Grief

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Madgeburg, which became the headquarters of the irreconcilable Lutherans under the lead of Flacius. In Southern Germany it was enforced with great rigor by Spanish soldiers. More than four hundred pastors in Swabia and on the Rhine were expelled from their benefices for refusing the Interim, and wandered about with their families in poverty and misery. Among them was Brenz, the Reformer of Würtemburg, who fled to Basel, where he received a consolitary letter from Calvin (Nov. 5, 1548). Martin Bucer, with all his zeal for Christian union, was unwilling to make a compromise at the expense of his conscience, and fled from Strassburg to England, where he was appointed professor of divinity in the University of Cambridge. It was forbidden under pain of death to write against the Interim. Nevertheless, over thirty attacks appeared from the "Chancellery of God" at Magdeburg. Bullinger and Calvin wrote against it. Calvin published the imperial proclamation and the text of the Interim in full, and then gave his reasons why it could never bring peace to the Church. He begins with a quotation from Hilary in the Arian controversy: "Specious indeed is the name of peace, and fair the idea of unity; but who doubts that the only peace of the Church is that which is of Christ?" This is the key-note of his own exposition on the true method of the pacification of Christendom. Elector Maurice of Saxony, who stood between two fires,—his Lutheran subjects and the Emperor,—modified the Augsburg Interim, with the aid of Melanchthon and the other theologians of Wittenberg, and substituted for it the Leipzig Interim, Dec. 22, 1548. In this document the chief articles of faith are more cautiously worded so as to admit of an evangelical interpretation, but the Roman ceremonies are retained, as adiaphora, or things indifferent, which do not compromise the conscience nor endanger salvation. it gave rise to the Adiaphoristic Controversy between the strict and the moderate Lutherans. Melanchthon was placed in a most trying position in the midst of the contest. In the sincere wish to save Protestantism from utter overthrow and Saxony from invasion and desolation by imperial troops, he yielded to the pressure of the courtiers and accepted the Leipzig Interim in the hope of better times. For this conduct he was severely attacked by Flacius, his former pupil, and denounced as a traitor. When Calvin heard the news, he wrote an earnest letter of fraternal rebuke to Melanchthon, and reminded him of Paul’s unyielding firmness at the Synod of Jerusalem on the question of circumcision.885 Protestantism in Germany was brought to the brink of ruin, but was delivered from it by the treason of the Elector Maurice. This shrewd, selfish politician and master in the art of dissimulation, had first betrayed the Protestants, by aiding the Emperor in the defeat of the Smalkaldian League, whereby he gained the electorate; and then he rose in rebellion against the Emperor and drove him and the Fathers of Trent out of Tyrol (1551).

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  never forget and never forgive the burning of Servetus. In the interest of impartial history we must condemn the intolerance of the victor as well as the error of the victim, and admire in both the loyalty to conscientious conviction. Heresy is an error; intolerance, a sin; persecution, a crime. § 138. Catholic Intolerance. Comp. vol. VI. §§ 11 and 12 (pp. 50–86), and Schaff: The Progress of Religious Liberty as shown in the History of Toleration Acts. New York, 1889. This is the place to present the chief facts on the subject of religious toleration and intolerance, which gives to the case of Servetus its chief interest and importance in history. His theological opinions are of far less consequence than his connection with the theory of persecution which caused his death. Persecution and war constitute the devil’s chapter in history; but it is overruled by Providence for the development of heroism, and for the progress of civil and religious freedom. Without persecutors, there could be no martyrs. Every church, yea, every truth and every good cause, has its martyrs, who stood the fiery trial and sacrificed comfort and life itself to their sacred convictions. The blood of martyrs is the seed of toleration; toleration is the seed of liberty; and liberty is the most precious gift of God to every man who has been made in his image and redeemed by Christ. Of all forms of persecution, religious persecution is the worst because it is enacted in the name of God. It violates the sacred rights of conscience, and it rouses the strongest and deepest passions. Persecution by word and pen, which springs from the hatred, envy, and malice of the human heart, or from narrowness and mistaken zeal for truth, will continue to the end of time; but persecution by fire and sword contradicts the spirit of humanity and Christianity, and is inconsistent with modern civilization. Civil offences against the State deserve civil punishment, by fine, imprisonment, confiscation, exile, and death, according to the degree of guilt. Spiritual offences against the Church should be spiritually judged, and punished by admonition, deposition, and excommunication, with a view to the reformation and restoration of the offender. This is the law of Christ. The temporal punishment of heresy is the legitimate result of a union of Church and State, and diminishes in rigor as this union is relaxed. A religion established by law must be protected by law. Hence the Constitution of the United States in securing full liberty of religion, forbids Congress to establish by law any religion or church.997 The two were regarded as inseparable. An established church must in self-defence persecute dissenters, or abridge their liberties; a free church cannot persecute. And yet there may be as much individual Christian kindness and charity in an established church, and as much intolerance and bigotry in a free church.