Sadness

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)

  The Peasants’ War was a complete failure, and the victory of the princes an inglorious revenge. The reaction made their condition worse than ever. Very few masters had sufficient humanity and self-denial to loosen the reins. Most of them followed the maxim of Rehoboam: "My father chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions" (1 Kings 12:14). The real grievances remained, and the prospect of a remedy was put off to an indefinite future. The cause of the Reformation suffered irreparable injury, and was made responsible by the Romanists, and even by Erasmus, for all the horrors of the rebellion. The split of the nation was widened; the defeated peasantry in Roman Catholic districts were forced back into the old church; quiet citizens lost their interest in politics and social reform; every attempt in that direction was frowned down with suspicion. Luther had once for all committed himself against every kind of revolution, and in favor of passive obedience to the civil rulers who gladly accepted it, and appealed again and again to Rom. 13:1, as the popes to Matt. 16:18, as if they contained the whole Scripture-teaching on obedience to authority. Melanchthon and Bucer fully agreed with Luther on this point; and the Lutheran Church has ever since been strictly conservative in politics, and indifferent to the progress of civil liberty. It is only in the nineteenth century that serfdom has been entirely abolished in Germany and Russia, and negro slavery in America. The defeat of the Peasants’ War marks the end of the destructive tendencies of the Reformation, and the beginning of the construction of a new church on the ruins of the old. CHAPTER V.THE INNER DEVELOPMENT OF THE REFORMATION FROM THE PEASANTS’ WAR TO THE DIET OF AUGSBURG, A.D. 1525–1530.§ 76. The Three Electors. G. Spalatin: Friedrich d. Weise, Lebensgeschichte, ed. by Neudecker and Preller, Jena, 1851. Tutzschmann: Fr. d. W., Grimma, 1848. Ranke, vol. II. Kolde: Friedrich der Weise und die Anfänge der Reformation, Erlangen, 1881. Köstlin in the Studien u. Kritiken, 1882, p. 700, (vers. Kolde). Comp. §§ 26 and 61.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then Stephen, who had not yet learnt to dissemble, stared hard at her shoes, in embarrassed silence. Just outside the door a clock boomed seven. Stephen started; she had been there nearly three hours. ‘I must go,’ she said, getting abruptly to her feet, ‘you look tired, I’ve been making a visitation.’ Her hostess made no effort to retain her: ‘Well,’ she smiled, ‘come again, please come very often—that is if you won’t find it dull, Miss Gordon; we’re terribly quiet here at The Grange.’ 3 Stephen drove home slowly, for now that it was over she felt like a machine that had suddenly run down. Her nerves were relaxed, she was thoroughly tired, yet she rather enjoyed this unusual sensation. The hot June evening was heavy with thunder. From somewhere in the distance came the bleating of sheep, and the melancholy sound seemed to blend and mingle with her mood, which was now very gently depressed. A gentle but persistent sense of depression enveloped her whole being like a soft, grey cloak; and she did not wish to shake off this cloak, but rather to fold it more closely around her. At Morton she stopped the car by the lakes and sat staring through the trees at the glint of water. For a long while she sat there without knowing why, unless it was that she wished to remember. But she found that she could not even be certain of the kind of dress that Angela had worn—it had been of some soft stuff, that much she remembered, so soft that it had easily torn, for the rest her memories of it were vague—though she very much wanted to remember that dress. A faint rumble of thunder came out of the west, where the clouds were banking up ominously purple. Some uncertain and rather hysterical swallows flew high and then low at the sound of the thunder. Her sense of depression was now much less gentle, it increased every moment, turning to sadness. She was sad in spirit and mind and body—her body felt dejected, she was sad all over. And now some one was whistling down by the stables, old Williams, she suspected, for the whistle was tuneless. The loss of his teeth had disgruntled his whistle; yes, she was sure that that must be Williams. A horse whinnied as one bucket clanked against another—sounds came clearly this evening; they were watering the horses. Anna’s young carriage horses would be pawing their straw, impatient because they were feeling thirsty. Then a gate slammed. That would be the gate of the meadow where the heifers were pastured—it was yellow with king-cups. One of the men from the home farm was going his rounds, securing all gates before sunset. Something dropped on the bonnet of the car with a ping.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  CHAPTER 4 1 T he sorrows of childhood are mercifully passing, for it is only when maturity has rendered soil mellow that grief will root very deeply. Stephen’s grief for Collins, in spite of its violence, or perhaps because of that very violence, wore itself out like a passing tempest and was all but spent by the autumn. By Christmas, the gusts when they came were quite gentle, rousing nothing more disturbing than a faint melancholy—by Christmas it required quite an effort of will to recapture the charm of Collins. Stephen was nonplussed and rather uneasy; to have loved so greatly and now to forget! It made her feel childish and horribly silly, as though she had cried over cutting her finger. As on all grave occasions, she considered the Lord, remembering His love for miserable sinners: ‘Teach me to love Collins Your way,’ prayed Stephen, trying hard to squeeze out some tears in the process, ‘teach me to love her ’cause she’s mean and unkind and won’t be a proper sinner that repenteth.’ But the tears would not come, nor was prayer what it had been; it lacked something—she no longer sweated when she prayed. Then an awful thing happened, the maid’s image was fading, and try as she would Stephen could not recall certain passing expressions that had erstwhile allured her. Now she could not see Collins’ face at all clearly even if she willed very hard in the dark. Thoroughly disgruntled, she bethought her of books, books of fairy tales, hitherto not much in favour, especially of those that treated of spells, incantations and other unlawful proceedings. She even requested the surprised Mrs. Bingham to read from the Bible: ‘You know where,’ coaxed Stephen, ‘it’s the place they were reading in church last Sunday, about Saul and a witch with a name like Edna— the place where she makes some person come up, ’cause the king had forgotten what he looked like.’ But if prayer had failed Stephen, her spells also failed her; indeed they behaved as spells do when said backwards, making her see, not the person she wished to, but a creature entirely different. For Collins now had a most serious rival, one who had lately appeared at the stables. He was not possessed of a real housemaid’s knee, but instead, of four deeply thrilling brown legs—he was two up on legs, and one up on a tail, which was rather unfair on Collins! That Christmas, when Stephen was eight years old, Sir Philip had bought her a hefty bay pony; she was learning to ride him, could ride him already, being naturally skilful and fearless.

