed with each day bringing a new aversion. 

The afternoons spent in the lab had been so hot that you could 

almost feel steam coming from your clothing. There had been 

no end of specimens. None of them had appealed to you. At 

night you had dreamed of them. Frogs had leaped over your 

bed, and you had awakened stiff and cold to stare wide-eyed 

into the darkness, and to hear the whistle of a far-off train 

rumbling its way through the night. The breeze outside had 

played tag with the leaves. You had pulled a blanket up and 

tried to sleep. Sometimes the moonbeams had caressed Sister 

Patricia's empty bed. 



IT W AS SUCH A SUMMER 65 

Sister Patricia was giving instructions to public school chil-

dren in an obscure town and came home week ends, gathered 

material for catechism classes, and slipped away again. She 

had been so much like John the Baptist. She drew people to 

her, pointed to Christ, then stepped out of the picture. Chil-

dren forgot Sister Patricia in a little while, but they had never 

forgotten the Christ she had told them about. " I must de-

crease; but He must increase" seemed to be her motto, and 

though she was loved by all she was soon forgotten. Often 

you had seen her arise at the break of day at the first sound 

of the bell after a sleepless night. There had been dark circles 

around her eyes, yet no murmur ever escaped her lips. You had 

thought of it now as you lay unable to sleep. Sister Patricia 

would have laughed her merriest laugh if anyone had told her 

she was a heroine of God. You thought of her now, and drew 

courage from the memories as you lay there with nerves tense, 

unable to sleep. 

One morning you had awakened with your heart filled with 

more dread than usual. The professor has . assigned a term 

paper on some specimen. Crawling under porches, walking 

through the garden, searching among the weeds near the pond 

for an insect had seemed hardly logical for you, who unlike 

Saint Francis had never regarded such creatures as brothers. 

Maybe a Monarch butterfly, you had thought, they at least had 

beautiful wings. "Of course," the professor had smiled when 

you had suggested iE, "A comparison of a Monarch and Viceroy. 

W asn' t that what you wanted?" your mouth had opened a few 

inches, and your expression had become blanker than ever. 

"Yes, I suppose so," you had answered in a dull voice. You 

had paged through insect books and found that a Viceroy 



66 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

butterfly was like a Monarch except for a spot here and a line 

there. You had walked through the meadow a few times but 

had failed to find one. "They are very rare," Sister Rose, an 

authority on butterflies, had told you. So, Monday morning had 

found you still wondering what to do next. 

The lab was hot and stuffy. You had bent over a microscope, 

and pretended to be interested in the construction of a cell. 

You had heard the professor 's footsteps coming nearer while 

you had prepared what you were going to say. You had wished 

desperately that you were a good politician for a few moments. 

True a first cousin of yours was a lawyer, but if he felt as you 

did he'd probably lose every case. You had cleared your throat 

and stammered, "I can't find a Viceroy butterfly." The pro-

fessor had answered in a pleasant voice, "They are hard to find . 

I have a beetle if you'd care to have it." Your mouth had felt 

dry. He puzzled you, almost as much as the biology. (You 

had annoyed Mr. Connors years ago when you had been in his 

biology class. He never had reacted this way. He had scolded 

and raved and marveled how all the children in the fami! y were 

so good-and you? When you had finished the course and 

successfully passed the exam you imagined he had burned mid-

night oil trying to understand.) 

"Sister Ann," you had said when the professor had passed on, 

"Do you think I should accept, and take the razzing I'll get from 

the rest if they find out?" Sister Ann had looked up from the 

microscope and said, "It would be rude not to accept. Besides 

I don't think you'll get a specimen if you don't." You had 

sighed and later had mumbled something to the professor about 

the beetle. ''I'll get it for you," he had said on his way to the 

door. " No, don't bother getting it now," you said uneasily 



IT WAS SUCH A SUMMER 67 

looking at Sisters Edna and Michael bending over a microscope. 

He had been back in no time. The beetle in the match box 

had been a dull, unattractive red. You had glanced around 

and no one seemed to notice, except one Sister auditing the 

class. "How do you rate?" she had asked, "If it were anyone 

but you!" "Is it dead?" you had hopefully asked the professor. 

"No, but I'll put him in the jar and kill him for you." Even 

Sister Ann had seemed to enjoy it. Before long Sisters Edna 

and Michael had seen your beetle and remarked on its oddness. 

You had known it would be a matter of minutes before they 

found out where it came from. So you had written a term paper 

on a beetle, which hadn't the slightest interest for you. Only 

you had no choice. 

Sister Michael had found a stray cat one day, and brought 

it to class. The professor had been elated. Chloroforming the 

cat was bad enough, but when the cutting began you had felt 

a wave of nausea envelop you. The cat's plaintive meow was 

still in your ears when the professor had rolled up his sleeves 

and started to cut. He explained each part and you had grown 

sicker each minute. Someone had handed you a cloth and told 

you to put it around the professor's arm so that he would not 

get any blood on his sleeve. You had done so with a great deal 

of effort. Then you had gone over and had sat down beside 

Sister Julia. Her eyes had looked sick, and her expression had 

matched your feelings. Sister Julia had once shown you a pair 

of black gloves .and explained that she wore them during lab 

period since she couldn't touch those various specimens. You 

had heard Sister Michael say, "What is the head like?" You 

had almost felt the smile of approval that would greet this 

inquiry. "That Sister Michael! " Sister Julia mumbled beside 



68 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

you. You had been too depressed to even nod. All those sweet 

prayers you said in chapel had disappeared. You had even for-

gotten to offer it up. After dragging endlessly the morning had 

finally passed. 

At dinner you hadn't been hungry. Trying to eat the meat 

had been the worst. You had fin all y told Sister Edna that you 

couldn't finish it. Never before had you left food. "Poor 

child," she had said when you had told her, and accompanied 

the words with a sympathetic look. Would the six weeks ever 

pass you had wondered? Even your prayers seemed cold and 

scientific! 

So many afternoons had been spent at a microscope near a 

window where the sun poured down its rays and the air had 

been filled with odors that you seemed to lose all sense of hu-

mor. It was such a gruesome ordeal. Yet somehow you had 

gone right on eating and sleeping, and even living. 

It was finally the day of the test. You had studied, and yet 

you felt you weren't ready; a hundred years could pass and you 

still wouldn't be ready. Every nun had seemed nervous except 

Sisted Edith who had seemed so confident. Before you knew it 

you had been staring at a lengthy test. The tapeworm which 

you had studied about wasn't there. Your mind had gone blank, 

your heart had seemed to sink down to your heels where it 

played tag with your shoestrings. You hadn't spent much time 

on the test. You remembered the professor's sarcastic smile 

when you handed it in. 

You had gone home then, opened and closed the front door 

and started up the cool green hall. You had knelt down in 

the back of the chapel, and put your head down. You had 

failed, you felt sure. You could almost feel the Sister Super-



IT WAS SUCH A SUMMER 69 

visor's angry eyes upon you, and hear her crisp, cold voice say, 

"You didn't study, did you?" "But, God, you know I did my 

best," you said lifting your eyes and looking straight at the 

Tabernacle. You had felt better then as you had made your 

way through halls and up stairways to your room. 

Sitting at your desk you had remembered all the children 

who came to you year after year. The children in your thoughts 

had been the poorer students, those who rarely made a seventy-

five. Often you had reprimanded them; now you understood 

so well how they felt. Then a resolution had been born-never 

again would you consider just the marks in exan1inations, and 

not the child. Alice had come back to your mind from the last 

school term. Alice, a dreamchild who had sat still all day, whose 

papers were perfect, and whose conduct was beyond reproach. 

