Tag Archives: Sister Bernadette

A Moment’s Peace

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This fic is set soon after the Carter birth and the shared cigarette.  Thanks to my betas for making this more than I thought it could be.

Sister Bernadette cycled sluggishly through the streets, the late morning sun already hot against her back.  She was grateful the rattle of the wheels against the cobbles drowned out the rumble of her empty tummy. A late night delivery had called her from her bed out to one of the poorest of the neighborhoods Nonnatus covered, and the tea and sandwich she’d packed for sustenance through the long hours had been more needed by the young woman’s family.  It was too bad today was Tuesday. She’d have to settle for cold cereal or toast until the unsatisfying cold lunch they’d set out for themselves several hours from now.

Ahead, she saw a Lyon’s Tea House, and impulsively pulled up to the window.  The room was empty, its early morning rush over, and she felt drawn by the luxury of a quiet cup of tea made by someone else.  The emergency shilling buried at the bottom of her pocket felt heavy against her thigh, and without letting herself think, she pushed open the door.

The bell tinkled as she entered, and the proprietress called out from behind the kitchen hatch, “Mornin’, Sista’! What kin I get ya?”

“Just some tea and dry toast, if you please,” she replied, and she tried to ignore the lingering scent of bacon in the air.  There was no need to compound her transgression with gluttony.

“Just a cuppa?  Comin’ right up, Sister.  You take a seat and I’ll be wif ya in two ticks.”

True to her word, the spry old woman soon placed a steaming cup and toast before her.  “You look done in, Sister. You just put yer feet up and take a nice long break. Me morning rush is finished, but I’ve me taters to peel for me pies.  Anyfink else you need, just give a holler.”

She bustled away and Sister Bernadette released a sigh.  Sister Evangelina wouldn’t approve, but she let the thought go.  This was such a little thing. It wasn’t as if she was treating herself to dinner at the Ritz.  One cup of tea and a few pieces of bread wouldn’t hurt anyone.

The bell jangled her from her reverie, and she glanced up.

“Good morning, Sister Bernadette.”  Doctor Turner stood looking down at her.

His voice was husky, as if he’d already smoked too many cigarettes that morning, and she recognized the lines of weariness on his face.  Like her, he’d not seen his bed that night. She felt a flush rise at the thought. Since that odd delivery at the Carter’s, she’d found him too present in her thoughts, and fought for composure.

“Good morning, Doctor Turner,”  she answered, her voice cool. “Another long night with Mr. Tweedy?”  

“Yes.  There’s nothing more I can do, I’m afraid.  I’ll refer him to hospice, but my receptionist won’t be in until Thursday.  I’m not sure I’ll be near a telephone for the next day or two.”

“I shall tell Sister Julienne, Doctor.  Nonnatus House can manage that for you.”  Equanimity began to return as she focused on the administrative task.  

The café owner appeared at his side.  “Good morning, Doctor Turner, what’ll I get fer ya?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to order anything, I just wanted to—”  he stopped, uncertain, and then a sense of resolve lifted his shoulders.  “Strong coffee, Mrs. Potter. And maybe a plate of your eggs?”

She winked.  “For you, Doc?  The world. Just sit yerself down and have a nice chat with the Sister.  It’ll be right up.”

He smiled awkwardly.  “Do you mind?” His long fingers gestured to the chair across from her.

“Of course not, please, sit.”  She didn’t mind, precisely. The poor man looked run off his feet.  Yet still she felt unnerved. His chair scraped against the floor, the sound louder than she expected.  Perhaps it was the fatigue that made her senses seem sharper?

“It must be Tuesday,” he joked as he spread his paper serviette across his lap.  He tilted his head to meet her questioning glance. “Mrs. B’s day off? I feel the same way when my housekeeper’s away. Tim and I usually end up at Capriano’s.  A good “English” any time of day—Mr. Swanson never serves anything else.  I cut back on work those days, but somehow it’s still  hard to find a moment’s peace.”

Peace.  Is that what she’d been seeking when she came into the café?  An image of the chapel flashed in her mind and she felt a stab of guilt.  She should be kneeling in prayer, not sitting across from this man.

“I suppose you have the chapel for that,” he mused.

Her eyes darted away from his, surprised he could read her thoughts.  She sipped her tea, unwilling to answer.