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  One thing I am thankful for, that there is no one who is fighting now more earnestly against the wafer-god,539 as he calls it, than Brentz."540 All the negotiations failed at last by the combined opposition of the extreme men of both parties.541 The emperor closed the Diet on the 28th of July, and promised to use his influence with the pope to convene a General Council for the settlement of the theological questions.542 Calvin had left Regensburg as soon as he found a chance, about the middle of June, much to the regret of Bucer and Melanchthon, who wished to retain him.543 His sojourn there was embittered by the ravages of the pestilence in Strassburg, which carried away his beloved deacon, Claude Féray (Feraeus), his friends Bedrotus and Capito, one of his boarders, Louis de Richebourg (Claude’s pupil), and the sons of Oecolampadius, Zwingli, and Hedio. He was thrown into a state of extreme anxiety and depression, which he revealed to Farel in a melancholy letter of March 29, 1541.544 "My dear friend Claude, whom I singularly esteemed," he writes, "has been carried off by the plague. Louis (de Richebourg) followed three days afterwards. My house was in a state of sad desolation. My brother (Antoine) had gone with Charles (de Richebourg) to a neighboring village; my wife had betaken herself to my brother’s; and the youngest of Claude’s scholars [probably Malherbe of Normandy] is lying sick in bed. To the bitterness of grief there was added a very anxious concern for those who survived. Day and night my wife is constantly present to my thoughts, in need of advice, seeing that she is deprived of her husband.545 ... These events have produced in me so much sadness that it seems as if they would utterly upset the mind and depress the spirit. You cannot believe the grief which consumes me on account of the death of my dear friend Claude." Then he pays a touching tribute to Féray, who had lived in his house and stuck closer to him than a brother. But the most precious fruit of this sore affliction is his letter of comfort to the distressed father of Louis de Richebourg, which we shall quote in another connection.546 § 90. Calvin and Melanchthon. The correspondence between Calvin (14 letters) and Melanchthon (8 letters), and several letters of Calvin to Farel from Strassburg and Regensburg. Henry, Vol. I. chs. XII. and XVII,—Stähelin, I. 237–254.—Merle D’Aubigné, bk. XI. ch. XIX. (vol. VII. 18–22, in Cates’ translation). One of the important advantages which his sojourn at Strassburg brought to Calvin and to the evangelical Church was his friendship with Melanchthon. It has a typical significance for the relationship of the Lutheran and Reformed Confessions, and therefore deserves special consideration. They became first acquainted by correspondence through Bucer in October, 1538.

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  THE PSALMS OF DAVID The closing chapters of 2 Samuel contain two poetic compositions ascribed to David. According to 1 Sam 16:18, David was a skillful musician. In later tradition he would become the author of psalms par excellence. A composition found in the Dead Sea Scrolls credits him with 3,600 psalms and 450 songs (11Q5 col. 27)—a total rivaling the productivity of Solomon in 1 Kgs 5:12 (1 Kgs 4:32 in English versions). The psalm attributed to him in 2 Samuel 22 is also found in the Psalter as Psalm 18. It is a thanksgiving psalm, which praises God for delivering the psalmist from the waves of death. It is notable for a description of a theophany of YHWH as a storm-god in 2 Sam 22:8-16. The shorter poem, called “the last words of David,” is notable in several respects. It mentions the “everlasting covenant” that was described at some length in 2 Samuel 7. But it also claims that “the spirit of the L ORD speaks through me” (23:2). David, in effect, was a prophet, and he was widely regarded as such in antiquity. The composition from the Dead Sea Scrolls that lists the works of David says that David composed all his psalms and songs in the spirit of prophecy. This text also says that he was wise. Even if we suspect that much of the portrayal of David in the books of Samuel originated as political propaganda, the character of David as depicted is exceptionally appealing. No other character in the Hebrew Bible is so well rounded. Here we have a fully human figure who is no saint by later standards. He is a hot-blooded individual who is guilty of murder, adultery, and sundry forms of extortion and exploitation. But he is also an emotional figure, whose grief for his friend Jonathan or for his son Absalom is moving. Even if the biblical authors tried to excuse and justify his actions, they nonetheless portrayed him as a man who was very fallible and even sinful. Later tradition enhanced the legend of David by crediting him with prophecy and the composition of psalms. In the process, it often depicts him as more pious than he appears in the books of Samuel. (We shall see this tendency in the books of Chronicles.) The charm of the biblical character, however, is precisely his human fallibility. It is this appreciation of the imperfection of human nature that marks the story of David as one of the finest pieces of literature to come down to us from antiquity.