You bit your lip as you had remembered holding her up as a 

model to Rose Marie. Rose Marie had hated arithmetic. She 

had been a born leader, but not an "A" student. She had ap-

peared more interested in meadows, and streams than in books. 

Once you had chided her for her indifference. She had looked 

at you with her clear, honest eyes, and suddenly two tears had 

rolled down her cheeks. And she had turned then and walked 

slowly from the room. 

Now you had put your head down, and said slowly to Jesus, 

"Forgive me." It had done you good to be humbled. You had 

longed to draw all the dull children to you, not the stars for 

they lived by their own light. You found later that you had 

passed the biology course. But in your heart you had known 

that the lesson that had mattered was the humility and the 

tolerance you had learned. 



Would Troubles Never End? 

THREE days after the biology course you had developed a bad cold. Your cough had seemed to worsen by leaps and 
bounds. There had been the night when you had slipped from 

the room so as not to disturb Sister Patricia, and walked cough-

ing down the hall. The night light burning dimly played with 

shadows ~i.long the wall. You had seen the silvery moonbeams 

peeping through the leaves from a nearby window. The library 

had been dark and deserted. You had groped about until you 

found a chair and desk. You had been so tired of coughing 

when somewhere in the house a clock chimed twelve. You 

hadn't slept, you had realized. It had been one o'clock in the 

morning before you fell asleep and you had known your few 

smothered coughs had awakened Sister Patricia who was a light 

sleeper. The time in the library had helped some. 

The next morning you had slept in chapel, even during Mass. 

You had gone up to bed and in so doing omitted a picnic you 

would have enjoyed. Still the cold had lingered. "Such a time 

70 



WOULD TROUBLES NEVER EN D ? 7l 

to get a cold," Sister Janice had grumbled with good-natured 

impatience. Sister Patricia was of a different mind. "You should 

see a doctor," she insisted. You had remembered the old doc-

tor you had gone to several years ago. You would have trusted 

him with your gold teeth if you had any. But Doctor Shad had 

retired a year ago, and as you had put it to Sister Patricia you 

were doctorless. "There are other doctors in town,'? she replied 

crossly. "Just to please you I'll go," you said hoarsely. 

The next day had found you waiting your turn in Doctor 

Cooper's office. You had felt the tenseness that always was 

part of you with any doctor but Doctor Shad. Then your turn 

,had come, and you had carefully put down your book and walked 

trying to appear casual and self-assured into the office. "How 

are you, Sister?" the doctor had asked pleasantly. "Just fine," 

you had wanted to say with sarcasm, "That's why I came." In-

stead you had launched into an account, stumbling along like 

a sixth grade boy who was trying to explain a diagram in Eng-

lish. The next thing you had been ushered out with two pre-

scriptions to be filled at the drug store. You had thanked Doc-

tor Cooper and he had shown you the way out. 

When you had arrived home you had looked at the two 

small packages; the capsules were not as pretty as tbe red 

liquid, which looked like a cherry drink, and tasted like a mix-

ture of vegetable juices. You had found that taking both cured 

the cough, but your chest was filled at certain times with a 

tearing pain. You had called Doctor Cooper a few days later. 

His voice had a trace of impatience. You should decrease the _ 

dose. The medicine shouldn't do that. You had told God when 

you went to chapel how you missed Doctor Shad. The cold had 



72 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

finally left you, and later you had gotten rid of the cherry cough 

medicine, and the pills, too. 

Two weeks later you had sat at your desk with the sunlight 

pouring in the open window. You were glad to spend the year 

at the motherhouse. Going away for a year had been a wel-

comed change but it was good to be back. It had seemed won-

derful to have a large desk with roomy drawers, not like the 

long table with the crack through it and the two tiny drawers 

which you had used last year. You had run your hand over the 

polished top and smiled to yourself. Everything was in order. 

Even your plans for the first month were complete. Your heart 

had been light as you had walked home that afternoon in late 

August. You had felt as gay as the song a robin sang perched 

on the limb of a spruce. 

Sister Gertrude met you at the door. "I thought you'd never 

come. Mother wants to see you right away," she said in her 

usual hurried voice. Your whole being had gone limp. "Was 

your mother sick ? Was there something wrong at home?" 

You had prayed to the Blessed Mother on the way to the office. 

"Probably just those shoes that didn't fit," you had tried to re-

assure yourself, but deep in your heart you had known it was 

more important than shoes. "Sit down, Sister. You might not 

like what I am going to tell you," Mother's pleasant voice was 

saying. "You know, of course, that Sister Zita was sent to Laca 

this year in your place. She hadn't been well, and I thought the 

country air would do her good. She was there only a week 

when the doctor said it would be necessary to have her where 

a doctor would be available. You know what that means, 

Sister ?" You had looked out at the green lawn stretching out 

to meet the hedge. The St. Joseph statue which had welcomed 



WOULD TROUBLES NEVER END ? 73 

you years ago seemed to be waving good-bye. "Yes, Mother," 

you had said in a quiet voice. "You want me to go in Sister 

Zita's place." Behind your eyes tears had burned. Mother's voice 

seemed to come from far away. "I knew I could depend on 

you. God bless you, Sister. Could you be ready by one tomor-

row? That is when they are bringing Sister home." You had 

even managed a faint smile as you answered, "Yes, Mother," 

You had gone straight to chapel. You knew now why you 

had so much consolation in prayer the last few days. "Your 

will, not mine be done," you had said to the Eucharistic Lord 

Who dwelt behind the golden doors. The words had seemed 

heavy, almost without meaning. As you slipped out into the 

hall you had almost collided with Sister Maureen. "Did you 

hear about Sister Zita's coming home?" she asked breathlessly. 

"Ye~, I'm taking her place," you said tonelessly and walked on. 

You had started to figure out how and what to get ready as soon 

as you reached your room. There was a soft knock a few mo-

ments later. Sister Irene had stuck her head in. Then she came 

in and closed the door. "Sister, I hear you leave tomorrow. I 

thought perhaps I could wash and iron your habit and have it 

ready when you leave." You had remembered suddenly that 

you had mentioned washing your habit at recreation. ''I'd be so 

grateful if you would," you had told her. Sister Irene had 

smiled and gone off with your habit. At least you wouldn't have 

to worry about packing your trunk, that was still in Laca. All 

the rest of the day you had packed, and by noon the next day 

your luggage was all at the front door. Farewells had been said, 

and you were opening drawers, and looking through your desk 

to see that nothing was forgotten. You wouldnt' have minded 

so much if you hadn't been all prepared for that other class-



74 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

room. Sister Patricia had left for a mission two weeks ago and 

the room had all the appearance of a deserted bird's nest in mid-

winter. 

A soft tap on the door had brought you back to reality. No 

·doubt the people were waiting to take you . back. Mother had 

said, "Be ready at one," and when you consulted your watch it 

had been one-thirty. "Deo," you had said hurriedly. "Gratias," 

a gentle voice had answered, and Sister Zita had walked in 

closing the door behind her quickly as if she were pursued. You 

had noticed the dark shadows her long lashes threw on her pale 

face, the tired eyes, and the trembling lips. Poor Sister Zita, 

so zealous, yet always held back by physical handicaps. Sister 

Zita with her high intelligence, her strong will power, always 

harassed by sickness tha:t clutched her with greedy fingers , leaving 

her powerless, except for her strong desire to love God and give 

everything to Him. "I just had to see you, Sister Mary Ellen. 

I had to tell you how sorry I am for making you go back when 

you had everything ready for a different class," she faltered. 