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

  After the victory of the Reformation, Oecolampadius continued unto the end of his life to be indefatigable in preaching, teaching, and editing valuable commentaries (chiefly on the Prophets). He took a lively interest in French Protestant refugees, and brought the Waldenses, who sent a deputation to him, into closer affinity with the Reformed churches.179 He was a modest and humble man, of a delicate constitution and ascetic habits, and looked like a church father. He lived with his mother; but after her death, in 1528, he married, at the age of forty-five, Wilibrandis Rosenblatt, the widow of Cellarius (Keller), who afterwards married in succession two other Reformers (Capito and Bucer), and survived four husbands. This tempted Erasmus to make the frivolous joke (in a letter of March 21, 1528), that his friend had lately married a good-looking girl to crucify his flesh, and that the Lutheran Reformation was a comedy rather than a tragedy, since the tumult always ended in a wedding. He afterwards apologized to him, and disclaimed any motive of unkindness. Oecolam-padius had three children, whom he named Eusebius, Alitheia, and Irene (Godliness, Truth, Peace), to indicate what were the pillars of his theology and his household. His last days were made sad by the news of Zwingli’s death, and the conclusion of a peace unfavorable to the Reformed churches. The call from Zürich to become Zwingli’s successor he declined. A few weeks later, on the 24th of November, 1531, he passed away in peace and full of faith, after having partaken of the holy communion with his family, and admonished his colleagues to continue faithful to the cause of the Reformation. He was buried behind the Minster.180 His works have never been collected, and have only historical interest. They consist of commentaries, sermons, exegetical and polemical tracts, letters, and translations from Chrysostom, Theodoret, and Cyril of Alexandria.181 Basel became one of the strongholds of the Reformed Church of Switzerland, together with Zürich, Geneva, and Berne. The Church passed through the changes of German Protestantism, and the revival of the nineteenth century. She educates evangelical ministers, contributes liberally from her great wealth to institutions of Christian benevolence and the spread of the Gospel, and is (since 1816) the seat of the largest Protestant missionary institute on the Continent, which at the annual festivals forms a centre for the friends of missions in Switzerland, Würtemberg, and Baden. The neighboring Chrischona is a training school of German ministers for emigrants to America. § 33. The Reformation in Glarus. Tschudi. Glarean. Valentin Tschudi: Chronik der Reformationsjahre 1521–1533. Mit Glossar und Commentar von Dr. Joh. Strickler. Glarus, 1888 (pp. 258). Publ. in the "Jahrbuch des historischen Vereins des Kantons Glarus," Heft XXIV., also separately issued. The first edition of Tschudi’s Chronik (Beschryb oder Erzellung, etc.) was published by Dr. J. J. Blumer, in vol. IX. of the "Archiv für schweizerische Geschichte," 1853, pp. 332–447, but not in the original spelling and without comments.

