Flashback - June 2019
St. Mary Elias Carmelite Monastery
Kolinggar Mountains, Kingdom of Pellagore
It was time to doff the cotton, cocoa-brown, lay-habit for the last time. Sabriya found herself standing next to the simple wood frame bed she had slept on for the past six years, in the middle of her austere 3-by-4-meter monastery cell. She glanced out the window, which overlooked a green valley. The morning fog lifted slowly in the sun. Next to the window, a tin washbasin sat beside a ceramic water pitcher and a folded linen towel. A few books lay on a writing table, and in the corner, a simple rack held the few clothes she owned, another cocoa brown lay-woman’s habit, a white linen karate gi, and a black belt. Below the rack were two pairs of well-worn leather-and-cloth sandals. There was no mirror in her cell, nor was there one at the end of the hall in the lavatorium.
Sabriya was surrounded by three professed Carmelite nuns in their brown religious habits, white veils, and coifs—Sister Bethany, Sister Cherish, and Sister Magdalene. Sabriya had never seen them like this—smiling, chatting, and giggling up a storm, which was odd for Carmelite nuns who are sworn to spend their days in silence, self-reflection, and solemn prayer. But here they were, clearly violating their vows as they fussed over Sabriya and lifted the simple cocoa colored habit off their lay-sister, and spread it out on the bed. Next to the brown habit lay an unadorned white wedding dress—an incongruous piece of clothing if there ever was one to be found in a Carmelite monastery. Sabriya had wondered where such dresses came from.
The sisters had retrieved the dress from a secret closet near Mother Superior’s office. Reportedly, several white dresses of varying sizes were stored there for postulants’ use. Young women who came to St. Mary Elias Monastery often came from families too poor to buy a new dress. It was a strange ceremony, the investiture or habit-taking ceremony. Sabriya thought of the trouble to put on a full-length wedding dress with all the buttons, hooks, and ties, only to take it off and put on the simple shift of a habit, after which the postulant’s hair was cut short. However, the veils the postulants wore with the wedding dress were exquisite, handmade lace created by the older nuns who could not otherwise perform the hard labor required of the younger women. Sabriya gazed with awe at one such lace veil that lay next to the white dress on her bed, which was hers to keep, or so she was told.
“Sister, sit here,” said Sister Linsim, who entered the room with a beautiful wreath made of white jasmine flowers and greens. Sabriya had a special place in her soul for Linsim, who was Sabriya’s Wing Chun sensei since her arrival at St. Mary Elias. Although nearly 50 years of age, Sister Linsim was decades younger in spirit and vigor. “You like? I made it this morning, just for you. And you can keep it if you want, though it will wilt in a day. Too bad. But it will last one day at least, and I’m sure it will bring a smile to Mr. Kensington’s face when he sees it on you. Your wedding is all so exciting and new for us. We’ve never had a real wedding, I mean, a wedding with a man.”
Sister Bethany’s face flashed red as she sternly interrupted, “Sister Linsim, that is not true. We have all been given in marriage to a very special man, and the ring on your finger attests to that, does it not?”
Linsim swooned, “You know what I mean, sister. David Kensington is not our Lord, although he may be in a way to Sabriya. Look at the way she smiles when we say his name. And someday, he may even be a knight or a Lord in the House of Lords in his distant homeland, and require a sort of veneration, don’t you think?”
Sister Bethany frowned in capitulation. “I suppose,” she whined. “But having a man, other than a priest, walk down the aisle of our chapel, will be a first, and it will be uncomfortable.”
Sabriya smiled, “Thank you for allowing it. It means a great deal to me to be married here in our chapel, as you all were at one time.”
And with that, the sisters resumed their inane giggling.
“Okay, now for your hair,” announced Linsim triumphantly. “What will it be, up or down? Are we curling it or leaving it straight? I promise we’re not cutting it.”
“Linsim,” teased Sister Magdalene, “how do you expect to curl her hair? Have you been collecting pine cones and needles for pins?”
“Straight, please,” said Sabriya. “David loves my hair long and straight. It’s probably the reason he proposed. He doesn’t care for short hair, or hidden hair, although I think you’re all beautiful in your coifs.” All of the nuns hid their hair beneath pure white veils and coifs, close-fitting caps and wimples that covered their hair and extended to the sides of their heads, down their cheeks, and to their necks. Sabriya thought the coifs accentuated the beauty of the sisters’ faces, although Sabriya could never have imagined wearing one herself. But then Linsim wore only a bandana over her very short hair while teaching martial arts. No doubt she had received an exception from the bishop or Carmelite headquarters in Israel. After all, she was a celebrated black belt in karate and a sensei known worldwide.