"There isn't a thing to worry about," you had replied, taking 

out your kleenex and wiping the two tears making a path down 

Sister Zita's cheeks. "The children there are nice. Only next 

time don't be so abrupt. Let me know a few days ahead of 

time that you intend to get sick. Now tell me all about your-

self." Sister Zita was smiling now and you had felt better, too. 

A few minutes and you would be on your way. 

Soon the floor phone had rung, and you had known. long be-

fore you heard footsteps coming down the hall that it was for 

you. "Hurry, Sister Mary Ellen," Sister Eva had said, "they are 

waiting for you." There had been hurried good-byes, and you 



WOULD TROUBLES NEVER END ? 75 

had been on your way talking to the kind people who were with 

you as if they had been old friends instead of mere acquaintances. 

Sister Lucille had stopped in your room when you had arrived, 

and had offered her services. You had heard her tear some-

thing. Turning you had seen the months of July and August 

torn from the calendar in your room. "They're gone," she had 

said. "Thank God for that, " you had answered; and the "Sep-

tember" which met your gaze had seemed to answer in a smug 

assurance, "But, I too, will have crosses." 



The Picture Was Blurred 

YOU could still hear Reverend Mother's soft voice. "I am keeping you at home this year. Your class will be small, 
and much easier than what you have had." 

Two weeks later you had stood in the office of the well-

equipped parish school and found the record cards for your 

seventh grade class. You had almost whistled when you saw 

the 1Q of the class. "This is wonderful," you had said to Sister 

Angelica. ''I'll just present the subjects. I never had a class 

before with such a high intelligence quotient." You had heard 

Sister Irma cough audibly and had turned to find both Sisters 

Angelica and Irma regarding you with a smile. "I hate to dis-

illusion you," Sister Itma had said, "but that's the worst class 

that ever crossed St. Mark's gates. They've caused every teacher 

one big heartache. No, I don't think you ever did or will have 

a class like them." "Why?" you had exclaimed, "What's wrong 

with them?" "No one can exactly find out. It seems to be a 

mystery. You try your luck. They're really unique!" was the 

only answer Sister Irma would give. 

You had held your breath the first three months of school. 

Then you had let it out very slowly. So far they had seemed 

76 



THE PICTURE IV AS BLURRED 77 

normal. There had been the usual days when everything went 

wrong, and days when one or the other pupil was difficult, but 

that was only to be expected. Then like a thunderbolt out of 

a clear sky things had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. "So 

this is it!" you had thought, while your lips had set in the deter-

mined line that you had inherited from your grandmother. 

It was in early spring. Light gray clouds hung over the school, 

and there had been rain in the air. Outside, the problem boys 

threw wet, slushy snowballs. When the bell had rung Sam 

had walked in and flopped dejectedly into his seat in back of 

the room. Desks squeaked, papers rattled, the very boards of 

the floor had seemed to be made up of noise. You had glanced 

down during English class and noticed Sam toying with a com- ' 

pass which had almost reached Martha's back. Very quickly you 

had walked down the aisle, removed the dangerous instrument 

from his hand, and gone on teaching verbs. A few minutes 

later you had noticed Sam's shoelaces dangling from his neck. 

Your blood had rushed madly through your whole body, and 

you struggled to suppress your fathers ' quick temper which you 

had never seemed quite able to subdue. If you could have just 

shaken him until you were tired. But someone's Blood was 

fighting, too, fighting to help you gain patience and self-control. 

He came to you each morning when the world was quiet; the 

most precious part of the day when you were Mary and listened 

and poured out your heart to Him. 

"Sam, you will bring your shoelaces up, and put th·em on my 

desk." Sam had obeyed promptly, with a touch of defiance. You 

had fought back the angry words, and had gone back to the 

verbs. You knew from past experience that words would not 

help. The afternoon had passed while the sho·estrings had 



78 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

dangled from the side of your desk like your thoughts. What 

would the great Teacher Christ do? You had prayed and asked 

the Holy Ghost for inspiration. At dismissal Sam had rushed 

from the back of the room. "Could I have my shoelaces, 

Sister? I'm going fishing," he said rapidly. "No," you said. 

"You can't have your shoelaces now, and you're not going with-

out them." Then had followed a deluge of tears. At the end 

of a half hour Sam had left giving you a smile and a pleasant 

goodnight, but somehow you had sensed that the battle was 

not ended or won. 

The days that followed had proved that you were right. Sam 

had seemed to be trying special kinds of endurance tests on 

you. "Would he never give up?" you had wondered. It was 

like a game of tennis where the ball went back and forth across 

the net, and no one won, yet no one lost. It would begin each 

morning as soon as school began. Sometimes you had been lucky, 

and Sam had been at his best, but ' oftener you had steeled your-

self against his unexpected blows. You had only let out a long 

relieved breath when you had locked your classroom at night. 

But you couldn't lock Sam out of your heart. Even while you 

were at prayer he had been there, taunting you for not being 

able to win him. 

And the other pupils in the class i-when you had reprimanded 

them they had shown neither anger nor resentment. They 

merely sat-expressionless, bored little puppets. You had felt 

your words almost bounce back and roll slowly out of the door 

and down the hall like something rejected. It had been so un-

usual in children that your very brain had seemed to weary in 

trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. 



THE PICTURE W AS BLURRED 79 

After Compline you had often knelt in the presence of your 

compassionate King, and told Him all about your strange class: 

"My dearest Lord," you had said one night looking over the 

day's failures. "They are really so odd, so unchildlike. I try 

so hard to paint pictures of You in words. I tell them how 

You love them, I give them a picture of You in the Holy Eu-

charist. Other classes have sat with eyes fixed upon me motion-

less. These children show no interest. You are like an out-

moded Prince Charming to them. They seem pagan to the core, 

living for today only. They fit in perfectly with a modern civil-

ization that has forgotten Your existence. I've tried everything." 

Then you had bowed your head. Far away, Christ seemed to 

have brou~ht back to your mind a picture. It fascinated you, 

drew you away from the things that upset you. 

lt was over nineteen hundred years ago, and you were at the 

edge of a crowd. They were unkept, indifferent, with greedy 

eyes and clutching hands. Many of them were sullen and silent, 

others openly sneered. Was your class as bad as this? You 

shrank from them and clung wildly to the arm of the strength-

ening figure Who stood so majestically beside you . You leaned 

on Him for support, and His arm upheld you. And you looked 

up into His face and saw His love. 

A deep, strengthening trust filled your heart. The world 

around you might be demanding, demanding more than you 

had seemed able to give, but there was no fear in your heart 

any longer. He looked down upon you with his gentle eyes 

and spoke quietly, "It is I Who have chosen to give you these 

wayward ones. Do not be dismayed at your helplessness, but 

seek them daily in love and in patience. You must search for 

them when they are caught in the brambles of a material world, 



80 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

love them when they reject My strength. You will go into the 

dark streets of their hearts and bring them Light. You are Mine; 

these little ones are Mine. And because you love Me I know 

you will not refuse me.' And your discouragement, your seeming 

failures-bring them to Me too, and I will bless them. Lift up 

your heart." And I whispered, "Be it done to me according 

to Thy Word." 

Then the days had slipped past-blue days, grey days and 

sometimes plain black days when the competition had seemed 

too great for your feeble strength until you had remembered 

Him in your heart. It had seemed as if the powers of darkness 

were in your classroom, lurking in the corners. Had Satan per-

haps smiled, a wicked black smile because he so otten and so 

easily used television and the movies to so fill the mind and the 

heart that there was no place left for Christ and His Mother? 

"And the gates of hell shall not prevail against Him," echoed 

in your heart as a reply. You had thought, too of Mary His 

gracious Mother whose scapular many of them wore. Surely 

she hadn't let you down. 