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  David Kimchi held that Jephthah did not kill his daughter but dedicated her to a life of virginity (she asks for time to bewail her virginity, not her early death). A small minority of scholars still holds to this view, but most accept that the daughter’s fate is all too clear. While the story in Judges certainly appreciates the tragedy of the outcome, there is no hint that Jephthah did wrong either by making the vow (for which he was rewarded with victory) or in fulfilling it. We shall see a different perspective on the binding force of vows in such circumstances in the story of Samuel and Jonathan in 1 Samuel 14. The concluding episode of the Jephthah story in Judges 12 tells of a conflict between the men of Gilead and Ephraim. The tribes of Israel fought not only all the neighboring peoples but also one another on occasion. Here again the impression is of local tribal warfare rather than national conflicts between Israel and its neighbors. The Faith of Jephthah’s Daughter The Biblical Antiquities of Pseudo-Philo (from the end of the first century C.E.) underlines the heroism of Jephthah’s daughter as she encourages him to honor his vow. Here she, like Isaac, insists on offering herself willingly in fulfillment of her father’s vow. And Seila his daughter said unto him: And who is it that can be sorrowful in their death when they see the people delivered? Do you not remember what was in the days of our fathers, when the father set his son for a burnt offering and he did not forbid him, but consented unto him, rejoicing? And he who was offered was ready, and he that offered was glad.3 Now therefore do not annul anything of what you have vowed, but grant unto me one prayer. I ask of you before I die a small request: I beseech you that before I give up my soul, I may go into the mountains and wander among the hills and walk about among the rocks, I and the virgins that are my companions, and pour out my tears there and tell the affliction of my youth; and the trees of the field shall bewail me and the beasts of the field shall lament for me; for I am not sorrowful that I die, neither does it grieve me that I give up my soul: but whereas my father was overtaken in his vow, [and] if I offer not myself willingly for a sacrifice, I fear lest my death be unacceptable, and that I shall lose my life to no purpose. These things will I say to the mountains, and after that I will return. —Pseudo-Philo, Biblical Antiquities 40.2-3 Migration of the Sea Peoples.

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  DAVID AND ABSALOM David, however, does not get off scot-free. Second Samuel 13–20 tells a tragic family saga. It begins with the incestuous rape of David’s daughter Tamar by her brother Amnon. Another brother, Absalom, bides his time but eventually kills Amnon in revenge. Absalom then has to flee. He is eventually brought back to Jerusalem, through the good offices of Joab, but it takes another two years before he is reconciled with his father. We must assume that this experience is part of what motivates Absalom to seek the kingship by conspiracy. David has to flee from Jerusalem in mourning. Absalom enters Jerusalem and symbolizes his usurpation of David’s throne by going in to his concubines. He meets his downfall, however, by following the advice of David’s counselor, Hushai the Archite, and going into battle in person. His demise is comical—he gets caught in a tree by the long hair that was his pride. David, typically, takes no pleasure in his death but laments the loss of his son. The story shows David in a very favorable light. He does not wish the death of any of his sons, neither Amnon nor Absalom, regardless of what they have done. This portrayal may serve the interest of royal propaganda, but it is also a credible human story. The portrayal of Absalom is not unsympathetic. We can appreciate his outrage at the rape of his sister, and even his impatience with the administration of the aging king. If his intercourse with his father’s concubines seems outrageous, this is due to the advice of Ahithophel. Absalom seems naïve in his willingness to go into battle in person and in his vanity about his hair, which leads to his downfall. In the end, however, the story focuses on David rather than on Absalom. David is also portrayed as compassionate and forgiving toward his enemies. He refuses to punish Shimei, who had cursed him, and he accepts Mephibosheth’s explanation of his conduct. Yet when a man named Sheba of the tribe of Benjamin (Saul’s tribe) attempts to secede from Judah (chap. 20), David acts decisively to put down the revolt. As in several previous incidents, however, Joab and his brother Abishai, the sons of Zeruiah, are the ones who shed the blood. If there is guilt because of the violence, it can be

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  THE CONCLUSION OF DAVID’S RISE The story of David’s rise to power is completed in 2 Sam 1:1—5:10. David mourns ostentatiously for Saul, even killing the messenger who brought Saul’s crown to him. The lament (“how the mighty are fallen”) is a moving poem. David is clearly the implied speaker, even apart from the narrative context. This does not necessarily mean that it was composed by David. We have several compositions in the book of Psalms that are related to episodes in David’s life. David was regarded as the composer of psalms par excellence, as Solomon was the composer of proverbs. The lament for Saul and Jonathan could have been composed much later and placed on David’s lips. David moves quickly to consolidate his position as the heir apparent. He goes first to Hebron, where he is anointed king by his own tribe, Judah. (The supposed anointing by Samuel when he was still a boy was evidently insufficient.) Hebron is near David’s hometown of Bethlehem. It was associated with Abraham in Genesis. It may be that David was anointed there because of the association with