No sooner had Sister Linsim begun brushing Sabriya’s hair than the door to her cell flew open, and in came a very upset and uptight nun, Sister Margaret—the enforcer, as she had come to be known. Sister Margaret was another reason Sabriya had never considered making religious vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. In Sabriya’s mind, Margaret belonged in a convent for disgruntled hermits.
Margaret stopped by the bed and stared down disapprovingly at the wedding dress. Folding her arms in a huff across her ample bosom,” she barked. “You can’t be serious. A wedding to a man, in our chapel? The bishop could not possibly have permitted such a vulgar act. And Elijah? I’m sure he’s rolling in his grave.”
The room was suddenly silent, and all eyes landed on Margaret as if to ask why she wasn’t washing dishes or cleaning the latrines. Finally, Sabriya turned in her chair and looked up at Margaret. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, I know the bishop. Believe me.”
“No, I meant the thing about Elijah rolling in his grave. You sure about that?”
Margaret stared down at Sabriya in stunned silence, as if no one, least of all an unprofessed servant, which Margaret considered Sabriya to be, had the gall to question the rule.
Sabriya noticed her glam crew inching away from the enforcer; they clearly didn’t want to fight. But Sabriya loved a fight, especially since she had nothing to lose. After all, they couldn’t kick her out of the monastery. She was leaving at the end of the day, or sooner.
Sabriya questioned the drill sergeant. “You really think Elijah’s in a grave?”
Margaret’s face suddenly reddened. She had been caught in an inadvertent heresy, and by a lay-sister, besides. The Carmelites’ patron and spiritual father, Elijah, had never experienced death but had been taken up to heaven in a whirlwind on a fiery chariot.
But Margaret recovered quickly. “Who are you to question our rule?” The sergeant at arms dropped her arms as if to show off the chevrons sewn onto the bicep of her habit, which were invisible to everyone but herself.
Sabriya was about to answer when a shadow strolled into the open doorway. Sabriya was turned so she didn’t notice, but the other sisters did, and they all gasped, clasped their hands about their waists, stepped back from the door, and bowed in reverence.
“So, how’s the bride coming along. Happily, I trust.”
Sabriya turned. It was Reverend Mother, the order’s Superior, all 1.5 meters of her, if you counted the peak of the veil and coif. At 80 years old, Reverend Mother had the spirit and spunk of a twenty-something bohemian—a nonconformist.
Sabriya bit her lip, smiled, looked up at Sister Margaret, and replied. “I’m happily getting along, Mother. Thank you for asking. Isn’t that right, Margaret?”
Sabriya saw Mother narrow her eyes, tighten her lips, and stare at Margaret. No doubt Mother had followed Margaret down the hall, expecting a frenzy of fireworks.
“Mother,” began Margaret, this time quietly but intensely as if presenting an opening argument for the trial for an already convicted heretic about to be burned at the stake. “I was just telling the sisters that I’m quite certain the bishop would never permit a wedding in our chapel to a man. It is very much against the rule, is it not?”
Mother Superior smiled up at Margaret, who was now trembling a bit in her sandals, while holding firm in her resolve to live up to her nickname.
“Sister Margaret,” Mother said with an abundance of cordiality. “You are entirely correct. It is explicitly stated in our rule that our chapel is not for common services or celebrations such as a traditional wedding, especially involving a man and a sister, even if she’s a lay-sister.”
Margaret straightened and started a “told you so” dance, but Mother held up her hand.
“But you see, Margaret, I don’t care. I’m not going to ask the bishop. In fact, I don’t care what the bishop thinks. He will find out soon enough, insofar as several members of the Diplomatic Service will be in attendance, including the groom. I think it will be a lovely time.”
Margaret’s grin disappeared, but her askew lips didn’t know where to hide.
Mother Superior continued. “And now, Margaret, Sister Elsie would like some spearmint leaves from the garden to add to the lemonade for our guests. I told her you’d be the perfect person to harvest them. And while you’re at it, pull some weeds, will you?”
With that, Mother Superior, after delivering a tight and tiny smile to the crowded room of nuns in the tight and tiny cell, spun on sandaled toe and heel and left with Margaret behind, bowed and groveling.
Sabriya fondly remembered her wedding Mass celebrated by the elderly Monsignor Michael, the vows she and David exchanged, “till death do us part,” and the reception with the thirst-quenching lemonade. David was as sweet and handsome as usual, and she reflected on how fortunate she was to have been picked from the weeds, ending up with flowers in her hair and love in her heart. But that was then…what about her future? She could only hope it would not be like her past.
