Before the great romance, there was a nun looking to heal her own spirit and a doctor and son who needed to rebuild their family.

She loved clinic days. She loved watching the mothers with their babies, catching up and comparing notes, the older children playing. The noise and barely controlled chaos of the weekly Mother and Baby Clinic was the beating heart of the world of Nonnatus. The drama of midwifery, with its tests of mothers’ courage and her own skills, fueled her mind, but it was here that she felt she made the most difference.   

For a few hours, women would come to her to soothe their fears and anxieties. They would share intimate pieces of their own lives, revealing the power of love in the ordinary life that she had renounced. Life in the Order had provided her with a community when she needed one, had provided a place to worship and serve her God apart from the world, but of late she had become aware of a need to be part of a larger world. At the Clinic, she could pretend for a short while that she was part of their world.

From her corner in the back of the Parish Hall, Sister Bernadette scanned the room for a particular face. She told herself it was merely concern for a lost soul, nothing more, but she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She felt a sense of connection with him that should not have surprised her.  The sadness she saw in his eyes touched a past sadness of her own.

Twenty years and more had passed since her own sadness, and at times, the sting was just as fresh as the day her mother died. She pressed her lips together in concentration and pushed her own pain to the side. Today he would need some help, and if he would accept it, she would offer it.

There, she saw him. He stood just inside the doors to the Hall, his face nearly expressionless. She sighed. His was a face that should smile, she thought. He had such a clever smile and his eyes would light up with humor if he let them, but he was working so hard to be brave that she rarely saw his face light up.

For a year now, Timothy Turner would come to the Tuesday clinic straight from school. He would spend the housekeeper’s day off tucked in a back corner, his nose in his schoolbooks, trying so hard to seem indifferent to the commotion before him. Perhaps because she saw so much of herself in him, Sister Bernadette saw beyond the facade. She could see his eyes follow children as they sought out their mothers to settle squabbles or ease childish indignities, and her own heart clenched in pain.

She glanced at the charts before her, trying to determine when she would be able to appear at his side to offer a bit of cheer. He would smile at her, and for a moment, they would each find solace with the other. Perhaps a shared joke about one of the boys, or a math test score shyly presented for the hoped-for accolades. A small moment between them to fill a tiny bit of the hole in his heart. If it meant more than that to her, she was unwilling to admit it.

“Sister, Mrs. Peters will need a special visit later today. I’m not happy about her blood pressure. Could you place her on the evening calls list, please?” Doctor Turner’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

Quickly, she turned her face to the chart in his hands, anxious not to be caught watching his son. “Certainly, Doctor. Nurse Lee will be able to see her this evening. Shall I put her down for tomorrow as well?”

When there was no response, she glanced up and saw his eyes on his son. The poor man, she thought.

“It’s a year today,” his voice was quiet, only for her ears.

“Yes,” she answered. Marianne Turner had been remembered by the Sisters during morning Lauds.

Doctor Turner stood quietly for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere. She thought he would turn from her, his thoughts kept to himself, when he confessed, “He hasn’t said anything. I wonder if he even remembers the day?”

She wanted to reach out and place her hand on his but held back. “I’m certain he does. He–It’s quite possible he’s afraid to mention it for fear of upsetting you. He’s always been such a sensitive child.”

Dr. Turner sighed heavily. “He’s only a boy. He shouldn’t be worrying about me.” He paused, “Was it like that for you, too, Sister? Forgive me, I shouldn’t pry…”

A compassionate smile crossed her face. “No, please ask me, I’d like to help. Yes, I think I was rather a lot like Timothy. But my father was quite different from you, Doctor. It was too difficult for him, and I was sent away to school.” Unable to help herself, her hand gently pressed his coat sleeve. “I know it must be so very difficult, but you will get through this.”

He rubbed his thumb nervously. “Thank you, Sister. It’s been a hard year, but I’ve been managing. Marianne wasn’t one to dwell on the past, she wouldn’t have wanted us to get stuck, but I am worried about Timothy. I was so wrapped up in my own pain for so long that I’m afraid I’ve done damage.” His eyes met hers. “Is it too late?”

The young nun felt a flood of tenderness for this man and his son, and she understood in that moment that it was more than grief that made them suffer. Their love for one another had made them afraid to touch wounds and in their pain, they had turned away from their own best source of comfort.

“It’s never too late where there is love. Doctor. Forgiveness is the greatest gift God has given us, but we must find a way to it ourselves.” Her eyes were soft as she looked over to the boy in the corner. “Pain doesn’t disappear, but if we learn to accept it, it becomes another layer in our love for one another. Don’t be afraid of it. Timothy needs you more than ever. I’m quite certain there’s no permanent damage. He’ll follow your lead in all things, Doctor, you’ll see.”

The lines on his face softened into a grateful smile. “Thank you, Sister. We’ll try.”

Their eyes met in a moment of understanding. Sister Bernadette felt her heart lighten and a smile lifted her face. She could feel God’s grace in that moment of comfort, and sent up a prayer of thanks.

Doctor Turner seemed a bit taller as he rolled his shoulders back in determination. “Ask Mrs. Peters to wait a moment, would you? I have something to do.”

She watched him cross the Hall to meet his son, and was pleased to see him take the chair beside him. Timothy looked, up, his face guarded as he listened to his father’s words, and a crease formed between her eyebrows in worry. It wouldn’t be an easy path back to each other, she knew. Grief could prove to be a formidable barrier.

In that moment, however, the boy’s face lit up with a smile.

“There,” she whispered to herself. “They’ve made a start.”