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

  There it remains, the chief object of interest in that solemn place of the dead, attracting Frenchmen and visitors from distant lands who commemorate, with tears of sympathy and a prayer over the mistakes of mortals, the unfortunate lovers. § 100. Abaelard’s Teachings and Theology.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The gentle lady, thus grown a wild creature, abiding on this wise, it befell, after some months, that there came on like wise to the place whither she had aforetime been driven by stress of weather, a little vessel from Pisa and there abode some days. On broad this bark was a gentleman named Currado [of the family] of the Marquises of Malespina, who, with his wife, a lady of worth and piety, was on his return home from a pilgrimage to all the holy places that be in the kingdom of Apulia. To pass away the time, Currado set out one day, with his lady and certain of his servants and his dogs, to go about the island, and not far from Madam Beritola's place of harbourage, the dogs started the two kids, which were now grown pretty big, as they went grazing. The latter, chased by the dogs, fled to no other place but into the cavern where was Madam Beritola, who, seeing this, started to her feet and catching up a staff, beat off the dogs. Currado and his wife, who came after them, seeing the lady, who was grown swart and lean and hairy, marvelled, and she yet more at them. But after Currado had, at her instance, called off his dogs, they prevailed with her, by dint of much entreaty, to tell them who she was and what she did there; whereupon she fully discovered to them her whole condition and all that had befallen her, together with her firm resolution [to abide alone in the island]. Currado, who had know Arrighetto Capece very well, hearing this, wept for pity, and did his utmost to divert her with words from so barbarous a purpose, offering to carry her back to her own house or to keep her with himself, holding her in such honour as his sister, until God should send her happier fortune. The lady not yielding to these proffers, Currado left his wife with her, bidding the latter cause bring thither to eat and clothe the lady, who was all in rags, with some of her own apparel, and charging her contrive, by whatsoever means, to bring her away with her. Accordingly, the gentle lady, being left with Madam Beritola, after condoling with her amain of her misfortunes, sent for raiment and victual and prevailed on her, with all the pains in the world, to don the one and eat the other.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  As they hashed out the finer points of the revelation, Dan wondered whether it was really necessary to cut the throats of the four individuals slated for removal, as Ron had been instructed in one of his revelations. “He asked Ron how come he couldn’t just go in and shoot them,” Carnes said. “Ron replied that it was the Lord’s command that they—that their throats be slashed.” Betty Wright McEntire heard all of this for the first time when, twelve years later, she listened to Carnes testify from the witness stand of the Fourth District Court in Provo. And when she learned that Claudine Lafferty had been sitting right there, quietly listening as her two oldest sons discussed the imminent murder of her daughter-in-law and baby granddaughter, Betty was stunned. “How could someone hear what they were planning and not do anything to warn Brenda?” she asks. “I just can’t understand it.” July 19 had been Brenda Lafferty’s twenty-fourth birthday. Betty had volunteered to drive down to American Fork and take care of baby Erica so that Brenda and Allen could go out for a night on the town. Betty was really looking forward to seeing both Brenda and Erica. The baby, now almost fifteen months old, had just started to say her first intelligible words. Allen and Brenda “went up to Salt Lake for dinner,” Betty says. “I was so excited for her to come home, because I was about to get married and I wanted to show her pictures of the wedding dress I had picked out, and to talk about wedding stuff. But when they got home from dinner it was obvious she and Allen had had a fight. I could tell she had been crying. I was really disappointed, but I knew that I should leave. I had given her a music box for her birthday. I remember she wound it up and put it on the TV stand, and we listened to it for a minute, then I kissed the baby good-bye and left. That was the last time I ever saw my sister.” On the morning of the July 24, Pioneer Day, Dan got up, prayed, and felt prompted by the Lord to saw the barrel and stock off a 12-gauge, pump-action shotgun that he had been storing at his mother’s house. While he used a hacksaw to cut down the weapon in Claudine’s garage, Ron, Ricky Knapp, and Chip

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

  was buried in the cathedral of Königsberg, the first Protestant bishop and chancellor of the first Prussian Hohenzollern, standing with him on the bridge of two ages with his hand on the Bible and his eye firmly fixed upon the future. Albrecht, acting on the advice of Luther, changed the property of the Knights into a hereditary duchy. The king of Poland consented. On April 10, 1525, Albrecht was solemnly invested at Crakow with the rule of Prussia as a fief of Poland. Soon afterwards he received the homage of the Diet at Königsberg. The evangelical preachers saluted him under the ringing of the bells. The Emperor put him under the ban, but it had no effect. Most of the Knights received large fiefs, and married; the rest emigrated to Germany. Albrecht formally introduced the Reformation, July 6, 1525, and issued a Lutheran constitution and liturgy. The fasts were abolished, the number of holy days reduced, the ceremonies changed, the convents turned into hospitals, and worship conducted in the vernacular. All Romish and sectarian preaching was prohibited. He assumed all the ecclesiastical appointments, and became the supreme bishop of Prussia, the two Roman-Catholic bishops Georg and Queiss having surrendered to him their dignity. Their successors were mere superintendents. He felt, however, that the episcopal office was foreign to a worldly sovereign, and accepted it as a matter of necessity to secure order.800 He founded the University of Königsberg, the third Protestant university (after Wittenberg and Marburg). It was opened in 1544.801 He called Dr. Osiander from Nürnberg to the chief theological chair (1549); but this polemical divine, by his dissertations on the law and the gospel, and on the doctrine of justification, soon turned Prussia into a scene of violent and disgraceful theological controversies.802 Albrecht did not enjoy his reign. It was sadly disturbed in this transition state by troubles from within and without. He repeatedly said that he would rather watch sheep than be a ruler. He was involved in heavy debts. The seven children of his first wife, a daughter of the king of Denmark, died young, except a daughter, Anna Sophia, who married a duke of Mecklenburg (1555). His pious and faithful wife died, 1547. In 1550 he married a princess of Braunschweig; her first daughter was born blind; only one son, Albrecht Friedrich, survived him, and spent his life in melancholy. But Albrecht remained true to his evangelical faith, and died (March 20, 1568), with the words of Psa. 31:5, upon his lips, "Into Thine hand I commend my spirit: Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, Thou God of truth." He left proofs of his piety in prayers, meditations, and the testament to his son, who succeeded him, and died without male issue, 1618. SUBSEQUENT HISTORY. A few glimpses of the later history are here in place to explain the present confessional status of the Protestant church in the kingdom of Prussia.

