She had not expected him (a man who was in constant, painful denial about his own Jewishness) to understand. After all, if she were honest with herself, she didn't understand her own actions. She could only describe it in terms of having been 'yanked' out of one existence to another in which she could make more of a difference. She'd been unable to save him from himself when she had been in the world. Maybe praying for him, outside it, would make the difference.
Every day had been more painful than the one before it; the period of her postulancy had been pure agony. She had missed him acutely from the very beginning – the sound, smell and sight of him – and the hole that he had filled in her seemed to be growing ever larger. She couldn't find anything to fill it in his stead, and the more she tried to fill it with God the more confused she became. She spent hours on her knees, both in chapel and in her cell, praying to the God she still only half-believed in, trying to make sense of what she was doing here at all. Did she belong here, she wondered, after all? Or had she made a terrible mistake?
Finally, the first ceremony – the clothing – loomed ahead. She had invited her family – and him, too, for some reason still desperate to see him for that one last time. She still couldn't wrap her mind around the face that she would be disappearing from his life completely and utterly.
Her dress would be her mother's, last used over thirty years before, but she did not know what to use for a veil. Her mother's had been torn beyond redemption many years before – by Missy and herself, she remembered ruefully, in a dress-up game they had once had. Her mother had for years bewailed the fact that she hadn't put it somewhere safe, out of their reach.
And so, the day of clothing arrived, and for the last time she was wearing normal things instead of the habit she would wear for the rest of her life. The dress had been sent in ahead of time, as requested, but when it arrived there had been an extra box. Curiosity for once overcame her, and she took a peek. The box had contained a cloud of gossamer silk veiling, fine enough not to cloud the fiery glory of her hair, and she had always wondered who had sent it. When she made to put it on, she found out – a tiny card lay at the bottom of the box. It was a holy card, with a picture of the Virgin on it, so she assumed it was from her mother after all. But when she turned it around, she saw the familiar scrawl of his writing, with his initials and a simple message – "The spirit is the Truth; God go with you" – and she knew. He understood … he understood, and had forgiven her.
Every day had been more painful than the one before it; the period of her postulancy had been pure agony. She had missed him acutely from the very beginning – the sound, smell and sight of him – and the hole that he had filled in her seemed to be growing ever larger. She couldn't find anything to fill it in his stead, and the more she tried to fill it with God the more confused she became. She spent hours on her knees, both in chapel and in her cell, praying to the God she still only half-believed in, trying to make sense of what she was doing here at all. Did she belong here, she wondered, after all? Or had she made a terrible mistake?
Finally, the first ceremony – the clothing – loomed ahead. She had invited her family – and him, too, for some reason still desperate to see him for that one last time. She still couldn't wrap her mind around the face that she would be disappearing from his life completely and utterly.
Her dress would be her mother's, last used over thirty years before, but she did not know what to use for a veil. Her mother's had been torn beyond redemption many years before – by Missy and herself, she remembered ruefully, in a dress-up game they had once had. Her mother had for years bewailed the fact that she hadn't put it somewhere safe, out of their reach.
And so, the day of clothing arrived, and for the last time she was wearing normal things instead of the habit she would wear for the rest of her life. The dress had been sent in ahead of time, as requested, but when it arrived there had been an extra box. Curiosity for once overcame her, and she took a peek. The box had contained a cloud of gossamer silk veiling, fine enough not to cloud the fiery glory of her hair, and she had always wondered who had sent it. When she made to put it on, she found out – a tiny card lay at the bottom of the box. It was a holy card, with a picture of the Virgin on it, so she assumed it was from her mother after all. But when she turned it around, she saw the familiar scrawl of his writing, with his initials and a simple message – "The spirit is the Truth; God go with you" – and she knew. He understood … he understood, and had forgiven her.