Further Reflections on the Restoration of My Faith

After visiting all three monasteries, I made the momentous decision and sent an application for aspirancy to the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, the Dominican cloister in Lufkin. An aspirancy is an extended visit (anywhere from a couple of weeks to a couple of months) in which the aspirant lives inside the cloister as a temporary member of the community. This accomplishes two things: the aspirant experiences firsthand what monastic life is really like; and she determines whether that particular community is right for her—and vice-versa. Even if she likes the community, they may decide she isn't a right fit for them.

While awaiting acceptance for my aspirancy, I reflected further on the path that had led me to that point. Here are my journal entries from that time:

18 January 2004

     I was so glad to go to Mass this morning; I haven't been since Wednesday.

     Why did women stop wearing veils to Mass? It seems to me that some of the old reverence went out after Vatican II. What's wrong with wearing a veil for an hour? I don't mind pants on women, I wear them myself, as long as they're neat and not skin-tight or low on the hips. But I see spaghetti straps, tight jeans, even flip-flops! And boys coming to church in t-shirts and those awful baggy shorts, chewing gum! What ever happened to modesty, and showing respect for Our Lord?

     When I was little, we dressed our best for Mass and wore veils. Mine was of the round, doily type. Mom didn't let us cross our legs in church, and we certainly couldn't talk or even whisper. Our family, which numbered eight, took up an entire pew in Ft. Sam Houston's chapel no. 2. I remember Fr. Shockey with the "shockey-ng" blue eyes and equally shocking blue Camaro convertible; and down-to-earth, dry-humored Fr. Elias, who years later did Alice's funeral.

     I remember every Christmas, going to midnight Mass in our brand-new dresses, George and Dad in their sport coats and ties. We'd all pile into old Betsy, the red and white Chevy station wagon, and drive to the big Main Chapel on post. In those days, the houses that didn't put up Christmas lights were in the minority. The lights were such a festive sight as we came back from church in the black of night; and George, if he was driving, would click the headlights' brights on and off and sing out, "M-E-E-E-R-RY CHRISTMAS!" as we went through the neighborhood.

     I don't remember what my feelings were about God in those earliest years, but I do remember when I was a freshman at Incarnate Word High School. It was 1973, and atheism and agnosticism were very much "in vogue" following the turbulent '60s and embarking on the age of feminism, free sex, widespread birth control and legalized abortion. "Me, Myself, and I" was in; God was out. So I decided I was an agnostic. I was a child of the times, anxious to fit in and be cool. At IWHS we had a religion class. Our teacher was one of the new post-Vatican II sisters—street clothes, no veil, only a face devoid of makeup and a name badge to identify her as a religious. She had serious yet gentle eyes and a gentle voice, and was bit taken aback by my brash announcement that I was agnostic. But I read the assigned Scripture readings; it was a class, after all. We used the newly issued Good News for Modern Man translation, wildly popular at the time. And it was while reading the account in Acts of Saul's conversion that I let down my guard and gave in to Christ. I became, what was called in those days, a "Jesus freak."

19 January 2004 

     After the rediscovery of my faith as a teenager, I began to devour Scripture. I fell in love with the Wisdom books and Acts and all the Gospels. My bosom friend Cindy and I lent our voices and guitar skills to the Mass at school. Folk music was everywhere; organs and the old hymns were shunned in the so-called renewal of the Liturgy. I drew and wrote all over my notebooks and even my clothes—"Jesus is Lord" and the ubiquitous "One Way" with the hand pointing up. I covered my saddle shoes (part of the IWHS uniform) with crosses and fish. I smiled benignly on my fellow man and thought everyone was, in some way, "beautiful." Yes, I was most  definitely a '70s-style Jesus freak and late-blooming flower child.

     For reasons which remain unknown to me, I moved away from the Church and lost my faith during college. [Many years after I wrote this, I learned with the help of a therapist that the sudden death of my sister Alice was the true reason.] I became so intent on piano competitions and recitals; music became my religion. Or, rather, my career became my religion and remained so for 23 years.

     Did I ever, in all those "lost years," really lose my faith? Or did I simply push it away and bury it beneath my selfishness and ambition? How different would I be now, if I had never strayed from Him? Or is there even any point in wondering? People say things happen for a reason, we each have our own path—which is simply pop psychology's way of saying that God has a plan for each one of us. But did I go against his will 23 years ago? Or did he permit me to wander away from him, knowing I would eventually come back to him with my whole heart, wiser, more willing, more trusting? Did he purposely hide his face from me until I finally looked into the pit of my soul and admitted with every ounce of my being that I needed him? Is that what it took for me to receive the gift of true faith? For faith is a grace from God alone; it can't be contrived or manufactured through human effort or determination. It must be given—when our reason is ready to receive it.

     When I think of all the dark moments, all the tears and torments of those lost years, I cannot but be convinced of God's loving mercy; even though I never asked his help—at least, not consciously—he never really abandoned me; even though I offended him deeply and repeatedly, he forgave me. His memory for sins is short and his mercy is boundless.

FOUND BY SPLENDOR

　
I have known vermilion seas
ravishing the horizon,
drawing earth and day away
to another tomorrow.
I have known translucent arms
clinging to a fickle sky
as a lover's fingertips
would cling to his beloved's.
I have known blinding rapiers
gashing the encroaching clouds
with one last defiant thrust
before succumbing to dusk.

Beyond it all was splendor;
of that much I was certain.
Till I found it—if I could—
I had the sky, and with it,
the dream of what I believed
I could obtain. But once found,
how could I hope to hold it?
My soul was a rusted sieve
through which grains of barren faith
streamed ... sandy, impotent tears.
Yet in my pride, I questioned:
if, like Tennyson's hero,
I strove, sought with all my will,
refused to yield—would I find?

Ah, no, my restless warrior,
to yield is to find—and hold!
So many alluring suns
I sought to hold, till at last
I yielded and waited firm,
and the truer sun arose,
wrapping round me like a robe!

There is no more need to strive
for splendor. It has found me.