Mrs. Potter appeared, the plates and mug in her hands a miracle of balance.  “I had to brew fresh, and here’s a plate of eggs fer ya’, too, Sister. Yer looking peaky.  You need takin’ care of, I’m sure. No, no arguments. Eat.” Just as suddenly, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Doctor Turner handed her a fork.  “Best listen to the lady.” His grin was boyish, and for a moment she wondered what he looked like as a child.  She bit her lip to keep the curiosity at bay and did as she was told.

The eggs were warm and soft, and she closed her eyes in delight as she chewed.   “I had no idea I was so hungry,” she said. “It snuck up on me. These eggs are delicious!”

“Good,” he leant in conspiratorily and spoke softly.  “I’ve never been that impressed by Potter’s Cafe, and I have quite a low bar.  But this morning, it’s very good!”

Unable to resist, she smiled back.   The nervousness she’d felt when he arrived had dissipated, replaced by a burgeoning sense of ease.  For several minutes they ate in companionable silence, the low sounds of a popular song on the radio.  

“Marianne hated when I stopped at a café,” he said suddenly.  “She said the greasy food would make me run to fat.” He patted his midsection.  “She may have been right about that.”

Uncertain how to respond, and unwilling to glance at his knobbly jumper, she sat in silence.  Marianne Turner had not spent much time with her husband’s medical practice, busy with her own pursuits, and later, the needs of a young boy.  Sister Bernadette wondered if that had caused friction between husband and wife. Marriage was a mystery to her, she freely admitted. It was just as likely the Turners had found their own set of rules for their marriage.

“I know little of married life, of course, but I’ve seen enough with our patients to know that a wife often teases her husband out of worry.”  She tore her toast into small pieces, discarding them on her plate.

He picked up the last triangle of toast and pointed it at her, his grin returning.  “You’d be surprised how often a nun shone light on the state of my marriage, Sister.  Something about being on the outside, looking in, I suppose.”

He smiled, but she could see traces of sorrow in the lines around his eyes.  

“We were very different, Marianne and I, but we…” he put the uneaten toast down and sighed deeply. “We filled in the lonely places.”

She felt more than saw his hand clench, thumb agitating against forefinger, and she wondered when she had first noticed that symptom of his unease.  It seemed as familiar to her as his dry grin and the forelock of hair that never seemed to stay groomed. Her lungs tightened uncomfortably, silencing any words of comfort she might have uttered to soothe another’s pain.  The breathlessness pitched her into a moment of confusion, and she struggled to muster a sense of detachment.

She could not.  For years, she had been able to meet the rigorous demands of the Order, accepting her vows with joy and devotion, but in these last weeks–months, even–she chafed against them.  The rigorous training could no longer be relied upon to summon universal Christian love. She did not feel that communal connection with all. Rather, she felt a bewildering connection to this man in all his individuality.  

She forced air into her lungs and stood.  “I must go, Doctor Turner. I’ve tarried from my duties long enough, I’m afraid.  I will advise Sister Julienne of Mr. Tweedy’s condition, and we will handle the matter accordingly.”  Without looking she could see his perplexed expression. She placed a coin on the table. “Good day, Doctor.”

Her feet carried her the few steps to the door, her arms pushed the heavy door open, and she found herself in the over-bright sunshine.  The ride to Nonnatus would banish these thoughts, she told herself. Physical exercise would clear her head of these troubling thoughts and prepare her for the hours of prayer she required.  In Chapel, she would search for the sanctuary she once knew and banish her disorderly yearnings.

I was nearly finished with this fic when I was reminded by one of my betsas that I had written a coffee shop fic (of sorts) before.  That time I added the bonus of a bit of an unlikely crossover:  Parks and Recreation.  Not sure what I could possibly mean??  Think I couldn’t possibly be so insane?  Oh, friend, here’s the proof:  Wise Words.

Losing Her Breath

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2016-07-02

The crisp efficiency of the weekly Mother and Baby Clinic began to lag as the Parish Hall began to empty.  Sister Bernadette glanced about the room and wondered how they would ever manage to have the place set to rights in time for Madame Rocco’s dance class.  She noted with approval that Nurse Miller seemed to have the screens on hand, and Nurses Franklin and Lee were nearly finished storing the baby scales.  Stacks of chairs stood like soldiers awaiting an order, quickly arranged before Sister Evangelina left with Sister Julienne for chapel.  Even Sister Monica Joan played her part, amusing–and being amused by– the little ones.  

