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"'And so, I became a Catholic',
began the second installment

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of Sister Ursula's story.

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And again, I scribbled nice
opening in the left margin

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before hunkering down.

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I had had students like
Sister Ursula before,

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and they had inspired the
strictly enforced 25-page limit

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in all of my workshops.

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I noticed that for
this second submission,

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she had narrowed her margins,
fiddled with her font,

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wedging the letters
more closely together.

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And the spacing didn't look
quite double, maybe 1.7.

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Venial sins.

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Having had no religious training
prior to entering the convent,

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Sister Ursula was,
for some time,

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unable to recite prayers
with the other children,

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further evidence,
if any were needed,

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of the moral depravity
inherent in being

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the offspring of a whore.

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She discovered that it
was not an easy task,

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learning prayers to the
cadence of public ridicule,

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but learn them she did.

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And though the rote recitation
was, in the beginning,

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a torment, it eventually
became a comfort.

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Most of the prayers that
she fought to memorize

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were adamant about
the existence of a God

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who, at least in the person
of the crucified Christ,

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was infinitely more loving and
understanding and forgiving

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than the women he had led
to his altar as his brides.

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To be loved and
understood and forgiven

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seemed to Sister Ursula
the ultimate indulgence.

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And thus she became a denizen
of the convent chapel,

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retreating there at every
opportunity from the taunts

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and jeers of the other
children, the constant crowlike

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reprimands of the nuns.

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She liked the smell
of the place--

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damp, cool, clean-- especially
when she had it to herself,

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when it wasn't filled with
the bodies of stale old nuns

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and sweaty children.

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Often, she could hide in the
chapel for an hour or more

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before one of the side
doors would finally

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creak open, momentarily flooding
the floor with bright light.

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Then the long, dark
shadow of a nun

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would fall across
Sister Ursula where

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she knelt in prayer at
the foot of the cross,

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and she would have no choice
but to rise and be led back

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to her torment, often
by a twisted ear.

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In addition to the authorized
prayers she memorized,

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Sister Ursula composed
others of her own.

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She prayed that
Sister Veronique, who

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had suggested that
she had no father

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and who worked in
the convent stable,

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might be kicked in the head by
a horse and paralyzed for life.

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She prayed that
Sister Joseph, who

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used her command of the kitchen
to ensure that the charity

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children were given the
poorest food in the smallest

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quantities, might
one day slip and fall

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into one of her boiling vats.

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Required herself to spend
most holidays at the convent,

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Sister Ursula prayed
that the children

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who were allowed
to go home might

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perish in railway accidents.

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Sometimes, in an
economical mood she

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prayed that the convent
might burn to the ground,

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and the air fill with black ash.

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She saw nothing wrong with
offering such prayers,

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particularly since
none of them, no matter

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how urgent were ever answered.

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She felt a gentle trust
in the Jesus of the Cross,

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who hung above the main
altar of the convent chapel.

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He seemed to know everything
that was in her heart

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and to understand that
nothing dwelt there

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that wasn't absolutely
necessary to her survival.

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He would not begrudge
her these prayers.

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In truth, Jesus on the
cross reminded Sister Ursula

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of her father, who
she knew had never

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wanted to see her packed
off to the convent,

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and who missed her every
day, just as she missed him.

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Like Jesus, her father was
slender, and handsome, and sad,

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and unable to find work.

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And he was married to a
woman who was his shame.

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He was, like Jesus,
stuck where he was.

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Yet if the prayers she
struggled to memorize were true,

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there was hope.

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Had not Jesus shed His crown
of thorns, stepped down

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from the cross to become
the life and salvation

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of the world, raising
up with Him the lowly

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and the true of heart?

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Sister Ursula, when
she wasn't praying

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that a horse kick Sister
Veronique in the head,

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fervently prayed that her
father might one day be free.

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The first thing he would do, she
felt certain, was come for her.

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And so every time the
chapel's side door

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opened, she turned towards
the harsh light with a mixture

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of hope and fear.

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And though it was always a nun
whose dark silhouette filled

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the doorway, she held
tenaciously to the belief

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that soon it would be her
father standing there.

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One Christmas-- was it her
third at the convent school?--

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Sister Ursula was
summoned to the chamber

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of Mother Superior, who told her
to ready herself for a journey.

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This was a full week before
any of the other students

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would be permitted to leave
for the Christmas holiday,

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and Sister Ursula was
instructed to tell no one

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of her impending departure.

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Indeed, Mother Superior
seemed flustered,

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and this gave
Sister Ursula heart.

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During her years of
secret, vengeful prayer,

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she had indulged many fantasies
of dramatic liberation,

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and often imagined
her father's arrival

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on horseback, his angry
pounding at the main gate,

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his purposeful stride
through the courtyard

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and into the chapel.

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Perhaps Mother Superior's
anxiety stemmed from the fact

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that her father was
already on his way

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to effect just such a rescue."