There had been a slight tap on the door, and Sister Angelica 

had told you briefly that Confirmation would be June 10th. 

When you had announced this to the class it brought the ex-

pected protest. School would be out by then, and they'd have 

to come. back for practice. All the other Confirmation classes 

had been while school was in session, and the children had 

gotten out of classes. 

You had finally silenced them, and with forced calmness 

made it quite clear what you thought of their attitude. "Little 

pagans," you had told God through set teeth as you explained 



THE PICTURE W AS BLURRED 81 

an arithmetic problem, "Just plain died-in-the-wool pagans!" 

The time before Confirmation had caused you to shiver many 

times with disgust. You had been so sick of it all. 

You had never forgotten their conduct in church. The boys' 

seats during the Confirmation novena had been far from filled. 

The few who had come seemed resentful, as if they had been 

driven. "I just can't lead them, Christ," you had said as the 

golden monstrance was lifted high, while the King looked 

longingly at the hearts before Him, the hearts for whom He 

had given His very blood. You complained, ''I'm sick and tired 

of fighting." 

The stuffy head cold you had, had increased your misery as 

your body shook with a spell of coughing. Sister Angelica sit-

ting behind the girls had given you a worried look. The golden 

door had closed slowly. Down the aisle came the sound of many 

feet. "No," you had thought. "Oh, no, it just couldn't be," and 

you had closed your eyes slowly after seeing three boys slide 

into their seats. You had always been a baseball fan, but for 

. a moment you had hated it when you saw the baseball gloves. 

The rest of the boys were suddenly alert. Gone was the lethargy 

of a few minutes ago. Sam was already smiling and talking. 

You had drawn a deep breath and gone slowly up the aisle. 

Your hands had itched with a wild longing. Just before the 

lights had gone out you had ushered Sam into the vacant seat 

near you. In the dimness Sister Angelica was checking names. 

You had moved a step forward. Before you Gail moved rest-

lessly. "How long do we have to stay?" Harry wanted to know. 

His eyes had shone in the gathering dusk. "Only a few minutes 

until Sister checks the names," you said with all the patience 

you could muster. Your voice, not beautiful at its best, was 



82 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

hoarse and your throat had been sore. At least you could be 

understood. 

Then the rehearsal was over with, and you had started to 

leave. You had wanted to make a mad dash for the door as 

if it were first base, but instead you had walked as if you were 

enjoying it. Behind you the steps were heavy and anxious. In 

back of the church Mrs. Bibt, who usually knew everything, 

peered over her glasses and shaking her white head in strong 

disapproval had asked, "What are they grumbling about now?" 

You had wondered why she wanted to know, while you smiled 

politely. It was grand to be relieved of responsibility for a time. 

It had been a beautiful night outside. 

At last Confirmation day had arrived. An 8th grade girl 

had offered to help you. You didn't know what you'd have 

done without her. The red bows the girls were to wear were 

placed on each desk. You had felt worried and hot all day. 

The Mass that morning had been an agony. Those to be con-

firmed had been the most indifferent class you had ever seen. 

The day had passed and you were sitting behind a pillar inside 

the church listening to the Bishop quiz the Confirmation class. 

You had been so glad that soon it would be all over. The an-

swers for the most part had been good~lear and distinct. You 

had noticed the red bows weren't too bad. The church was 

hot and stuffy with no breeze. There had been many people 

pressed close behind you listening intently. You had tried to 

cought quietly but every cough seemed to reverberate with a 

shattering explosiveness. 

At last it had all ended and you were, once again, out in the 

night just a very tiny part of a large crowd. You edged your 

way through them, and they had moved aside politely. Sud-



THE PICTURE If?' AS BLURRED 83 

denly you felt lonely, tired and discouraged. Sister Angelica 

and Sister Ruth had finally found you, and you had walked 

home beneath the silent stars. You were all glad the curtain 

had fallen and it was done. "Aren't they something to dream 

about?" you had said to Sister Ruth who was very young and 

still riding on a silver cloud. "I . . . hadn't noticed," she stam-

mered. Sister Angelica had laughed at this. "Never mind, 

Sister," she said, "someday you will." 

Safe in your own room you had closed your eyes. It was such 

a relief to be alone where you didn't have to put on an act. 

People expected so much from a nun. They pointed a finger of 

scorn at you when things went wrong, and promptly forgot 

you when things went right. Only God never changed, nor ever 

forgot. It was useless to let anything or anyone disturb you. It 

was then that you had noticed the note and the bottle of pills. 

"I heard you coughing in chapel this morning," the note read, 

"I tried to see you after breakfast, but they told me you had 

gone to school and wouldn't be back until late. The pills are 

for tomorrow, the drink is for right now. '" It was signed, 

"Sister Alice." 

As you lay in bed watching the moonbeams throwing golden 

rays over the spread, and listening to the soft breeze stirring in 

the leaves, your mind went back down the years. Pride had 

fought with you from the time the stone door had closed at 

your entrance into the convent. It had taunted you when a 

superior whom you disliked gave you what you considered an 

unjust rebuke. You had kissed your scapular and thanked the 

Mother of God for helping you through those trying days. Not 

only that, but you had loved praise. You had clutched it to yout 

heart as a child does a new toy, until you had discovered that 



84 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

it was like a toy, quickly broken and as quickly forgotten. Very 

slowly God had stretched out His hand, and taken these toys 

from you. You had seen them given to others, yet it had not 

mattered. 

Only one thing you had coveted-your reputation as a school 

teacher. The nice things people said about your teaching had 

warmed your heart. Now even that consolation had disappeared. 

That night you had lain frozen and alone, without thrills. It 

had been as if the Bishop had confirmed you in one thing, the 

emptiness of praise. You had known you would never corp-

pletely trample pride, the hope of every Benedictine, but this 

battle Mary had won for you. Pride would again raise its ugly 

head, but the Son of God and His Mother walked with you, 

and you could do all things in Him Who strengthened you. 

The moonbeams continued to fall, and you had gone back to 

the years before you entered. You had sat again in a seat, and 

watched Miss Kalon's face. "You will write a composition 

describing the classroom," she had said in her even voice which 

had never failed to bore you. Miss Kalon never deviated one 

iota from the English lesson. Her job was to get English across 

to a group of squirming 8th graders, and that she did. Your 

dull description of a classroom with windows, two doors, five 

rows of desks, and all the other uninteresting equipment was 

what she had expected. Had you written that her class left you 

without enthusiasm, that you longed for the bell to ring, that 

you dreamed of woods and streams each time you heard the 

song of a bird, Miss Kalon would have sat very tense at such 

revolutionary ideas. She would have told you in her precise 

New England way that you had better stick to facts. Tonight 

she would have said, "Mary, you aren't stern enough. You 



THE PICTURE W AS BLURRED 85 

smile too much." And you had known that God Who threw 

moonbeams in through your open window thought differently. 

Christ had gently taken the class from your hands as a broken 

toy from a child. You had looked at Him with eyes that burned 

with unshed tears and whispered, "Fix it up, Lord. Make it 

whole and beautiful. Give me, please, humility. Let me cling 

to the crosses you send, for I know they are the expression of 

Your love. Let the rough wood never dishearten me. Let me 

never prefer the glittering stones of praise, of easier ways, of 

self- approval. May they never attract me more than the cross. 

Tonight something has gone out of my heart. May I suffer and 

die on the hard wood of the cross in willing and joyful accept-

ance. My God, I love You." 

When you opened your eyes it was morning. Instead of 

moonbeams the first streaks of dawn were coloring the east with 

their blue and purple hues. You made the sign of the cross 

and arose to begin a new day. 