Her eyes drifted to the kitchen, where a lone figure leaned against the hatch, weary head resting upon his hand.  Her breath hitched and she turned away.  It was no business of hers if Doctor Turner looked so dreadfully tired.  Briskly, she walked to the play area on the far side of the hall.

“I’m sorry, Sister, do you mind if I sit here for just a moment longer?  My back is that tired.” Margie Peterson asked from a chair beside the dollhouse.  Her son, barely more than a baby himself, chattered at her feet.  “Of course, Mrs. Peterson, we’ll put your chair away last.”  She smiled at the tow-headed boy.  “Little Gregory has certainly grown these last few months.  Has he started walking yet?”

“Hasn’t he just!  Not a step for fourteen months, and last week he up and runs across the flat.  I can’t keep up with him.  I’m not sure what I’ll do once the baby comes.”

“You’ll manage, I’m sure, but if you have any trouble, please be sure to come to us at Nonnatus.  You can count on us to help.”  With her hip, she shifted the toy chest away from the small boys reach and began to pile toys away.  

Single-minded as only a child can be, the tot struggled to his feet and waddled over to investigate.  He reached in and pulled out a block then handed it to the nun with a grunt.  

“Why thank you, Gregory.”  Her soft burr grew a bit more pronounced in its tenderness.  “You’re a good wee boy. Can you help me put the toys back into the box?”

With a gurgling laugh, the boy shook his head. “Da!” he waved the doll in her face. “Da!”

“Is that your dolly, then?  He’s very nice. May I see him?”  

He looked up at her, a coy expression coming over his face.  He held the doll out just a bit, then tapped her palm.  His eyes widened with mischief, and he swerved out of reach, then made a break for it.  His mother pushed against the toy chest, valiantly trying to go after him.  “Listen to ‘im, his feet are like thunder when he takes off like that!”

“You stay there, Margie, I’ll get the little scamp!” Light on her feet, Sister Bernadette was up and after the child.  

Her eyes fixated on the bright head before her, running around in wide circles about the Hall.  She saw him zip by the kitchen, but would not let her eyes glance to see if the doctor was still there.  She darted about after him, conscious of a trill of laughter from her elderly sister.  She knew she must look ridiculous, running after the child in her habit.  Frustrated, Sister Bernadette pulled up short.  She would keep her dignity, even if she could not catch her breath.

Blood pounded in her ears, muffling the sounds in the room for a moment.  She watched the boy complete another circle about the room and felt her embarrassment grow.  

“Hello, Gregory,” Doctor Turner’s husky voice called across the room.  He kept his eyes on the boy.  “What have you got there?”

With a crow of laughter, the boy held out his doll and thumped towards the doctor.  He stopped short at the kitchen hatch and gazed up at the tall man, then pushed his doll forward.  

Sister Bernadette took the moment to move quickly and scooped the boy up into her arms.  Her firm voice belied the breathlessness she felt.  “Thank you, Doctor. Now, Gregory, it’s time you went back to your mother.”

Gregory cried out, “No!’ and shook his head vehemently.  “Da!”  He pointed to the doctor.  “Da!”

Sister Bernadette pressed her lips together.  All she wanted at that moment was to be somewhere–preferably a very far somewhere–away from this scene, away from him, but to resist the child would only make the scene more humiliating.  She drew in a deep breath and waited for the boy to calm himself before returning to his mother.

Young Gregory Peterson had little empathy for her predicament.  Sure of his victory, he again pushed the doll towards Doctor Turner and asserted, “Da!”

“I think he’s talking about his doll,” Sister Bernadette told him, her voice clipped.

“Is that right?” the Doctor asked, his eyes fixed on the boy.  “Well, I’ve learned never to negotiate with a toddler.  Come show me your doll, Gregory, I’d like to see him.”

With little choice but to move closer, Sister Bernadette shifted the toddler on her hip and approached the hatch.  Gregory stretched out an arm and passed the doll over the opening.  Doctor Turner accepted the offering, careful not to touch the sticky parts.  

She tried hard not to notice the softening lines in his face as he examined the toy.  “He’s quite nice, old chap.  I reckon he’s one of your favourites.  My Timothy had a doll much like this one when he was your age.”  He glanced up, a crooked smile lighting up his face.

