Three Sunday Mornings

     It's a Sunday morning in the year 2000; time, about 9.00; place, my apartment in Houston. I awaken sans alarm clock, since I don't have to be at the opera house till 2.00 for a chorus staging. Since I am still an agnostic at this time, I have no thought of going to Mass. Instead, I get up to grind my coffee, brew it in my french press pot, and retrieve the newspaper; then, armed with steaming cup (Italian pottery) and said newspaper, I head back to bed, put some Mozart on the CD player, and settle down for a leisurely morning of reading, sipping, and listening. I wonder where I'll have lunch.

     Fast-forward to 2003. It's Sunday morning, same city, same place, but I have set my alarm for 7.30, despite having had a four-hour piano tech the night before, followed by a half-hour production meeting, and not getting home till nearly 1.00. I am determined to go to the 9.30 Latin Mass at Holy Rosary. I could go to a later service, but I love the Latin and the chants. This particular Sunday is a day off for me, so I look forward to lunch with my journal at my neighborhood La Madeleine, followed by an afternoon of book hunting.

     A Sunday morning in 2005, The Monastery of the Infant Jesus in Lufkin. I awaken in pitch darkness to the silvery tinkle of the rising bell, which is rung by one of the novices. It's 5.20. The tinkling continues as the novice goes down the narrow hall of the novitiate past the other cells; I get up from my hard, narrow monastic bed and feel with my feet around the cold linoleum floor for my slippers. Standing up, I weave groggily as I silently pray a Hail Mary. Then I quickly throw on the tunic of my work habit over my long muslin nightgown (because nuns are not allowed to be seen in their nightgowns), straighten my cotton night veil (because nuns are never allowed to have their hair uncovered) which has gone askew in my sleep, trudge down the hall to the toilets, then trudge back to get dressed. As I don tunic, belt, scapular, cape, and veil, I say the prayer that accompanies each one, thus reinforcing in my mind the symbolism behind every component of the holy habit. These prayers are a custom long dead, but having seen it done in a movie, I asked my novice directress if I might do it. (Unfortunately, I have now forgotten all those beautiful short prayers.) Once dressed, I go out into the dark to the main building. I have about fifteen minutes before Office, so I step into the small oratory situated on the other side of large windows behind the altar and tabernacle. If I keep the lights off, no one in the chapel will be able to see me through the windows. I kneel behind the tabernacle with only the cool glass separating me and the Blessed Sacrament, and place myself in the silence of Christ's presence. No words go through my head. I simply focus on his presence. Ten minutes later, I join the rest of the community in the chapel to prepare my breviary and hymn book for the Office of Readings and Morning Prayer. At exactly 5.50, one of the chantresses quietly goes out to the hall to ring the bell. Our day of prayer and contemplation has begun. After Office, individual meditation; at 7.00, Holy Mass (on weekdays, Mass is at 7.20). By 8.15, I'm sitting down to breakfast. If it were five years earlier, I'd still be fast asleep in my bed in Houston.