Love and Shadows 

THE school year had been coming to an end, and once again it was May. Everything was a mass of green beauty. The 
birds had fIlled the day with their song, while at night the wind 

had almost sung a lullaby. It had been such a peaceful night, 

and dawn was breaking in the east when the shrill ring of the 

phone had struck terror in your heart. You had been awake 

in a moment-whom was the bad news for? Perhaps Sister 

Rosalia, whose father had been so ill. You had heard Sister 

Dolores' soft steps and the phone stopped ringing. A soft tap 

a few moments later and Sister Dolores had been standing in 

front of you with the dawn and rising sun as a background. 

"Sister," she had whispered. "It is your mother. She is dying." 

Icy fingers had gripped your heart, and the rosy dawn and 

life itself had seemed to fade. Your beautiful mother dying! 

You had loved her better than anything. Sister Dolores was 

talking in her understanding way. She had figured out a way 

for you to take an early morning train. You had seemed to 

hear the Sisters as from far away promising prayers, asking if 

there was anything they could do. You had to go alone. It 

86 



LOVE AND SHADOWS 87 

would be hard enough to replace one teacher, but two would 

almost be impossible. 

So hours later you had found yourself traveling beside the 

blue Hudson. "Please let me be on time," you had prayed des-

perately. This had been your first trip North since the convent 

door had closed upon you fourteen years ago, and life had 

looked then as peaceful and calm as the River. Only God had 

seen the suffering and pain a life with Him would entail. "Al-

bany," the conductor had called in his sing-song voice. You 

had found yourself walking down the aisle of the train. There 

was a two-hour wait at the station between trains, and for the 

first time you had observed the people around you. Beside you 

two small boys had fought over a ball, while the tired mother, 

with a wisp of gray hair falling over her forehead, tried to 

settle the argument without much success. There had been 

so many unhappy faces, even faces that seemed to have lost 

hope. You had said all your prayers on the train. Now you 

opened your book "Saints and Sages" for an inspiration. 

"Mary dear, you haven't changed a bit!" You had looked 

up with a start. Vaguely, from the shadows of the past, some-

one stirred in your memory-Marge Dolan. Marge, one of the 

most popular girls in high school, and once your best friend. 

You had remembered writing to her as often as the rule per-

mitted. Then the letters stopped and you exchanged cards. Seven 

years ago even the cards had ceased. 

Now Marge stood before you, more glamorous than ever. 

Soon you had been in deep conversation. But this hadn't been 

the old Marge. You had seen it in her eyes-eyes so filled 

with bitterness. Then it had come. "Chuck's plane went down 

over France," she had said hesitantly. "We were to be married 



88 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

as soon as he returned. I can't pray anymore. I haven't been 

to church in years. I've achieved success, but nothing ma'tters. 

Chuck was the light of my life and he's gone. When mother 

called that you might be waiting here today for a train I made 

up my mind to see you. I wanted to tell you about it. Please 

don't preach, Mary. If you say I'm going to hell it won't even 

matter." Marge was groping for a light in a dark, embittered 

world. You knew that the light was Christ, but you couldn't 

push her. You had remembered how Marge had insisted on 

going to confession each Saturday, while you followed her good 

example. "Marge," you had whispered, "I am so sorry, so very 

sorry. There isn't anything I can do, or anything I can say. 

I won't say you're wrong; you know you are. I'll just pray 

that you'll come back to God some day." You had both sat 

there a moment unable to speak, and for just an instant you 

had thought you saw a glimpse of the old Marge. 

Then the loudspeaker calling the name of the city near your 

home town had broken the spell. Marge had risen in a moment 

while you had reached for your bag, but it was already in her 

hand. She made a path through the crowd for you. Heads 

turned to gaze at the smartly dressed girl in her green suit and 

gold accessories, but Marge with chin held high had walked 

through the noise and turmoil with indifference. Not until she 

had you comfortably seated did she speak. "I like you more 

today than I ever did. I wish I could share your peace. Keep 

praying!" Then she had given you a hasty kiss and you had 

watched her lithe figure glide down the aisle to the pert click of 

her high heels. From the platform she had turned once to see 

if you were watching; then she smiled, waved, and melted into 

the crowd. 



LOVE AND SHADOWS 89 

The train had started very slowly, and you had closed your 

eyes while your rosary had slipped through your fingers. You 

had prayed for Marge as well as for your mother. The hills 

with their green foliage had slipped past. The blue waters of 

tiny lakes were everywhere, while here and there a silvery stream 

tumbled over rocks. God was there in all this lovely nature; only 

in the hearts of men was He an outcast. Man whom Christ 

had hung between heaven and earth to save spurned His love. 

You had known now that all your religious life you would trust 

Him, and there was a quiet resignation in your soul, even as 

you realized that He was slowly calling your mother to His 

side. Your mother, the most precious thing in the world to you. 

The train was coming to a stop at your home town. There 

were no crowds at the station like at Albany and you had been 

glad. Soon, very soon you would see your mother. Hope and 

fear had struggled for a place in your heart. You had seen 

Susan and Joe scanning the train long before they saw you. 

You had noticed as you greeted them how worried and worn 

out they looked. 

You were driving home now after fourteen years, yet you 

felt almost like a stranger. Mother had asked to die at home 

surrounded by the things she had known and loved. Ethel 

Haner had been home on vacation, but the last few days she 

had spent with mother. She was such a wonderful nurse, kind 

and understanding. Mother was conscious but in pain. They 

had told you all this on their way home. 

Dad had come to meet you at the door. He wasn't smiling 

and you had tried to comfort him. "Mother keeps asking for 

you, Mary. Hurry!" You had gone in to your mother. She 

had lain motionless, her face still and white. The room was 



90 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

filled with silence. Your mother had smiled. ''I'm so glad you 

came," she whispered. "You'll have to take my place now. 

Be good to Susan. Take care of Ann for me. There'll be times 

when she'll need love and understanding. I've been waiting to 

say good-bye all day." Then mother had wearil¥ dosed her eyes. 

You had asked for a blessed candle and someone handed you 

the very candle that you had given mother when you made last 

vows, the myrtle was still wound around it. You lit the candle 

and suggested praying the rosary. You had always asked the 

Blessed Mother for help when death should come your way. 

Now you felt very calm inside and your voice was steady. You 

had just finished the rosary when mother had opened her eyes; 

they had rested on each of you then had dosed forever. You 

had put your arm around Susan and Ann who were sobbing, 

and comforted them, for mother was at peace, mother was with 

God. 

A half hour later, Susan had taken you to your old room. 

You had to sleep at home for the nearest convent was thirteen 

miles away. As she opened the door Susan had said, ''I'll get 

you something to eat. You must be starved." "Just a sandwich 

and some coffee," you answered. You had looked about at your 

old surroundings. It was almost the same as when you had left. 

Even the pictures were the same. You were like a person in a 

dream. You automatically opened the drawers and found your 

school letter, medals, etc., still intact. Poor mother, you had 

thought, keeping a room full of memories! "Eternal rest, grant 

unto her, 0 Lord," you said glancing at the picture on the waLL, 

the picture of Christ in the Garden. 

You had left your old room then, dosing the door softly on 

the young girl who had once lived here----the girl you used to 



LOVE AND SHADOWS 91 

be. How different you were. You had thought of the world 

of nuns with whom you dwelt and longed for the love and se-

curity of convent walls. Here you had lived most of your life 

before entering, except for the few years you had spent on a 

farm. You had felt as if you had stepped back into the distant 

past, and you were uncertain and afraid. 

You were on your way to the kitchen when the front door 

had opened abruptly. It was too early for dad and Joe to re-

turn. Bob, Susan's husband stood staggering in the doorway. 