Abraham, but some scholars think that the tradition about Abraham was invented later, and that Abraham was modeled on David rather than the reverse. David’s claim to monarchy was not undisputed, however. At the same time, Ishbaal, son of Saul, became king over the rest of Israel, with the support of the general Abner. (Ishbaal means “man of Baal.” The fact that a son of Saul, the king of Israel, had a name honoring Baal indicates that other deities besides YHWH were worshiped in Israel at this time.) There follows “a long war between the house of Saul and the house of David” (3:1). Eventually, Abner quarrels with Ishbaal and offers to bring all Israel over to David. He is murdered, however, by David’s general Joab in revenge for the killing of Joab’s brother. David makes public lamentation for Abner but takes no punitive action against Job at this time. Once again, David escapes blame for the death of a rival. When Ishbaal is murdered shortly thereafter, David not only disavows responsibility but executes the murderers who had sought and expected his favor. Eventually,

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  praise him, the seas and everything that moves in them” (65:34). The communal complaints are similar in form but arise from the fate of the people rather than the experience of individuals. Examples include Psalms 44, 74, 79, 80, 83, 89 (Psalm 89 can also be considered as a royal psalm, but there is a lament over the neglected state of the kingship in vv. 38-52). Communal laments are also found in the narrative books of the Bible, for example, Ezra 9:6- 15; Neh 9:6-37; Dan 9:4-19. They mark calamities of various sorts, war, exile, pestilence, famine. A nice illustration of a ritual context can be found in Joel 1:3- 14, where the occasion is a plague of locusts: “Put on sackcloth and lament, you priests; wail you ministers of the altar . . . sanctify a fast, call a solemn assembly. Gather the elders and all the inhabitants of the land to the house of the L ORD your God, and cry out to the L ORD .” In numerous instances, people call a fast in response to some adversity (Judg 20:23; 1 Sam 7:6; et al.). A late example of a communal lament in reaction to military adversity can be found in 1 Macc 3:50- 54. There is a whole genre of laments in the ancient Near East that bewails the destruction of cities. The biblical complaints have much in common with this genre, notably in Psalm 137, where the psalmist weeps at the memory of Zion “by the rivers of Babylon.” Individual and Communal Thanksgiving The psalms of thanksgiving are integrally related to the psalms of complaint, and as we have seen, the latter often conclude by giving thanks for deliverance, whether actual or anticipated. Again, the psalms of individuals are quite common in the Psalter, while the very existence of communal psalms of thanksgiving has been disputed. Examples of individual thanksgiving are found in Psalms 18, 30, 32, 34, 40:1-11, 41, 66, 92, 116, 118, 138. These psalms would usually have been accompanied by a thanksgiving sacrifice. The same Hebrew word, todah, is used for both prayer and sacrifice of thanksgiving. The typical elements in a thanksgiving psalm are as follows:

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  It meant they were no good. It meant they would never go to heaven, because in my world, there was no salvation outside of the Center, or as I thought about it, outside the red fence. That evening as my mother was combing the snarls out of my long, wet hair, I asked her, “Where is Sister Mary Elizabeth?” She responded softly, as though knowing how much her answer would hurt me. “She’s gone, darling.” “Gone? Why?” I was horrified at the thought that I might never see her again. My mother paused and the words came out as though it was the only explanation she could give, “Because she wasn’t a good girl.” Tears streamed down my face, a silent requiem for the woman I loved who was so suddenly gone forever. I knew then, though, that there was no point in making a scene. I knew my mother could do nothing to bring her back. Father and Sister Catherine kicked people out of the Center. But why? What could she have done that was so awful? 9 Separation 1954 “T his is a glorious day.” That was how Father began his sermon on a crisp Sunday morning in November. “Today is the Feast of the Presentation of Our Lady in the Temple. On this very day, nearly two thousand years ago, Our Blessed Mother’s parents, St. Ann and St. Joachim, brought their precious little girl to the temple and consecrated her to God. She was exactly three years, two months and thirteen days old. As she stood on the first step, she let go of her parents’ hands.” Then Father lifted his right hand and demonstrated with two fingers as though they were walking, while he went on. “Her little feet went pitter-patter as she ran up the twenty-one steps that led into the temple. Never once did she look back. At the top step, she was met by the high priest, who took her into the temple where she was raised until she was ready to become the Mother of God.” Father told endless stories in vivid detail about the Holy Family. It was as though he knew them personally. I reveled in the myriad tales that included how St. Joseph, who was a carpenter, taught the child Jesus to use a hammer and nails; how the Holy Family had to flee into Egypt on the back of a donkey in the middle of a cold night so that Herod wouldn’t kill Baby Jesus. My six-year-old imagination was stimulated by the images Father created—Our Lady holding Baby Jesus snuggly against her so that the desert wind wouldn’t make Him cold. I believed every word of those stories. As Father spoke that morning, I envisioned Our Lady as a little three-year-old, with long brown hair like mine, dressed in a pale blue dress that came to her ankles—the way she was depicted in holy cards.