Thoughts of Timothy, and three-legged races, and kitchen hatches, flooded her mind and she sent a small prayer up for strength.  It was so confusing to be near him and hear his voice rasp quietly as if there was no one else in the Hall.  She grew agitated and tried to make her escape.

Again, Gregory would have none of it.  He twisted back to the doctor, his empty hand extended expectantly.  He shook his head vehemently as the doctor made to return the toy.  “No!”

“He wants your cigarette case, I’m afraid.  For a trade.  All the children play that way, he must have picked it up from them.”

Turner picked up the gold case.  “This?” His brows climbed up in surprise.  “I’m afraid you’re a bit too young for these nasty things, Gregory.  Here,” he opened the case and removed the sole remaining cigarette, tucking it into his shirt pocket.  A red brace peeked out for just a moment, and Sister Bernadette was grateful that the distraction caused by the child hid her blush.

“I only had one left, that’s why I was standing here moping,” he confided, his voice a bit over-cheery.  “The shops’ll be closed, and I didn’t think to get more.  I seem to let things slip through the cracks these days, I’m afraid.”  He nodded quickly.  “Let him have the case for a few moments.  It’ll give you some peace, and I’ll get it back just as his mother’s ready to leave.”  His hazel-green eyes tried to meet her blue ones.

“Thank you, Doctor.  Your help is much appreciated, as always.”  Resisting the urge to meet his look, she walked the little boy back to his mother.  Was he watching her go?  No, she would not look back to see.  

The young mother stood waiting with Sister Monica Joan.  “Here you go, Mrs. Peterson.  Doctor Turner will meet you at the entrance.  Gregory can return the case then.”  She brushed down her habit smoothing it into order.   

“You two make a good team, Sister.  Thanks for the help with my boy.  Come on, then, Greggie.”  She reached her hand down and took the tiny one in hers.  Gregory looked back and waved as his newest conquest watched him leave.

“He’s quite a lovely child, isn’t he?” Sister Monica Joan’s voice came from over her shoulder.  “I never felt the desire to have my own.  That was no sacrifice in my vow of chastity.”

Sister Bernadette glanced up in surprise, uncertain of her response.  “I’m sure we must all determine our own sacrifice, Sister.”  

The elderly nun moved to the door.  “Ours is a life of spiritual fulfillment, my dear sister.  We have chosen a larger family, and it is time for us to rejoin our sisters in prayer.”

Sister Bernadette watched as Sister Monica Joan glided to the doors, past the last of the mothers and children, past the busy nurses and the arriving dancers.   A breath fluttered past her lips and she bent her head in a moment of prayer then followed her sister from the Hall.

 

A/N:  Special thanks to @thatginchygal.tumblr.com for her help as my beta for this.  She really helped me reconsider some things, and the title is all her.

The Call the Midwife characters do not belong to me, alas.  However, any mistakes, writing flaws, etc you find are purely mine.

Beyond the Grief

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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.”

Trying To Hear God: Chapter 4, Honesty

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Previous Chapter

At last! The final chapter!

 

Before long, her self-confinement became stifling, and she ventured out of her room. Still unwilling to join in with the others, she turned to the outdoors to find solace. Soon the gardens became her favorite spot. The moment she stepped out of the building breathing became easier, her head came up higher. In the garden she could finally open her mind.

Each day she would follow the outer circle of the parterre. The repetition of movement required no concentration and she welcomed the return of activity in her muscles. Guided by the low dark green shrubs, the white stones reflecting light back at her, she felt her body relax and gradually she felt her spirit unclench. The garden became her chapel.

As layers of tension began to unravel in her mind, she could sense her faith resurface. Long buried under the weight of her anxieties, but never truly gone,  she began to again feel the presence of God. The fog of fear and confusion that had consumed her mind cleared and she realized with a grateful heart that she had not been abandoned by Him, after all.

God was with her, all long. His voice had been there, calling to her. Lost in the wilderness, she had stopped listening. Perhaps because of strange new emotions, she had closed herself off from solace when she needed it most. Opening her heart to Him again, she knew should would find her answers.

God had provided her comfort and purpose in her life. His love had consoled her in her grief and helped her understand and forgive the transgressions of others. It was those acts of forgiveness which formed the very foundation of her faith.

