10. Whitney
WHITNEY
Ishould be reviewing the sponsorship letters or inventory lists or any one of the contents of the six folders spread across the desk in my room. Instead, I’ve spent the last ten minutes staring at the same sentence without reading a single word of it.
Sighing, I set my pen down and lean back in my chair.
This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-three years old. I’ve spent five years devoted to my calling, preparing for my final vows, and dedicating my life to God.
So, why is it that I can’t stop thinking about a biker named Quake?
I’m not even hung up on important things, just random moments…
The way he comforted Melissa the last time he was here or the way he brought her smile back when talking about Stella.
I recall the handful of times he’s stopped by over the last week to update me with his progress for the carnival, which could’ve been done with a phone call, by the way.
An image of his smile flashes in my mind, along with the embarrassment that floods his cheeks when I catch him looking at me when he thinks I won’t notice.
Everything I think about, everything I remember, floods me with an unfamiliar heat.
“Lord, this is not helpful,” I say into the empty room.
“Talking to yourself now?”
I jump to my feet and whirl around to see Sister Beatrice standing in the doorway. “I wasn’t talking to myself.”
“You were.”
“I was praying.”
“Convenient distinction.” She says with a smile as she settles into the small wooden chair in the corner of my room. “What troubles you, Sister?”
“Nothing,” I say with a shake of my head.
“I’ve known you too long to believe that.”
I groan. Sometimes I forget that this woman had a hand in raising me. She’s seen me at my best and at my worst.
And she’s right.
I wring my hands together as I try to gather my thoughts. “Did you ever question your calling?” I finally ask.
Her expression softens, and it’s as if I’m a little girl again, desperate for love and affection. “Of course,” she replies.
“Really?”
“Many times.”
That’s not the answer I was expecting. I always assumed women like Sister Beatrice simply knew. She’s never seemed uncertain about anything, and neither have other nuns I’ve met over the years who’ve spent decades in service to God.
“I thought…” I swallow, not knowing what to say.
“You thought the stork dropped me on the convent steps?” she teases.
A laugh escapes me. “Something like that.”
She folds her hands in her lap. “Those who never question rarely understand the significance of what they’re choosing.”
“So questioning is normal?” I ask, frowning.
“Not only is it normal,” she begins. “It’s healthy and important.”
Her answer is so simple, yet incredibly complicated, and creates more questions than it resolves. Sister Beatrice studies me for a moment, but thankfully, she speaks before I start to squirm under her scrutiny.
“When was the last time you spent an hour in quiet reflection?” When I don’t respond, her brows lift. “Exactly.”
“I’ve been busy,” I say defensively.
“The work won’t disappear just because you set it down for a while,” she reprimands gently.
Her words strike a chord in me because, once again, she’s right. The fundraiser is important, as are the children, but they will be there even if I step away for an hour. I’ve been throwing myself into work lately, and it’s been for all the wrong reasons.
If I’m busy enough, then I don’t have time to think about why Quake seems permanently lodged in my brain.
“I’d like you to spend some time in the chapel this afternoon,” Sister Beatrice says as she stands. “I’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed.”
“You want me to pray?”
“I want you to reflect.”
I nod. “Okay.
She moves to the door but pauses. “One more thing.”
“Yes?” I ask cautiously, noting the thoughtfulness in her expression.
“You’ve only taken your temporary vows.”
Her words catch me off guard. “I know.”
“Discernment isn’t done just because you’ve made progress.” I stare at her, and she continues to hold my gaze. “You’re allowed to ask difficult questions. Not only of yourself, but of those around you, of God.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, child, sometimes one becomes so determined to fulfill a promise that they forget to make sure it’s truly theirs.
” She huffs out a sad breath. “Ryan would not be disappointed in you, Whitney. As long as you are true to yourself, he, along with everyone else here, will remain proud of the person you’ve become. ”
With that, she disappears into the hallway, leaving me stunned and confused. The entire conversation feels intentional, like she was trying to tell me something without actually saying the words.
But what? And why?
Sister Beatrice has dedicated her life to the Church. Why would she say anything to encourage me to consider another path? The question still lingers when I enter the chapel hours later.
Sunlight filters through the stained glass windows, spilling beautiful shades of blue, red, and gold across the floor. For years, being here has calmed me, but lately…
Lately, the chapel feels more and more like it did when I was a child. There’s a weight in the air, a cloud of uncertainty. And today, my doubt is louder than the temporary vows I took.
I kneel and pray. I reflect, and then pray some more. Somehow, despite my best efforts, thoughts of Quake override everything else.
“Lord, help me.”
My prayer is met with silence, and that frustrates me because prayer is supposed to provide solace, or at least the appearance of it. Instead, I’m left feeling guilty for resorting to asking the lord to change my thoughts.
The guilt quickly turns to annoyance at myself for turning something as simple as thinking about a man into a spiritual crisis. Yes, I’m a nun, but nuns are human. We still have a heart and the capacity to love.
I rise to my feet and settle on the front pew. Continuing to do as Sister Beatrice instructed, I think back over my life, on my relationship with Ryan and my decision to pledge my life to God.
Hours pass, and darkness descends. I’m no closer to figuring things out than I was when I entered the chapel, yet somehow, I feel lighter.
Maybe it’s because I’ve accepted the idea that my path might be different than I thought, or maybe it’s because a higher power has lifted some of my burden. The reason doesn’t matter, though.
I make the sign of the cross and stand just as the double doors fly open, and Melissa stumbles inside.
The second my eyes land on her, my stomach drops.
She’s crying, and it’s different than when she sobs out of grief. This is panic, pure and simple.
“Melissa, what’s wrong?”
She rushes toward me, tears streaming down her face. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps, making it impossible for her to respond. I look down at her shirt, and my blood boils.
The yellow fabric is torn, the rip stretching almost to the waist from her shoulder. Her matching pajama pants are crooked.
“What happened?” I ask, fear coursing through me.
She opens her mouth, but still, no words come out. My heart hammers in my chest as I reach for her and gently grab her shoulders.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
Her terror-filled eyes lift to mine. “I…” She shakes her head, unable to continue as more sobs wrack her small body.
I hold her while she cries while I die a little inside. I don’t know the specifics of what sent her rushing into the chapel, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Sacred Haven is supposed to be exactly that… a haven. Children should be safe here, not trembling in fear.
“Melissa,” I prod when her cries settle. “Can you tell me what happened?”