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “I snuck out the back door,” he’d reply, and I’d try to imagine what the back door of the Navy looked like. Now those questions were forbidden. More crushing was the follow-on restriction that forbade anyone at the Center to contact their family members who lived “out in the world.” Until then, my favorite Saturday pastime had been visiting my Grandma Walsh. “Let’s go for a ride,” my father would say, and I knew what that meant—we were heading to Quincy for the afternoon to see my relatives. Entering the house where my father had grown up, I’d run to my grandmother as she sat in her usual spot on the couch in the living room. Though her hair was white and she wore eyeglasses, I didn’t think of her as old, as I’d sit in her lap and hold her hand and rest my head on her bosom while my father and she chatted. I adored her. Then without explanation, the trips stopped. “When are we going to see Grandma?” I’d ask my father. “Soon, my little princess,” he’d say. (That was his pet name for me.) But it didn’t happen, and after a while, I stopped asking. It wasn’t long before I was aware that the PL rule didn’t apply to Father. The much anticipated trips to my grandmother’s were soon supplanted by visits to the Feeney house and his parents, who lived in the Boston suburb of Lynn. The dark mahogany-paneled rooms of the Feeney home were in sharp contrast to the light-filled and cheerful home of my grandmother. A large vase of faded hydrangeas that sat on a round marble-topped table in the front hall set the stage for the gloom that permeated the house. [image file=Image00018.jpg] Holding my Grandma Walsh’s hand with my father, sister Cathy, and brother David–1952. “They’re dried flowers,” Mariam told me on one occasion when I wrinkled my nose at them. Dead was a better description, I thought. Mr. Feeney sat like a crumpled rag doll on a sofa in front of two tall windows covered with red velvet drapes that obliterated daylight. His wife brought us cookies and milk and in between nibbles and sips, we had to recite poems Father had written once upon a time when he was the famous and beloved American Catholic poet, long before his fall from grace. For my part, I couldn’t wait to get back home. * * * With a shovel in his hand, my dad started digging. “Daddy, what are you doing?” I asked, ever curious and fascinated by the multiple deep holes that lined up like sentinels along the sidewalk. “Building a fence, my little princess,” he replied. “Now stay away, so you don’t get hurt.” Mariam filled me in on the rest. “The fence is going to go all around our houses.” She was right.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I knelt in my place in the chapel, this room of solemn worship in which I had spent so many hours. It was both rustic and refined. The dark pews seemed one with the roughhewn ceiling beams and window frames, while the four elegantly crafted blond wood statues that stood on either side of the light oak altar were augmented by the embroidered tabernacle cover. I knew every inch of this space. It had been my religious home for eight and a half years. Tears seeped out from my clenched eyelids, but I dared not wipe them with my sleeve, lest they betray my anguish. Composing myself, I stared at Mount Wachusett on the horizon and let the entire panoply of the last eight years of my life play through my mind. Would I never again enjoy the surroundings that I’d called home for so long? Dear God, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, St. Aloysius, St. Monica…. I began the litany again. Prayer and self-control, in a cycle of supplication and exhortation. Only a few more hours, and then what? During his First Breakfast sermon, Father made note of the upcoming graduation, specifically naming each of the five of us postulants, four Sisters and one Brother, who would be graduating later that morning. It was a day for celebration, he said. But not for me. Sister Catherine sat in her seat in the chapel, her expression composed, her posture erect. I thought I could detect an air of conquest in her demeanor. In just a few hours, she would have me where she wanted me—off the premises, kicked out. I still couldn’t fathom what I’d done to merit this ignominy. I’d tried my best to do what was expected of me. I’d never opened my soul to anyone about my deepest desires for a life that the Center excoriated. That had been my own secret. I prayed for the strength to get through the graduation ceremonies without breaking down in tears. My head throbbed and my heart pounded as the entire community sang the “Te Deum” at the end of First Breakfast, the hymn of triumph and thanksgiving for special blessings. I mouthed the words, unable to bring up a note. The Big Sisters had prepared a celebratory second breakfast in honor of the graduates, the kind usually reserved for holy days of obligation, with fried eggs, bacon, crumble coffee cake, and grapefruit. I sat at the table but couldn’t eat; a weight lay in my stomach. Graduation began promptly at eleven in the school auditorium, which the nearly eighty members of the community filled. With my fellow graduates, dressed in black cap and gown, I marched in slow and majestic form down the aisle while Sister Ann Mary played “Pomp and Circumstance.” [image file=Image00032.jpg] Graduation from high school. An hour later, I was gone.