This bleary-eyed person couldn't be the Bob Susan had married! 

You had remembered him as a quiet, mannerly, attractive man. 

And now-but this undoubtedly was Bob. "So they let you 

out of the convent," he muttered with a thick tongue. Then 

he had looked over your head and smiled foolishly. "Never 

let her know about the black sheep you had married, did you, 

Susan ?" You had felt you~ blood rush to your head. So this 
was the skeleton they had been hiding in a closet all these years. 

All of them had avoided talking about him, had evaded ques-

tions. Now you knew. Bob had slipped out of the closet. 

Susan's husband was an ordinary drunkard. Alcoholic would 

have sounded more refined but drunkard was more descriptive. 

All those years of training in self -control had come to your 

rescue. Under your scapular your hand had clung to the cruci-

fix, and your prayer was swift. You had never dealt with peo-

ple who were influenced by drink, but God in His heaven would 

help you. 

By this time Bob had sunk into a chair. Susan had looked at 

you in mute embarrassment. "You stay there, Bob, while we 

get you some coffee," you had said in your usual tone. In the 

kitchen you had faced Susan's white, tight look with the words, 



92 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

"You should have told me, Susan." Susan's words had come 

back brokenly, "I was too ashamed, and besides you couldn't 

have done anything." "I could have prayed," you reminded her. 

"Will you let me try to talk to him?" you asked. "Of course," 

she answered, "but I don't want him to hurt you. When he is 

drinking he is as unreasonable as a child. " You had smiled as 

you poured the coffee, remembering how often you had planned 

and prayed over a wayward child sometimes with success, and 

at others, only to lose. You had met failure before. 

As you helped Susan with the lunch you had gone over the 

situation. You had remembered when Susan was twenty and 

you had been in your early teens. She had always been precise 

and beautiful. You had been tall and clumsy. In doing house-

work you seemed to have a knack for doing things wrong. Susan 

had laughed in a way that had cut your heart, and her sharp, 

witty tongue had given colorful descriptions of your mistakes. 

She had never really meant to be unkind, but still she had never 

troubled to teach you how to do anything. You had always felt 

so awkward and so useless. It had just been her way. Had 

she unconsciously made Bob feel the same way, and as the say-

ing went, "Driven him to drink"? 

You had tried to -distract Susan by talking about the gold-

rimmed tea set, and when you had finished your snack had 

persuaded her to lie down for a few moments. In the living 

room Bob sat smoking a cigarette. You had brought his coffee, 

and putting the tray on the coffee table had said cheerfully, 

"Lunch is served." "Going to give me a sermon, I suppose," 

he breathed defensively. "Well, save your words. I've heard 

them all. Your mother was one of the few who didn't preach. 

I hate to think that she is dead," Bob had said as he reached 



LOVE AND SHADOWS 93 

for the coffee and drank it very slowly. You had remembered 

classes where a child wanted understanding and Bob was really 

like a child. You had smiled and said, "Preaching is not my pro-

fession. You don't need someone to tell you about being wrong. 

You are going to stop drinking, though." You had smiled at 

Bob's startled expression and continued. "I still pray, Bob, and 

those prayers will be said for you. I'll also go without certain 

things that I like but can do without for you. God's been very 

good to me. He won't let me down this time either." 

Then you had talked to Bob, dropping the serious tone. You 

had told him about funny incidents that happened in school, 

about the humor of the nuns you worked with. At the end of 

a half hour Bob had left. He had smiled, and said very quietly, 

"Thanks for the prayers. I need them." A few minutes later 

Joe and Dad had returned from making funeral arrangements. 

You had spent a long time trying to cheer everyone up, hiding 

your own heartache. When you had closed your door very late 

the tears had flowed unheeded down your face. You had knelt 

beside your bed and prayed for strength and for guidance. 

When at last in bed between the cool sheets sleep seemed 

miles away. It was so different from the little mission house on 

the hill where you had been just another nun doing her work 

each day as best she could for God's greater glory. Below you 

in the street a car had screeched to a sudden stop, there had 

been the empty laughter of a girl; in the distance a dog had 

barked. Could this be home? The place where you once had 

dreamed now seemed so very barren, stripped of all its glamor. 

The unpleasant sound of an alarm had awakened you. You 

had dressed while the dawn threw rosy streaks across the wall. 

• 



• 

94 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

You had slipped out of the quiet house and made your way to 

church. Even the church had changed, but how little that mat-

tered for Christ in the Tabernacle was ever the same. You had 

knelt in the shadows, since you wanted to be alone for a time 

with Christ. When the priest came out for Mass you had sighed 

for it was a new and younger priest. Father John was dead 

and you had missed his fatherly concern. It would have been 

grand to talk to him once again. 

And as you prayed, the yesterdays had seemed to pass before 

you one by one. There was Marge, beautiful, lonely, unhappy; 

Susan and Bob with their tangled lives; Dad, grief-stricken at 

mother's death. Dick was somewhere in Korea flying a plane, 

and Joe was worried because he was unable to locate him. Ann 

had puzzled you, too. She was lovely, and as frail as a spring 

flower, but her smile had a forced gaiety, and she had seemed 

unsure of herself. '.'Please, God, help them all," you had said 

over and over again. Then as Mass had ended you had prayed 

for strength to keep your own grief to yourself. 

The two days that followed had been hard days. You had 

smiled so much that you felt your smile had become fixed and 

frozen. Back of you had been all the prayer, the work, the 

joy and the suffering of the years spent in your Benedictine 

convent. At night, you had felt so alone in your room as you 

had looked long at the stars glittering in a darkened sky. But 

you knew that God was near. You remembered the love of 

your Sisters-in-Christ forged in the fires of daily work and wor-

ship; and the remembrance brought strength and abiding pa-

tience. Beyond the stars was your mother with Him for all eter-

nity, and you had prayed with quiet confidence, "May she rest 

in peace." 



LOVE AND SHA DOWS 95 

Then it had all come to an abrupt end. The funeral, your 

brokenhearted father, the people offering their condolence. That 

afternoon when you had to plan for your return, Joe had sug-

gested a plane. Wasn't there a landing field somewhere near 

where you lived? There was one only nine miles away, you 

had assured him. So arrangements had been made. Joe had 

always been very near to you. He seemed to be the only person 

back here who hadn't changed. If life had cut him, hurt him 

he didn't show it. Alone with him you had whispered, "Joe, 

do you think we could go past the farm where we used to live 

on our way to the airport? I'd love to see its green peace-

fulness just once more. " "Of course," he replied gently, "of 

course." 

Ann had been very obliging the next day. She had agreed 

to read her fashion magazine while you both looked about. 

"But really, darling," she had said in her smoothest tones, " I 

don't see what would interest you on an old smelly farm." As 

the car had stopped, all the forgotten yesterdays had rushed 

back. There it was almost as it had been in years gone by. 

There were the purple foothills of the Adirondacks . . The forests 

with their pine scent had filled your nostrils. Even the house 

had been the same except for a coat of paint. 

The farmer had been very obliging. He had remembered 

your father well. You had noted that your garb was a mystery 

to his staunch New England Protestantism. You had smiled at 

Joe, the first natural smile in a long time, and the two of you 

had walked down the dusty road which was little more than a 

path. You had gone down a bank, and stood at the edge of 

a little stream. The water had tumbled merrily over the moss-

covered rocks, while a robin in an overhanging tree chirped 



96 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

gaily. You turned to look at the bank covered with purple 

violets. They were so large, and such a deep purple. Here you 

had dreamed, waded in the stream, gathered the flowers. Yours 

had been such a happy childhood. It had been filled with so 

much beauty and love, but now it was gone. You had felt as 

if you were in a trance, and your hungry eyes could not tear 

themselves away. "We'd better go now, or we'll miss your 

plane," your brother had said as he put his arm about you. 