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

  Gall regained his convent and heavy damages from the city; Toggenburg had to acknowledge his authority, but a portion of the people remained Reformed. Thurgau and the Rheinthal had to restore the convents. Bremgarten 22 and Mellingen had to pledge themselves to re-introduce the mass and the images. In Glarus, the Roman Catholic minority acquired several churches and preponderating influence in the public affairs of the Canton. In Solothurn, the Reformation was suppressed, in spite of the majority of the population, and about seventy families were compelled to emigrate. In the Diet, the Roman Cantons retained a plurality of votes. The inhabitants of the Forest Cantons, full of gratitude, made a devout pilgrimage to St. Mary of Einsiedeln, where Zwingli had copied the Epistles of St. Paul from the first printed edition of the Greek Testament in 1516, and where he, Leo Judae, and Myconius had labored in succession for a reformation of abuses, with the consent of Diepold von Geroldseck. That convent has remained ever since a stronghold of Roman Catholic piety and superstition in Switzerland, and attracts as many devout pilgrims as ever to the shrine of the "Black Madonna." It has one of the largest printing establishments, which sends prayer-books, missals, breviaries, diurnals, rituals, pictures, crosses, and crucifixes all over the German-speaking Catholic world.298 Bullinger, who succeeded Zwingli, closes his "History of the Reformation" mournfully, yet not without resignation and hope. "All manner of tyranny and overbearance," he says, "is restored and strengthened, and an insolent régime is working the ruin of the confederacy. Wonderful are the counsels of the Lord. But he doeth all things well. To him be glory and praise! Amen."

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

  Before long the mass was totally abolished, so that it was forbidden either to celebrate it in one’s own house or to attend it in the neighboring villages."177 The great scholar who had done so much preparatory work for the Reformation, stopped half-way and refused to identify himself with either party. He reluctantly left Basel (April 13, 1529) with the best wishes for her prosperity, and resided six years at Freiburg in Baden, a sickly, sensitive, and discontented old man. He was enrolled among the professors of the University, but did not lecture. He returned to Basel in August, 1535, and died in his seventieth year, July 12, 1536, without priest or sacrament, but invoking the mercy of Christ, repeating again and again, "O Lord Jesus, have mercy on me!" He was buried in the Minster of Basel. Glareanus and Beatus Rhenanus, humanists, and friends of Zwingli and Erasmus, likewise withdrew from Basel at this critical moment. Nearly all the professors of the University emigrated. They feared that science and learning would suffer from theological quarrels and a rupture with the hierarchy. The abolition of the mass and the breaking of images, the destruction of the papal authority and monastic institutions, would have been a great calamity had they not been followed by the constructive work of the evangelical faith which was the moving power, and which alone could build up a new Church on the ruins of the old. The Word of God was preached from the fountain. Christ and the Gospel were put in the place of the Church and tradition. German service with congregational singing and communion was substituted for the Latin mass. The theological faculty was renewed by the appointment of Simon Grynäus, Sebastian Münster, Oswald Myconius, and other able and pious scholars to professorships. Oecolampadius became the chief preacher of the Minster and Antistes, or superintendent, of the clergy of Basel. On the 1st of April, 1529, an order of liturgical service and church discipline was published by the Council, which gave a solid foundation to the Reformed Church of the city of Basel and the surrounding villages.178 This document breathes the spirit of enthusiasm for the revival of apostolic Christianity, and aims at a reformation of faith and morals. It contains the chief articles which were afterwards formulated in the Confession of Basel (1534), and rules for a corresponding discipline. It retains a number of Catholic customs such as daily morning and evening worship, weekly communion in one of the city churches, the observance of the great festivals, including those of the Virgin Mary, the Apostles, and the Saints.