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  But I replayed the day’s events over and over in my mind, reveling in all that had happened—my newfound family, my mother’s immense joy at the reunion, the unforgettable meal, the image of my weeping grandfather and my beaming grandmother. And all it took was asking Sister Elizabeth Ann if I could see them. Why couldn’t it have happened so many years ago? I knew the answer all too well. This gift of a family reunion was the blessing that came with the curse of being kicked out of my home. 51 The Final Countdown 1966 G raduation was now only a couple of months away. With each passing day, I became more anxious. Keeping the secret inside me was like hiding a terminal illness. I felt cocooned, but without the anticipation of bursting into a brightly colored butterfly like the rest of the postulants as they became brides of Christ. They knew nothing of my impending fate, as Sister Catherine had sworn me to secrecy. If the Angels knew, they showed no signs of it—not even Sister Colette, who oversaw us postulants. I avoided Father in an attempt to forestall any more unpleasantries. And while Brother James Aloysius and Sister Elizabeth Ann were fully apprised of the plan, I didn’t know how to discuss it with them, much less confide in them. It had been a dozen years since they had exercised the parental roles of advisor, guardian, and mentor. I spent mornings at my desk in tutoring, preparing for final exams in English, math, Latin, French, and Greek. And in the afternoons, I used my free time to work at the barn, always cheered when by chance, or more likely by careful plan on my part, I crossed paths with Brother Basil. My crush on him had only grown, despite the enduring efforts of the Angels to monitor my every move and to thwart my efforts to be in his presence. What would he think when I was gone? I was sure he cared about me. It was excruciating to imagine a time when I would no longer see him. Instead of meditating during the required silence at dinner, I counted down the days I had left with my family—the great extended family of the Center that I’d known and loved since my infancy. They were all I had, the only people I’d ever known in my life, the only people I’d ever loved or cared for. Would the Big Brothers and Sisters hate me when they found out I was gone? I couldn’t bear the thought. I couldn’t bear to hurt them or let them down. Worst of all was the realization that I would be leaving my four siblings and my parents. One evening during dinner, overcome by the impact of my impending fate, tears streamed down my cheeks, a silver veil of sorrow. I didn’t try to stop them. Mary Catherine, sitting next to me at the dinner table, looked alarmed. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  challenges, disappointments, humiliations, and other hurdles in life. I’m an optimist through and through—no matter how bad the news, or how daunting the situation, my instinct is to create a solution and see it through to make the situation right again. I left the Center at the tender age of seventeen, brokenhearted and feeling deserted. But that door through which I was kicked out was the same door that opened onto a world I had so passionately wanted to explore since I was a small child. The optimist in me seized the opportunity to learn (silently and timidly at first) and to vault forward on the expedition of my life. Some ventures were formidable, but the journey has been extraordinarily fulfilling. There simply has been no time for self-pity. If I let myself dwell on the emotional pain I experienced, I would unfairly ignore all the good that God’s grace has showered on me, not the least of which is the blessing associated with raising my own children in a warm and loving family environment. Happiness is finding peace, joy, and inspiration in the array of things one does in life. It is also moving on from what cannot be undone. It was grace, earned in those years of tribulation, that allowed me to find a way forward uninhibited by remorse and anger.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  The next few days passed in anguish as we hovered around our soon-to-depart Little Sisters and Brothers. The Cullinane case had been awful, but those five Little Brothers were still with us while we appealed the judge’s decision. Now suddenly, four members of our family, with whom we’d lived all our lives, would vanish. The questions came fast and furious to Sister Catherine. How long would they be gone? “I don’t know.” Would they be able to come and visit? “Of course,” Sister Catherine told us, trying to sound reassuring. “Brother Theodore will bring them back for visits.” That gave us a glimmer of hope, something to look forward to. And then the day of their departure arrived. Brother Boniface sat in the driver’s seat of the big black car. He was Brother Theodore’s brother, and the uncle of the four children. Brother Theodore, his face somber, held the hands of his youngest two children, just eight and nine years old, who sobbed as they walked to the car. It was a scene I hadn’t witnessed since we’d moved to Still River: one of the Center parents holding his own child’s hand. “Please don’t make us go,” they pleaded, one after another. The entire community gathered, silent and tearful, as Brother Theodore helped his children into the car. He walked over to Sister Catherine and kissed her. She dabbed her eyes with her white handkerchief. Then as the vehicle pulled out of the driveway, four little red-eyed faces peered through the back window and waved, and Sister Catherine waved her white handkerchief high above her head as a final farewell gesture. It was a crushing moment in the life of the Center—as though the four children had been killed in an accident. In one day, thirty-nine children had become thirty-five. The empty chair where Maud had sat at my table was a daily reminder of the loss. We counted down the days to the first visit, then the next and the next. They were joyous occasions, those Saturday mornings when Brother Theodore brought the children up for a few hours. But the happiness was always followed by weeping as the car drove off in the afternoon. Not more than a few months after the four children had left, Sister Catherine stood in our refectory. Her green eyes were cold, her lips a thin line that