He had known how deeply you had loved this land of childhood 

dreams. 

The ride to the airport was short. You had tried to say com-

forting things to Ann; she was so young, so restless. When the 

plane had started you looked down on both Joe and Ann until 

they became tiny specks. The plane had flown over silver 

streams, sparkling lakes, and soft green mountains. It was tak-

ing you back to a land devoid of all this, a place that had be-

come your home. There had been no regrets, only a feeling 

of gratitude, for God had done great things for you. You had 

offered Him the silver streams and purple mountains, the soft 

breezes and refreshing rains, everything that you had treasured 

and loved. Only you had prayed silently, "Take care of my 

dear ones." The wind had seemed to bring the message straight 

from heaven, "You know I will." 

Joe had called Sister Dolores and there was someone waiting 

for you when the plane landed. It had made you feel so good 

to see the Sisters. They had borrowed the car. School wasn't 

much fun with a teacher missing, and they were glad you were 

back. Jim Carr had played hookey a few days. Some of the 

pupils had asked if you weren't ever coming back. When you 

had finally arrived, the homely house had looked like a palace, 



LOVE AN D SHADOWS 97 

even the funny doorbell seemed to smile a greeting. Sister 

Dolores had taken one look at you and had sent you to bed. 

You had welcomed the command for you had been so very weary. 

You had scarcely gotten in bed when a knock was heard. Sister 

Edna had entered with a tray. You had said you weren't hungry 

but when you had seen the tray you had changed your mind. 

Before you had finally fallen asleep you had tried to pray but 

your prayers had been confused and distracted. You had fin all y 

fallen asleep as the nuns in chapel were chanting the beautiful 

prayers of the Divine Office to the glorious King Who had 

suffered so ingloriously on the cross for them. Now He had 

sent you a cross, but in His strength the burden was light. 



· .. theV Shall Not Die, But live Forever 

H R EQUIESCAT IN PACE"-the letters were bold and new 

on the tombstone. Only a month ago you were walking 

here with Sister Therese, and now she was dead. Sister Therese, 

with her quick laughter, had made you think of tinkling bells. 

You had remembered her telling you of the great spiritual dry-

ness which had been hers for two endless years. "I can sit in 

chapel and even my faith seems gone. I am like a person in a 

dark cave searching, for a light that he never finds. Yet my 

soul is filled with peace." She had said all this in her slow, 

drawling voice. You had listened and marveled. Then two 

weeks ago an acute attack of appendicitis and now Sister The-

rese was beneath the brown earth with the snow covering it. 

"Pray for Sister Therese who is dying," you had read that 

winter morning. You had felt sick for a moment. Then Rev-

erend Mother had taken you to the hospital with her. Sister 

Therese had been conscious. There she lay, a smile on her lips 

and her eyes filled with pain. Sister Therese was going to the 

God Whom she had loved, meeting Him with a smile. ' 'I'll 

not forget you when I see Him," she had whispered to you. 

98 



· .. THEY SHALL NOT DIE BUT LIVE FOREVER 99 

You had left the hospital filled with the loneliness of parting. 

Now as you stood for a moment looking at the blanket of snow 

covering Sister Therese's grave you had shivered and drawn 

your shawl closer about you. And in the silence there had come 

to you the consoling words of the Church, of that Liturgy that 

had so filled and given meaning to your life--and Sister The-

rese's-as a Benedictine: Suscipiat te Christus, qui vocavit teo 

May you be received by Christ Who has called you. 

And you then turned and slowly walked back to the convent. 



Sickne~ Changes The World 

YOUR restless sleep had been disturbed by the demanding clamor of the alarm. It was June and warm. You had 
made a special effort to get up, but your head had fallen back 

on the pillow. The breeze coming in through the window was 

stifling. You had tried to rise again, and this time you had suc-

ceeded. Your throat had been raw, your chest filled with pain, 

while your head had felt like a roaring fire. You had moved 

slowly in the morning stillness, every move an effort. In a tree 

outside your window a bird had sung its morning song of praise. 

It was the last day of exams. The papers on the table with their 

usual red marks had reminded you that you would soon be 

finished. For just a moment you had thought of yesterday when 

the pupils in your class had seemed to move continually. "Sick, 

'Stir?" Jimmy had asked, while your answer had been a tired 

smile. You had forced yourself to correct the arithmetic papers. 

Ybu had to hurry, because you were leaving for the m~ther­
house in another week. 

You had stood at the door now and put the back of your 

hand on your forehead to steady yourself. The small table in 

100 



SICKNESS CHANGES THE WORLD 101 

the hall had swayed, so had the banister, " I have to .. .. " you 

had thought. Then there had been a blissful darkness. When 

you had awakened you were.in bed amid unfamiliar surround-

ings. You heard voices like a distant buzz somewhere near you, 

but what they were saying did not interest you in the least. You 

had closed your eyes again, nothing mattered. It seemed weeks 

had passed while you just lay there not caring. Nurses had 

come taking your temperature, your pulse. "Sister, will you 

please move? We want to change your bed," had echoed in 

your ears, but you lay wrapped in shadows, oblivious of every-

thing. 

Late one afternoon you had opened your eyes and looked 

about. Sister Matilda moved her position nearer to you ob-

serving you carefully. It was funny how God arranged things. 

In the novitiate you had never been on exactly friendly terms 

with Sister Matilda. True, you had never quarreled, but neither 

had you ever exchanged confidences. Sister Matilda had thought 

you impractical; you had thought her an extremist. Everything 

had to be arranged at a ninety degree angle or it had a messy 

appearance. Looking at her had made you think of hospital 

beds and long corridors with fluttering white. Sometimes you 

had thought you could almost smell the ether when she was 

near. After you had left the novitiate she had gone into the 

nursing field where her experience could be used. You had 

been placed in the teaching profession. At retreats you had 

met, nodded and smiled. That was all. Now you had been 

really sick for the first time, and here was Sister Matilda be-

side you. 

"How do you feel?" she asked. You had mumbled some-

thing. "You have a long fight ahead of you but you 're out of 



102 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

danger now." You had listened attentively to Sister Matilda 

talk. Back in your mind somewhere you had remembered how 

each time you had opened your eyes Sister Matilda had been 

there. No doubt she had spent a great deal of her valuable time 

with you during these dark days. You had been suddenly 

ashamed of all the times in the past when your thoughts had 

not been exactly kind. 

The days that followed had been long. It had been the mid-

dle of June before things had taken on any importance. One 

morning, just before dawn, you had awakened feeling hot and 

tired. There didn't seem to be a cool spot on the bed. You 

had shifted your position so that you could look at the sky. The 

silver streaks had changed to purple, then blue, and lastly pink, 

as the golden sun had come up out of the east. You had been 

so near the Creator of that sun, but just as you had reached 

out your hand He had been snatched from you. You hadn't 

been afraid to die. It was only now that everything was un-

certain. You had been spared serious sickness, but now you 

had been in a world of shadows. You were no longer sure of 

yourself. 

You had remembered Uncle Bill as you watched the sunrise. 

He had visited your home once when you did not want him to 

go away. Uncle Bill's kind gentle ways had won your heart. 