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

  When I first came to this city, the gospel was, indeed, preached, but matters were in the greatest confusion, as if Christianity had consisted in nothing else than the throwing down of images; and there were not a few wicked men from whom I suffered the greatest indignities; but the Lord our God so confirmed me, who am by no means naturally bold (I say what is true), that I succumbed to none of their attempts. I afterwards returned thither from Strassburg in obedience to my calling, but with an unwilling mind, because I thought I should prove unfruitful. For not knowing what the Lord had determined, I saw nothing before me but numbers of the greatest difficulties. But proceeding in this work, I at length perceived that the Lord had truly blessed my labors. Do you also persist in this vocation, and maintain the established order; at the same time, make it your endeavor to keep the people in obedience to the doctrine; for there are some wicked and contumacious persons. Matters, as you see, are tolerably settled. The more guilty, therefore, will you be before God, if they go to wreck through your indolence. But I declare, brethren, that I have lived with you in the closest bonds of true and sincere affection, and now, in like manner, part from you. But if, while under this disease, you have experienced any degree of peevishness from me, I beg your pardon, and heartily thank you, that when I was sick, you have borne the burden imposed upon you.’ "When he had thus spoken, he shook hands with each of us. We, with most sorrowful hearts, and certainly not unmoistened eyes, departed from him." Beza modestly omits Calvin’s reference to himself which is as follows "Quant à nostre estat interieur, vous avez esleu Monsieur de Beze pour tenir ma place. Regardez de le soulager, car la charge est grande et a de la peine, en telle sorte qu’il faudroit qu’il fust accablé soubs le fardeau. Mais regardez à le supporter. De luy, ie sçay qu’il a bon vouloir et fera ce qu’il pourra." Pinaut’s report, in Calv. Opera, IX. 894. § 166. Calvin’s Personal Character and Habits. Calvin is one of those characters that command respect and admiration rather than affection, and forbid familiar approach, but gain upon closer acquaintance. The better he is known, the more he is admired and esteemed. Those who judge of his character from his conduct in the case of Servetus, and of his theology from the "decretum horribile," see the spots on the sun, but not the sun itself. Taking into account all his failings, he must be reckoned as one of the greatest and best of men whom God raised up in the history of Christianity.

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

  accounts of sieges and times of disaster, but the frequency of the motif does not necessarily mean that such things did not happen. The third poem is the centerpiece of Lamentations. Here the speaker is an anonymous “man who has seen affliction” (3:1). Again, the suffering is construed as punishment: “Is it not from the mouth of the L ORD that good and bad come”? (3:38). In this case, however, the poet also professes confidence that “the steadfast love of the L ORD never ceases” (3:22). It is good to be chastised in youth, for the Lord will not be angry forever. Therefore, the people should examine their ways and return to the Lord. This is a time-honored response to adversity in the Hebrew tradition. It scarcely addresses the situation of the thousands who perished in the destruction of Jerusalem. It is precisely this response to suffering that will be put in question in the book of Job. Here again, the poet’s submissiveness toward God does not prevent him from praying for vengeance on his earthly enemies. The fourth poem reverts to a more critical form of complaint. The chastisement of Jerusalem has been greater than that of Sodom, which at least was over quickly (4:6). Again the horrors, including cannibalism, are described in detail. Those killed in battle were better off than those left to starve. Listed among the losses is “the L ORD ’s anointed, the breath of our life” (4:20). Whether the king in question was Jehoiachin or Zedekiah, it is difficult to imagine Jeremiah referring to him in such terms. In this poem the guilt of Jerusalem is qualified: “It was for the sins of her prophets and the iniquities of her priests” (4:13). Moreover, the poem concludes by announcing that the punishment of Zion is accomplished, but that of Edom is about to come. In the final poem, the confession of guilt recedes further. “Our ancestors have sinned; they are no more, and we bear their iniquities” (5:7). This sentiment comes close to the proverb, “the fathers have eaten sour grapes,” which is vehemently rejected in Ezekiel 18, and is said not to apply to the future in Jeremiah 31. In this poem the emphasis is on innocent suffering: women raped, men abused, people starving. The poet concludes by asking God to restore the people, “unless you have rejected us utterly and are angry with us beyond