Forgiveness. The word crossed in front of her eyes like a banner headline. God’s love was forgiveness. She had seen enough of forgiveness to recognize its power for good, and the pain caused by its absence. Christ taught that forgiveness was the most important gift one could offer and that one must forgive oneself. She knew this, believed it. Surely, then, she must learn to forgive herself?

The weight lifted from her shoulders and she grew stronger.

As the summer began to wane, she shifted her route, her path creating an arabesque. The regular but intricate path skirted the fountain, passing by the fragrant knots of lavender and sage, the glossy green holly. As her feet learned the path, her mind explored her rediscovered faith.

God had not abandoned her. His voice was there, but she had not listened. Losing her way, she allowed feelings of confusion and guilt  blind her to the choice God had placed before her. Guilt which did not come from God, but rather from within herself. Confident in her faith, she shook the guilt off and allowed herself to see the truth.

She had come to a crossroads. For many years, her life had fulfilled her. Caring for others had been her joy. But if she were completely honest with herself, she also knew that with her vocation, she had allowed herself to remain on the fringes of life. She could be of service to people who needed her, but did not have to risk anything of herself. Now, she realized, that was not enough.

Her life was her own and she would devote it to God’s service. But was staying with the Order the only path to do so? The work of a home was just as much God’s work as the religious life. Free from the fear that had frozen her mind, she allowed herself to consider her heart. She had never thought to be a wife and mother, yet now she felt pangs of yearning for that life. To know someone most intimately, to be the focus of their life, was that what she sought? To be a part of life, in all its messiness and passion?

What was it she wanted of her life, then? She thought of the pile of unopened letters in her drawer, hidden away. The strange connection she felt with the author confused her. Were her feelings simply a result of  human attraction? The physical response she felt towards him, while deep, could as yet be temporary. She could not consider them, not until she knew where she was going.

Serenity crept up on her, unnoticed, that autumn.

She welcomed the chill in the air, just enough to stir her blood as she ambled randomly through the garden knot. The last burst of scent from the lavender and sage filled her lungs, and she caressed the glossy leaves of the hollybush. She remembered back to her early days at the sanatorium, terrified and lonely, refusing to join the world and was grateful for her journey.

The path led her to the fountain today, as it did every day, now. She sat upon the stone ledge and drifted her fingers along the surface of the cold water. A cricket chirped nearby, and she suspected that a small frog was peeking up at her from beneath the water lily.

A lazy water bug scooted by, and she thought of Timothy, how he would pepper her with questions, or try to impress her with new-found knowledge of the insect. The young boy was smart, and so curious as to ensure that his mind would always be first rate. Smiling, she felt proud and something else she would not name, yet.

She considered where the path would take her now. God had placed her here to find herself, to decide where she belonged. If she stayed with Nonnatus, she would know His love but not His joy.

It would be difficult to leave the Order. She would hurt many for whom she cared deeply, and would leave behind all she knew to be safe. But this was the path she had chosen.

No matter where this path took her, she was on the right road. She was not sure of whom she would become, but today, she decided, she began to find her way.

It was time to call Nonnatus House.

It was time to become Shelagh Mannion again.

Trying To Hear God: Chapter 3, Guilt

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A/N: Many thanks to This Unruly Heart for her guidance with this chapter. This is a subject that could easily slide into melodrama, and I thought our poor distraught friend deserved more than that. Unruly’s help has given me new insight into what I’ve been trying to do all along here.

Previous Chapter

***   ***

For the first several weeks, she rarely left her room. Nausea and other side effects of the therapy made her weak, unable to do more than lie in her darkened room and sleep. Gradually, as her body grew used to the strong antibiotics of her treatment, the nausea dissipated. She became less tired and more able, though less willing, to participate in the society of her new world. For the first time in her life, hibernation became her preferred state. Claiming to be too weak to leave her room, she remained in seclusion long after necessary.

Unable to concentrate on much and eager to repress her wayward thoughts, she began to notice the details of her temporary home. The room was cheerful with its bright floral wallpaper and sunny window, a window she had for some reason avoided. The warm space was intended to welcome her, make her feel at home. It was so different from her small cell at Nonnatus, yet even after ten years that room had never felt like her own, either. In both places, the rooms had been furnished by others, designed to meet her needs, but showing little of herself.