He was a big hero in your little mind, and you loved him. Y Oll 

had begged him to stay but that was impossible. "Come back, 

Uncle Bill," you had called after the moving car. Uncle Bill 

had turned, waved and smiled; then he was gone. You had 

stood in the dusty driveway with tears rolling down your cheeks, 

while the bottom seemed to have fallen out of your whole 

world. Mother had taken you inside and removed the pink 



SICKNESS CHANGES THE WORLD 103 

straw hat with the white flowers. Then she had washed your 

face and consoled you by telling you that Uncle Bill would come 

again. ''I'll always love it," you had said touching the straw 

hat reverently with grimy hands, "Cause Uncle Bill gave it to 

me." Was the Blessed Mother perhaps saying what your earthly 

mother had said years ago? Did she perhaps whisper so low 

that you couldn't hear it that some day God would come again, 

and you would be with Him always? Your dry lips had moved 

quietly, and the prayer you had said was not sublime. It was 

simply, ''I'll try to love this sickness, because you gave it to 

me." 

There had been times over the years when your duties had 

been so pressing that you got very little sleep. You had often 

wished you could just sleep for a whole week straight! And 

now when you could have slept you had found yourself wide 

awake, and sleep miles away. The irony of it! During the 

long nights you had thought of boys like Dick Morris, who 

had caused you endless trouble in school. He and all his rela-

tions had disturbed your restless nights. Thoughts of them 

had trailed you even here. Nights had been long, dark and 

troubled with little sleep. 

You had asked the doctor bluntly one day when you would 

be able to leave. "Two weeks more," he answered with a pro-

fessional smile. You had searched his face in hope, that he 

was joking, but the doctor would have found such a joke a form 

of levity. He had no idea how the weeks ahead had grown 

in gigantic proportions in your tired mind. Despair had almost 

taken possession of you. It had seemed as if you were fighting 

an endless battle. 



104 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

The nurses were kind, but they were strangers. You had 

felt relaxed only when Sister Matilda and the Sisters were 

around. To make matters worse Mrs. Cribbins appeared on 

the scene. She was a new nurse at the hospital with stiff, un-

compromising ways. If the doctor had prescribed a hair shirt 

Mrs. Cribbins would have seen to it that you got two for good 

measure. You had felt uncomfortable as soon as she entered 

the room. You hadn't had nightmares since you had been a 

child, but of course, you would have them for the first time 

when Mrs. Cribbins was on night duty. You had fallen into 

a troubled sleep a short time after midnight, and dreamed as 

you so often did of childhood days. You had been making 

mud -pies with Joe. Suddenly a car was coming toward you 

and you couldn't move. You had screamed wildly, and when 

you had opened your eyes Mis. Cribbins was there. "You 

screamed," she said and her face was annoyed and unfriendly. 

You had longed for Sister Matilda who would have been so 

understanding. ''I'm sorry," you mumbled. The light was turned 

off with an impatient snap, and you had heard the swish of 

Mrs. Cribbins starched skirt. "So, they have crabs in the nursing 

profession, too. That's something," you had said to yourself to 

take away some of the tension. 

The next night you had dreamed that you were sitting under 

the pine tree near your home. Suddenly the tree was falling 

toward you. The process of the night before had been repeated, 

only Mrs. Cribb ins was not only irritated, but angry. "You 

woke up the whole floor," she said, her voice as sharp as a razor. 

"Do you intend to do this every night?" "I was dreaming," 

you said. ''I'm sorry." The sarcastic words tumbled over each 

other in their effort to reach your lips. You had turned away 



SICKNESS CHANGES THE WORLD 105 

so that Mrs. Cribb ins would miss the angry flames in your eyes. 

She had gone then, as suddenly as she came. You had begged 

St. Benedict to keep you from disturbing anyone again, as you 

lay there sick and weary, and the nightmares had ceased to 

trouble you. 

Sometimes you had thought of your brother; you had been 

so close to each other at home. He was married now and un-

doubtedly had forgotten all about you. Then one day a shadow 

fell across the floor, and you looked up and there stood Joe 

looking very dignified in his officer's uniform. To you he had 

looked like a king and for a moment you had been speechless 

with joy. But after a few days he had slipped away as quickly 

as he had come leaving you lonely and depressed. You had 

tried to swallow the tears, but they had refused to be swallowed. 

You had been too weak to choke them back. A footstep sounded 

near your bed. You had feigned sleep but your wet lashes had 

betrayed you. "Sleeping, Sister?" The voice was soft like the 

wind in spring. It was Reverend Mother. You had sighed 

with relief for you knew she would understand. You had told 

her the whole story from beginning to end. It was a hazy out-

line: the days when Joe and you had grown up together, the 

adventures you had, the confidences you shared; then the lone-

liness when you entered the convent and seldom saw him. Now 

you felt you wouldn't see him again for ages. Mother wasn't 

the preachy type, that was what made her so charming. She 

didn't say anything, but you knew she had understood, and 

when she left the tears on your lashes had dried. She had been 

like a ray of sunshine. The time in the hospital seemed much 

shorter now. 

You had a long time to think while you were slowly regaining 



106 THE HELP OF HIS GRACE 

your strength. Pneumonia leaves you so exhausted and helpless. 

You had to depend on people so much. Books which had always 

fascinated you had no appeal. The professional reading you 

had never had much time for you had found impossible. Your 

prayers were said with difficulty. Even holding your breviary 

had been an effort. Now you had really and truly known what 

it was like to be sick. You just weren't yourself. 

The infirmary had never been a place you had liked to visit 

often. Yes, you had once taken care of old Sister Cyril's corre-

spondence, even neglecting your own to do so. But how often 

did she have to send for you ? You had thought yourself quite 

patient when she had exclaimed, "Why, the idea," after each 

sentence. Perhaps if she hadn't been blind, and had seen your 

expression she wouldn't have thought you such an angel. "God, 

forgive me for being such a conceited, overbearing creature," 

you had prayed. "Only You could have ever put up with my 

selfishness, and patiently wait for me to find through my own 

sickness how far from humble and considerate I really was." 

You had made a few resolutions then! 

At last you were in your own bed in the convent, and your 

whole attitude toward life had changed. You were still far from 

well. You had walked down the corridors with the pace of a 

snail. Sleep had lost its refreshing effect. And no longer could 

you glory in all that you could do. The Sisters avoided asking 

you to do little acts of charity. You were still too weak to 

scrub floors, wash dishes or do anything but eat, sleep, and 

get well . Everyone else seemed so active and so busy, while 

you had dragged one foot after another all summer. 

Finally after weeks, when you were back to normal and sick-

ness had vanished like a bad dream you were more kind and 



STCKNESS CHA NGES THE WO RLD 107 

understanding, especially to the sick. And somehow you knew 

in a way that you had never known before, that what really mat-

tered was to accept His Will, whether it be in daily work or in 

the apparent idleness of needed rest. 



Invitatorv 

AND as I read over what I had written, I had wondered if I had said too much or too little. Life is made up of 
so many things, unexpected and unpredictable; and tJ:1e reli-

gious life is no exception. But it is a good life, and blessed are 

those girls who amid the attractions of the world yet respond 

generously to the call of Christ. There is only one way to God, 

the way of love; but there are many paths. And the path of 

St. Benedict has led unerringly to the Heart of Christ for long 

and fateful centuries. 

In the Liturgy which so forms the warp and the woof of 

Benedictine life, the joys and the sorrows, the ups and the downs 

of daily living find their true significance. From the morning 

Sacrifice of the Altar on through the final prayer of Compline, 

the prayer, the work, and the sacrifices return once again to the 

Altar that through Christ, God may be glorified in all things. 

And if convent life is often ordinary and unspectacular, it is 

yet so real and deeply peaceful that with Peter we can only say 

with joy and gratitude: "Lord, it is good for us to be here!" 

And may some who read this one day share with us the comrade-

ship of Benedictine life, and answer Him in her heart, "Dear 

Jesus, I want to be here, too." 

108 





) 

I" 


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