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  As I took my place in the front row next to my graduating classmates, I was astonished to see four of the Big Brothers seated alongside the stage in the place reserved for the graduation speaker. They weren’t just any four Big Brothers; they were Brother Francis, Brother David, Brother Athanasius, and Brother James Aloysius, the original Boston College professors whose firing back in 1949 had been a catalyst for the creation of our community. Three of them had a child graduating that day. Brother James Aloysius, who had known for months of my impending departure, caught my eye and winked, which I instantly understood, as clearly as though he’d spoken the words aloud, meant, “How’s my little princess?” The graduation ceremony began, but my mind was elsewhere. I was now a little more than an hour away from being kicked out forever. If only Sister Catherine could have made it possible to say goodbye, to explain to the Big Brothers and Sisters that although I didn’t want to be a nun, I would nevertheless always remain a dear friend and I would come and visit often. Then I could have hugged and kissed each and every one of the adults, whom I’d known since infancy. I could have promised them that I would make them proud of me. I could have assured them that I would hold fast to my Catholic faith. There would have been some scolders, but most of them would have been sweet to me—I was sure of it. I never doubted that they loved me the way I loved them. I would continue to love them even when I was gone. But such a farewell was not part of Sister Catherine’s plan. I was to be secreted away within an hour of graduation. No need to tempt the other Little Brothers and Sisters with the idea that life out in the world might be appealing. And what would happen when, over the next few days, it became apparent that I was no longer around? I envisioned the scene as, one by one, members of the community—adults and children alike—would find their way to Sister Catherine’s office to ask about me. What will she tell them? I hoped she would be kind and simply say I didn’t have a vocation. But I couldn’t trust that would happen, as she had never answered that question when I asked her. I prayed that, regardless of what she told them, my Big Brothers and Sisters would still love me, as I loved them. I knew they would be disappointed in me. My “going out into the world” would be seen as a rejection of everything they had sacrificed and fought for. And what would she say to Margaret Mary and Veronica, my little sisters, and my brother too? Would she tell them that they would never see me again? Would they miss me the way I would miss them? Again, questions I had been afraid to ask.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Bending down and touching my head, he said, “Mary Patricia, dear, how would you like to change your name?” What could I say? He was Father. Nobody said no to him. I remained silent, looking down at my shoes and still holding on tightly to my mother. I wished I could whisper to her, “Please tell him I don’t want to change my name.” But that wasn’t how things were done at the Center. Father was in charge, and he always had his way. He took it personally if anyone disagreed with him. He may have fallen off his pedestal in the eyes of the rest of the world, but within the confines of the Center, he was lord of the manor. He never let any member forget the vow they took when they joined—“obedience to Father and to whomever he may delegate.” “How would you like to be called Anastasia?” he asked. Anastasia? What kind of a name was that? I’d never heard of any St. Anastasia. I wanted no part of it. But I was trapped—the nightmare I had dreaded was unfolding, and I couldn’t run away from it. Father stood before me waiting for an answer. “She was a virgin and a martyr,” he added, as though that information would encourage me. I wanted nothing to do with martyrs. If I had to change my name, I wanted it to be for a beautiful queen, like St. Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great, or St. Margaret of Scotland or St. Elizabeth of Hungary, my mother’s patron saint. Now as I stood before Father, still clutching my mother’s hand, I nodded, as I knew I had to, and the deed was done. In a flash, I was no longer Mary Patricia. I was now Anastasia. That evening at dinner, Father took me by the hand and led me to the head of the refectory. He announced to the whole community that I had a new name—Anastasia—and everyone clapped. I wanted to cry. During recreation in the yard after dinner, I pretended to be excited about the change in my name, but my outward smile belied my inner feelings. What I really wanted to do was stamp my foot and scream at the top of my lungs, “I hate being called Anastasia—I hate my new name!” But that wasn’t done at the Center. And besides, if my parents saw me upset, they’d want to fix it for me. This couldn’t be fixed. Despite the wave of name changes, family life within our apartment remained much the same. My father participated fully in the evening rituals of giving the oldest of us baths while my mother nursed the newest baby, my sister Veronica, the number five child in our family, born just two months before my sixth birthday. “Daddy, will you sing me a song?” was my nightly request.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I felt a fleeting burst of superiority whenever Sister Catherine referred to us as “the postulants.” But it quickly dissipated. In reality, the new life of postulancy was both humbling and confining. Gone were the hours of sports and games on the broad lawn behind St. Ann’s House. Gone the thrill of toboggan rides, of speeding down the endless expanse of gleaming snow, wind-made tears turning into tiny icicles on my face. As postulants, we were forbidden to run or yell or engage in any spirited activity. No longer considered Little Sisters, we were prohibited from speaking to the younger ones. But neither were we yet Big Sisters, which meant that they, too, were out of bounds. And as had been the case for years, any contact with the Brothers, both Big and Little, was forbidden. We now sat together at one table for meals, and we reported to a single Angel, Sister Colette, whose role it was to see to our personal needs. Our spiritual needs were in the hands of Sister Catherine. I hated the isolation from the rest of the community, and I dreaded the next steps in the journey ahead that I was supposed to embrace but could not—becoming a nun for life and taking vows of poverty, chastity (not that I had a clue as to what that was), and obedience. I was certain that of the eight of us postulant Sisters, I was the only one who desired a life that seemed unattainable—one of marriage and elegant clothes and parties, a lifestyle that Sister Catherine said was sinful and dangerous to the well-being of our souls. Day after day, I struggled to be accepted as a model postulant in the hopes of gaining favor with Sister Catherine, but without success. Sister Catherine found fault with nearly everything I did. I’m different from everyone else at the Center. Sister Catherine knows that. Is that why she’s so hard on me? Because she wants to change me? But she can’t. For several hours each week, Sister Catherine met with us in private, instructing us in the ways of a contemplative religious life. Sitting tall on the cane seat of the ladder-back Quaker chair in the front room, she addressed us as we sat on folding chairs in a semicircle around her. “The love of God must be above all other loves” was one oft-used expression. On other occasions she exhorted us to “fall in love with God.” She exuded a passion that I was unable to resurrect in myself. Love for me meant something different. I loved Brother James Aloysius and Sister Elizabeth Ann with far more intensity than any feeling I could generate for God or Jesus or His Blessed Mother. The spiritual world played a far back seat to my secret adoration of my parents, my intense feeling of protection for my siblings, and my exploding obsession for Brother Basil.