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I shook my head and whispered back, “Nothing.” When she saw me crying the next day, she nudged me with her elbow, mouthing the words. “What’s happened? Please tell me.” I kept silent for a while, but finally replied, “I’m not allowed to tell you anything.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “Sister Catherine said I can’t tell anyone.” But Mary Catherine, now sixteen and no longer the frightened Little Sister she’d been for so many years, took matters into her own hands. The next day, she cornered me down at the barn and said, “I went to Sister Catherine and asked her why you’re always crying, and she told me that you’ll be leaving when you graduate. She said you don’t have a vocation.” She paused and then added, “I don’t want you to go.” She spoke as my younger sister, not as a postulant. She wanted me to be there for her as I had for so long. It broke my heart to realize I was abandoning her. “I don’t want to go, either,” I said, swallowing hard so as not to cry. “But I have to.” “Will you be able to come back and visit?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders to indicate I didn’t know. That was a question I’d never dared ask Sister Catherine, too fearful of the answer. The notion of abandoning Mary Catherine, my little sister, was unbearable. I thought about the many ways she’d depended on me to help her. We’d shared so many secrets. I knew her fears, her joys, the things she couldn’t tell anyone else either because they wouldn’t listen or because they couldn’t understand. I’d eaten her meals for her when she couldn’t. She hated the color yellow, so I had secretly swapped her yellow curtains for my pink ones. I had taped a piece of black construction paper to her window to block out the light of moon, which scared her. I was the one who’d taught her to read music when she wanted to play the trombone. I did her French homework because Sister Maria Crucis, the French tutor, was so strict that Mary Catherine could learn nothing in class. The constant worry about her caused me to lose my appetite, and as my final days approached, I was barely eating at all. Although Mary Catherine had matured into a vocal and opinionated postulant, she was still frail. For several days each month, she was confined to bed, causing her to miss tutoring. On other mornings, she was allowed to sleep well past second breakfast. When I asked Sister Teresa what was wrong with her, she simply replied, “She needs her sleep.” But fifteen hours a day? I thought. I was afraid for her and felt immense guilt at leaving her. To whom will she turn when I’m gone? What will she do without me? ” [image file=Image00030.jpg] My father as Brother James Aloysius, around the time of my graduation from high school.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  When the bell rang indicating the end of evening recreation, my parents kissed me goodnight. “Little Sisters and Brothers, please stand in line along the side of the house, in order of age and in silence.” The order came from Sister Matilda, herself the mother of five of the children. She directed the Little Sisters to face the front door and the Little Brothers the side door. Her broad shoulders displayed an air of authority. The tone of her voice was anything but motherly. I took my place, third in line among the twelve Little Sisters. In drill sergeant fashion, Sister Matilda walked from the head of the line to the end. “Hands by your side,” she said sternly and I stiffened to attention. As she patrolled the long line of children standing in military formation, I turned to watch my parents walking out of the far side of the yard carrying my two youngest sisters, Margaret Mary (who was just two) and five-month-old Veronica, and heading to their new home in St. John’s House. “Eyes straight ahead,” Sister Matilda barked at me. Then she led us up the stairs to the third floor—to the apartment that had, until a few hours earlier, been my family home. I stared in astonishment at the change that had taken place since I left that morning. There were now two twin beds in each of the four rooms. With no explanation, Sister Matilda assigned us to our bedrooms and I was distraught to discover that I would no longer share a room with Mary Catherine. Following orders, we prepared for bed in silence, taking turns washing at the sink, brushing our teeth, and donning the white cotton nightgowns assigned to each of us. “Everyone, line up with your hands folded.” It was time for night prayers. In single file, our hands folded as instructed, we descended to the second floor, where the front room had been converted into a chapel. Kneeling on the wooden floor in assigned places, we said, in unison, the Our Father, the Hail Mary, the Act of Contrition, and the prayer to our Guardian Angel. Then Sister Matilda rose, and we followed her in silence, returning to the third floor and our assigned beds. There was no bedtime story. Surrounded by darkness in my new bedroom, I tried to absorb the crushing realization that in a flash, my family had been split up. As I lay alone in my bed

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  So many years past being raped, I tell myself what happened is “in the past.” This is only partly true. In too many ways, the past is still with me. The past is written on my body. I carry it every single day. The past sometimes feels like it might kill me. It is a very heavy burden.