For the first time in her life, she couldn’t hear God. She knew He was there, she felt His presence as she went about her duties. Babies were born, the ill were cared for, and God was there for it all. God was there when a neighbor reached across the fence to help an old woman hang out her laundry. He was there when a police constable comforted a boy after his dog had been crushed by a passing lorry. She could see God in the faces of Poplar, ordinary people living ordinary lives.
She had felt His comfort so many times in her own life. As a child, she had turned to God for solace, needing to fill the gaping wound left by her mother’s death. That early lesson had taught her not to expect God to solve her problems, but to look for her own solutions and to find contentment despite the sadness. Her faith had given her serenity and at each crossroad in her life, she could feel God guiding her. Yet now when she prayed, there was only silence.
For months now she felt this void. She recited the prayers, followed the services, but there was no comfort, no connection. Even the music would not soothe. Day after day as she knelt in supplication, she searched for His voice.
Doubt is a part of faith. She knew that raising questions helped to bring beliefs into sharper focus, that blindly accepting the path forged by others would not bring one to understanding. A regular and thorough examination of conscience was necessary to building a healthy and strong relationship with God, for without it, one became a zealot. Now doubt consumed her. It did not clarify, it did not strengthen. She could feel His presence, but not His grace.
She knelt in her cell in the cold night of early spring, evening prayers long over. The Great Silence hung over the convent, taunting her, when before it had calmed her. She tried to open her mind, to allow God to soothe her, but felt only frustration. Where was He? In her weakness had He forsaken her?
When had it begun? For months she had experienced a dissatisfaction she could not name. The death of a young mother and child had rattled her that past autumn. Sent to assist at the Mother House for a week, she had inwardly rebelled at the officiousness of others. At Christmas she had felt the grief of her mother’s death as if it were new. Pain and discontent began to grow in her heart, and she felt the discord deepen through the winter.
Why had these doubts begun to take hold? she grieved. Each day she saw God in the life around her. Why did she not feel his presence in her own life? Shame began to grow in her heart as she examined her sins of vanity and disobedience.
She had found herself too often peering in the small mirror of her cell, its intended use only to ensure that she had properly covered herself, hiding all clues to her individuality. Was she pretty still, she asked as she stole long looks. She had been told, long ago, that young men would not be immune to her physical charms, but had turned from such base feelings, sure in her path of service and chastity. What would have happened if she had listened then, just once? Had she hidden in fear from her womanhood rather than walking beyond such feelings, as the Order taught?
Too often and too eagerly she joined in the chatter of the young nurses these last months, and their talk of romance and evenings out made her long for an unknown. It was exciting, listening to stories of handsome escorts and evenings spent dancing under dim lights. Never before had these diversions held any appeal for her, but last night she had found herself powerless over dreams of being held by a man, tall and sure, as the music swirled around her. She flushed at the memory of how she woke in the night breathless, her body tense with feelings she could not name.
She could not ignore the irony of the choices of her life; how the vow of chastity required by the Order juxtaposed with the work of a midwife. Those vows which denied the needs of the flesh placed side by side with the everyday evidence of those very same physical demands. Her devotion to God required she accept all His children, and the service of a midwife in such a community gave her more opportunities to challenge and strengthen her faith. As a young woman, she had been proud of this. Naive and untried, her passion for God had superseded the first early stirrings of awareness, leaving her ignorant of its power. Irony no longer offered self-protection, however, and if she found that her frequent presence at the start of life touched parts of her heart she did not know existed, she was not ready to admit it.
There was no one to whom she could turn with these feelings. Her shame kept her from it. Sister Julienne had such worries of her own, and depended upon the younger nun to help keep Nonnatus House running smoothly.
Sister Bernadette bowed her head and began to pray again.
My Little Yellowbird 