• 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)

  But with Sister Catherine’s demise and the subsequent internal feud, it struck me that she alone had been the glue that kept nearly one hundred highly intelligent human beings together as members of a religious order. Had it been out of their respect, their fear, or their love for her? I could only surmise, but, if their blind obedience to her had been grounded in deep spirituality, why would it fall apart so catastrophically when she was gone? I thought back to the rules Sister Catherine instituted that forced separation between men and women, boys and girls. I remembered how she had told us Little Sisters that we must never trust a man. Now as the place I had called home for so long seemed on the edge of disintegration, I wondered if it wasn’t she herself who had planted the seeds of its destruction. Within days of Sister Catherine’s burial, my brother David, who was seventeen and completing his junior year in high school, and my youngest sister, Veronica, who was about to finish middle school, informed Sister Teresa (Sister Catherine’s successor as overseer of the children) that they wished to leave and move to Cambridge with my mother and me. Over the course of the next twelve months, my father decided that if his children wanted to leave, it was his obligation to accompany them into the world. [image file=Image00033.jpg] My father with my Grandmother McKinley, on the day of my brother’s graduation from high school, just hours before he left the Center as Brother James Aloysius and became once again Jim Walsh–June 1969. I myself was becoming increasingly secure in my role as a worldly woman, provided, that is, no mention was made of my past. I had a nice Irish Catholic boyfriend, a couple of years older than I was, whose family lived on Long Island. He was in the Navy and said he was hoping to attend the police academy when he was discharged. Polite and soft spoken, he was courteous to my parents when he joined us for Sunday dinners, and he was blissfully romantic when I could be alone with him. He was my first true love out in the world. We talked of marriage, and he brought me to visit his family, but something inside me kept saying, “No—you need someone who is more intellectual. You will become bored with him.” I spoke only of going to college and of all the places in the world I wanted to visit. He’d laugh, not out of disrespect but more in disbelief, as though I was too much for him, not likely to be the kind of wife he needed. When we broke up, I was hurt but not damaged—he was almost too good for me, and I too adventurous for him.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I was overcome with sadness, the same kind I had felt so many times before when good things came to an end. I don’t want this day to be over. I mused on the wonderfulness of it—a community meeting, new toys, no silence. If only it could be like this every day. 26 Our Lady’s Army 1959 S ister Catherine had an idea: Our Lady’s Army. “You will be soldiers in Our Lady’s Army,” she said, “ready to fight against all her enemies.” It was the first stage in Sister Catherine’s mission to mold thirty-nine children into a cadre of religious activists. She wrote the pledge that we memorized and said at the start of each army meeting, a Friday evening event in her office that was closed to the Angels. Standing at attention, with our right hands raised in three-finger salutes to honor the Three Persons in God, we recited: “As a soldier in the Army of Our Lady, I promise to defend her cause, which is the cause of Jesus, with my life. I promise to be ready to die for her at any moment. I promise to live for her a life so holy that I may win, in the battles against her enemies, many, many souls for her to give to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I salute her as my Queen and Commander-in-Chief. I give her the complete allegiance of my heart, and I promise her the complete obedience of my will. I promise to love Jesus and Mary above all things and to have no other love before them.” [image file=Image00023.jpg] Our Lady’s Army. For the next hour or two, Sister Catherine spoke to us about how we children had been especially chosen by God, as she put it, to save souls and if necessary to lay down our lives for the cause of the Center, the doctrine of “No Salvation Outside the Catholic Church.” She warned us that the enemies of the Church were all around us, and the most dangerous were the Communists. “The Communists have now infiltrated our country, and they will soon take over,” she said on one occasion. “And when they come it will be necessary for us to flee to the desert in Arizona.” Her voice took on a transfixed, almost triumphant tone, as though fleeing was a heavenly journey, the fulfillment of the will of God for us at the Center. “We will set up our community in the desert and hide there until the Communists find us. Then we will be martyred for our faith.” She described martyrdom as a badge of honor that, as soldiers in Our Lady’s Army, we must embrace. For my part, I was repulsed by the notion of martyrdom and knew in my heart, never to be admitted in public, that I would never die for my faith. If we’re supposed to embrace martyrdom, then why do we have to flee into the desert? I wondered to myself.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I was mentally depleted and needed to be alone to digest the enormity of what had befallen me. In the silence, Sister Catherine spoke. “We all love you, dear.” “Thank you, Sister Catherine,” I replied. As I turned to leave, my mother gave me a reassuring smile, one that seemed to say, “I’m with you, darling. Don’t worry.” I returned her smile with a fainthearted one of my own. I could muster nothing more. Closing the door behind me, I felt an unbearable sadness. This was worse than getting into trouble—this was forever. As I made my way slowly to the refectory, I felt forsaken, abandoned by the whole court of heaven. For years I had prayed to them to sustain me in times of trouble, and now they had deserted me. I was a failure. And worse, I now faced a time bomb, a countdown to my graduation, just seven months away. On that day in June, I would lose the only thing in the world that was dear to me—my home and my huge extended family. What had I done to deserve this punishment? What could I do to change Sister Catherine’s mind? That became my mission, and instinctively I prayed once again for help from heaven. S 2 A Moment of Grace 1935 ix-year-old Betsy Ann McKinley stood on the sidewalk outside the Willard Elementary School in Cambridge, Massachusetts, next to her best friend, Peter Bailey, as they waited for their mothers to pick them up at the end of the school day. The sound of singing distracted them, and they turned to witness a procession coming in their direction through the park. Betsy stared at the sight of a white and gold canopy held aloft by four men who walked slowly, providing cover for a priest who wore an enormous, radiantly embroidered cape and held high a gold monstrance, as though inviting the entire world to view it. Behind the priest came the congregation, solemn and reverent, singing hymns in unison. Nuns, wearing long black habits and wimpled veils, escorted their charges—schoolchildren in blue-and-white uniforms. Following them were the parishioners, men wearing suits and hats, and women in modest dress with kerchief veils on their heads. As the procession drew nearer, an elderly lady next to Betsy got down on her knees, bowed her head, and made the sign of the cross. Betsy was mesmerized by the giant gold monstrance and the circular glass window in its center, displaying a white object. She nudged Peter and whispered, “What’s happening?” Peter turned to look at her. “It’s the feast of Corpus Christi. Aren’t you a Catholic?” “No,” said Betsy, “I’m Episcopalian. What’s the priest carrying?”