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  When I picked up the phone again, he kept saying, “Hello, hello, hello . . .” This went on for a long time. He wouldn’t stop saying hello. It was like he knew it was me, like he had been waiting too, and then after a long time he stopped saying hello and we sat there in silence and I kept waiting for him to hang up but he didn’t and neither did I so we just listened to each other breathing. I was paralyzed. I wonder if he thinks of me, of what I gave him before he took what I did not. I wonder if he thinks of me when he makes love to his wife. Is he disgusted with himself? Does he get turned on when he thinks of what he did? Do I disgust him? I wonder if he knows I think of him every day. I say I don’t, but I do. He’s always with me. Always. There is no peace. I wonder if he knows I have sought out men who would do to me what he did or that they often found me because they knew I was looking. I wonder if he knows how I found them and how I pushed away every good thing. Does he know that for years I could not stop what he started? I wonder what he would think if he knew that unless I thought of him I felt nothing at all while having sex, I went through the motions, I was very convincing, and that when I did think of him the pleasure was so intense it was breathtaking. I wonder if he is familiar with the Sword of Damocles. He is always with me, every night, no matter whom I’m with, always. If I were to track him down, I could pretend to be a client looking for what he deals in. I know how to move in his circles. I could make an appointment to have him show me things. I can afford to be in the same room as him even though I doubt he would have ever imagined that. I have a fancy title too. I could sit across from him in what must be a corner office with a view. I have no doubt his desk is huge and imposing and compensating for something. I wonder how long we would have to sit there before he recognized me. I wonder if he would even remember me. My eyes haven’t changed. My lips haven’t changed. If he remembered me, would he admit it, or would he pretend he didn’t to try to feel me out, figure out my endgame? I wonder how long I would sit there. I wonder how long I could sit there. I wonder if I would tell him what I became, what I made of myself, what I made of myself despite him. I wonder if he would care, if it would matter.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  When I got home at night, I generally went straight to my computer, where I wrote story after story, mostly about women and their hurt because it was the only way I could think of to bleed out all the hurt I was feeling. I frequented newsgroups and chat rooms for survivors of sexual assault. Though I couldn’t tell anyone in my real life what had happened, I unburdened myself to strangers on the Internet. I blogged, mostly about the minutiae of my life, hoping, I think, to be seen and heard. I loved and craved the freedom of being online and being free from my life and my body. I ate and ate and ate but rarely was any of the food I ate memorable for any reason but the quantity. I ate mindlessly, just to fill the gaping wound of me or to try to fill the gaping wound of me. No matter how much I ate, I still hurt and I was still terrified of other people and the memories I couldn’t escape. I managed to put together a collection of short stories for my thesis, entitled How Small the World, and successfully defended my thesis and then I was done with school and I had no idea what to do so I got a job working at the university as a writer for the College of Engineering. I tried to do what was expected of me. Some days, I tried really hard. 28As I spent more time working at the College of Engineering, I realized that when I had dreamed of making a living as a writer, I probably should have been more specific about what, exactly, I meant by that. And still, every day I got to write. I had my own office and a computer on which I could play solitaire and work on my own writing. I mostly wrote articles about faculty research—things that I knew nothing about and that the faculty were more than eager to explain to me—on robotic construction equipment, aerogels that could be used in space, defenses against bioterrorism, innovative uses for RFID chips. The job was fine, by far the best job I had ever had, making the most money I had ever made even though I was not making much money at all. I had a great, encouraging supervisor named Constance, who made me a much better writer. I learned how to use the Adobe Creative Suite. I worked with undergraduate engineering students as the adviser of their magazine.

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Lecture 18—Babylonian Conquest and Exile 121 ‹ We find this explanation in 2 Kings 17, which narrates the Assyrian victory over the northern kingdom of Israel in 722 B.C. At the time, that event seemed incomprehensible, because people believed they had been brought into that region by God. But they were forcibly uprooted, and the Assyrians brought in colonists from other nations to occupy the land. ‹ The book of 2 Kings explains that this happened because the people of the north had sinned against the God who had liberated them from slavery in Egypt. Although God had made a covenant with them, they rejected it by worshipping other gods. The writer insists that God had tried to restore the relationship by sending prophets, but the people refused to listen. And because they worshipped the gods of other nations, God allowed them to be conquered by another nation, namely, Assyria. ‹ The book uses the same perspective to explain the Babylonian triumph over the southern kingdom in 587 B.C. Here, the issues were even more complex, because people believed that God had chosen Jerusalem to be the capital. People wondered whether God had actually wanted to save the city and the temple but had failed. ‹ Chapters 23 and 24 insist that the fall of Jerusalem was God’s judgment on the unfaithfulness of the people and their rulers, not his own failure. Because they had turned away from God by their idolatry, God turned away from them and brought in the Babylonians. When the destruction of the city is finally described in the last chapter, readers are to see it as a sovereign act of divine judgment on the sins of the people. Expressing Loss: Lamentations ‹ The book of Lamentations also comes from the period after the fall of Jerusalem. But the writer challenges the attempt to make logical sense of the tragedy by allowing the voices of the victims to be heard. Lamentations consists of five poems, and one of its most distinctive aspects is the interplay of voices in the poems. These voices offer different perspectives on the experience of loss.