Her life was not her own. As a nun, she had turned it over to the religious life she vowed to honor in service to others and God. Adjusting to the life of a sanatorium patient should have come easily to her. The doctors had strict rules regarding patients’ activities, offering little individuality. While in earlier years this would have garnered little resistance from her, now she inwardly rebelled.

She swallowed the uncomfortably large pills.  She withstood the painful jabs, the countless blood draws from the collapsed veins of her pale arms, even the prickling rash that spread across her torso. All these afflictions were borne without complaint. She was the model, if taciturn, patient. All attempts to draw the quiet nun out of her shell went unrewarded.

She paced the carpet of the room, trying to understand what had become of her life this past year. Doubts and questions had struggled to the surface despite her efforts to subdue them. Foolish thoughts took the place of her prayers, displacing discipline and structure and she flushed in shame at their memory. She knew ways to redirect such feelings, and yet she had not done so. She was weak to fall victim to such corporeal desires. They would not offer true relief to her soul. Why could she not rein them in?

There were other Orders, stricter, more removed from daily life, which demanded absolute obedience. Straying from the path called for self-punishment. Is that what she needed? Consequences so great so as to prevent straying in the first place?

She could not believe her mentor would demand such recourse from her. Her whole life she had believed in a God of love and understanding, one who recognized human frailties and offered forgiveness.

But forgiveness was only truly granted to those who sought to purge the sin. Perhaps the fact that she had not taken those steps was yet another indication that she wanted to stray.

She had known her feelings, and could put a name to them. In the weeks leading up to her diagnosis, she knew of their depth, had even recognized a glimmer of their return in his eyes. She knew, yet she did nothing but pray over them and for the first time, prayer offered no answers. Such a sign should have warned her that she was in too deep. She could not, or would not, confess her transgressions to Sister Julienne. To do so would have forced her from her stasis; her mentor would have required some action. She should have left Nonnatus on her own, putting all temptation away from her.

She did nothing, and continued in this state of disobedience. She rarely spoke to him, only working with him when required to do so, but this tacit acceptance of the status quo was nearly as bad as if she had shouted her feelings to all. And now God had sent her a forceful reminder to reconsider her priorities.

Surely she had brought this upon herself. This illness must be a direct result of God’s displeasure.

Part of her brain rejected this idea. She did not believe God was so unforgiving. All she had been taught supported the notion of a God that did not mete out punishments or vengeance in this way. Her illness was the result of exposure, she reminded herself. Isolation was a necessary step towards not only her own cure, but towards eliminating the disease from her community entirely.

Yet the feelings stirring in her heart reminded her of her complicity and guilt and fear won out. In the not-so-distant past, those lucky enough to have survived did so only through terrifying surgeries and years-long isolation from all they held dear. She had not removed herself from her temptations, so God would do so for her.

Her gaze was pulled to the dresser, a lone unopened envelope mocking her. She remembered the long, silent car ride from Poplar, the air between them thick with her shame. She could not so much as glance at him, for even then she did not trust herself to remain silent. Her stiff response to his attempts to reassure her was all she could muster. She knew he was not blind to her weakness, that his empathetic soul would try to heal her even then.

She should tear the letter up. His gesture of friendship would not soothe but exacerbate her pain. All contact must be stopped. God had shown his displeasure.

Guiltily, she took the envelope in her hands, caressing the very places he must have touched. Was this letter a test? Did her penance demand its destruction? Long moments passed, her mind lost in indecision. The light in the room changed and the late afternoon sun poured through the window, warming her face. She looked up and felt her lungs fill with air. Opening the top drawer of her dresser, she slid the letter underneath her sole box of personal items.

She would not destroy the letter today.

She knelt on the cold hard floor and tried to pray.

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Trying to Hear God: Chapter 2, Confusion

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Her body ached with exhaustion. The long night had required all her stamina, and at its end she felt as if layers had been stripped away. There had been difficult births over the years, too many to count, and she had experienced such joy at the display of love and human perseverance each time. For too long now she left the birthing room feeling empty, with less and less desire to ever return.

Kneeling at her bedside in her narrow cell, she sighed deeply and clenched her hands together. Focus, she needed to focus. But the deep breath did not help to clear her mind, it did not soothe her body. The prayers would not come. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead to the edge of the bed and struggled to keep from vocalizing the pain she felt. She was broken, lost and forgotten, and it was her own doing.