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  of flowered pajamas, and my extra blue jumper. As I packed, I imagined my new room in Still River. Sister Catherine had described it to us—a “cubicle” she called it, where I’d have my own dresser instead of having to share drawers and shelves with other Little Sisters. My half-filled box sat at the end of my bed awaiting the final possessions that would go in on the last morning: a coloring book and crayons, my hairbrush and comb, my toothbrush, my crucifix, and my own small copy of the New Testament with my name embossed on the front. In the hectic final days of packing, the rule of silence seemed to slip away as Big Brothers and Big Sisters alike packed and stacked boxes, loaded up vehicles, and made round trips to Still River. Meals were served on paper plates, and recreation was barely supervised. I reveled in what felt like a newfound freedom. Will it be this way in Still River? I wondered. Will we be able to run around and laugh all day with no rule of silence? Seven days, six days, five days. January 31 was almost here. It was hard to fall asleep at night. Then one evening, with only a few days to go, an announcement was made at dinner—the Big Sisters would be going on the last bookselling trip before moving day. Please don’t let it be Sister Elizabeth Ann, I prayed in my head, invoking every saint I could imagine. The following morning, I stood at my bedroom window craning my neck as the Big Sisters who were heading out on that final bookselling trip put their suitcases into the trunk of the car. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t make out who they were. I waited, knowing that the car would have to pass by my window on its way through the big red gate. As it slowly came into view, all polished and washed to a sleek black gleam, my heart sank. There in the driver’s seat was my mother. The car glided through the open red gate and turned right onto Hayes Street, as one of the Big Brothers closed and bolted the gate. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Throwing myself on my bed, I buried my head in the pillow. With the relaxation of rules, I’d been hoping that Sister Elizabeth Ann might be allowed to help me do the last bit of packing. I even imagined being lucky enough to ride in her car for the final exciting trip from Cambridge to Still River. And now she was gone. What if she couldn’t find her way? Despondent, I turned to prayer. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, please bring Sister Elizabeth Ann safely to Still River.