A sob shook through her small body, stifled in the covers of the hard mattress. Even after her mother’s death she had never felt so abandoned. The long, terrible illness had given them time to prepare, if one could in fact prepare for the death of a beloved mother. While devastated and stunned when the inevitable finally happened, there were loved ones to share her pain. There had been no reason to hide.

There was no one now. Even God seemed to have forsaken her. Desperate for the comfort the love of God had afforded her, she recited the prayers, recalled the Bible passages that had always refreshed her faith. She worked harder, longer hours than ever and made every offer of help possible. Through service she had hoped she could return to her previous state of serenity, but somehow, she still felt empty. Purple-gray shadows appeared beneath her eyes and she began to fade from view.

There was no one to listen, no one to understand. If she spoke, there would only be condemnation and abandonment. She had tried to reach out, but each time was prevented by circumstance. Perhaps that was for the best. How could another understand when she could not understand herself? Even more, would her confusion be seen as a rejection of all the promises she had vowed to honor?

Shaking, she rose from her knees and slid into bed, hiding her face in her pillow. Why had this happened? She wasn’t even sure what this was, she simply knew there was something there. She had been solitary for so much of her life; it had been many years since she had felt the need to connect with another. Her sisters afforded her the love and quiet companionship she thought was enough. Even Sister Julienne, her mentor and guide, did not arouse a need for more.

Now her heart ached for it. The warm friendship enjoyed by the nurses evoked a slash of envy. They were not much younger than she, confident in their belief that the world was their oyster, while she could have been an old woman, separate as she was.

She tossed in her bed, attempting  to stop her thoughts from taking what was becoming a well-worn path. In the religious life, she told herself, she would move beyond friendship; the spiritual state she could find by devoting her life to God would supercede ordinary relationships. By not singling out a few, she could devote herself to all. She reminded herself of this again and again, and understood the truth of it. Yet she still could not deny her loneliness.

“You don’t always feel lonely,” a voice beckoned in her heart. A tear slipped out of eyes squeezed shut and her shoulders spasmed. In recent weeks, the whispers that spoke more loudly than her prayers threatened to overtake her. If she could stop their echoes, she could return to the way things were before.

These whispers had changed of late, confusing her even more. While still longing to join in with the others, there was another whose company she preferred, one whose nearness alerted every nerve ending, one who roused an interest she could not ignore.

She knew when he entered a room before she saw him, or even heard him. His weary voice tempted her to soothe his worries. Hadn’t she taken it upon herself to mend his lab coat? To help his lonely son? It was not purely her own empathy for the boy’s motherlessness that pushed her to befriend him and give the comfort of a womanly voice.

She had always respected and admired the devoted doctor who gave so much to the community they both served. Attending so many births together over the years, they had developed an understanding of each other, an ability to anticipate the other’s moves and needs: a connection that made many of the positive outcomes possible.

Last night had been such a delivery. The strange nature of the Carter family, their resistance to medical intervention, and the intensity of the delivery of the twins had required all the resources they could muster to save mother and child. She still trembled at the memory of the lifeless form of the infant in her arms, unable to takes its first breath. Knowing he was there with her gave her strength, and she tried a technique that surprised even her. When the infant’s lungs filled the room with the shrill cry, she lifted her eyes to him in shared joy.

Afterwards, she felt an exhilaration she hadn’t felt from a delivery in some months. Perhaps that was the source of her unexplained, bold behavior later as they prepared to leave. She cringed at the memory. To some, the sharing of a cigarette was simply a result of a professional camaraderie, a normal denouement to a harrowing experience, and she had pretended to herself at the time that it meant nothing. But she knew otherwise. They had shared more than a cigarette. She revealed a private memory, wanting to forge a deeper connection with him, and found she needed to know more of him.

With him, she longed to be herself, someone she hadn’t been in many years. She wanted to talk about the world, her life, learn about him. The hodgepodge she knew of his life was not enough and she felt a pull towards him that was becoming difficult to ignore. With him, in those moments they were alone together, she did not feel alone.

The last rays of light streamed through the tiny window of her cell as finally the demands of her weary body took over and gratefully, she slept.

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Trying to Hear God: Chapter 1, Doubt

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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.

 

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