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247 pages, Hardcover
First published September 19, 2017
There’s a wonderful series of poems on the hours by W.H. Auden in which 3 p.m. is the moment of stillness. Jesus has just died, and we don’t know what will happen next. Is he really dead, or is he going to come back? It’s the moment in which both believers and unbelievers are holding their breaths.
“He killed himself” the officer whispered, his breath sour, as if in reaction to the situation he was obliged to report. “Turned on the gas. Lucky he didn’t take everyone else with him"
Accustomed as she was to breezing into the lives of strangers, Sister accepted the information with only a discreet nod, but in the space of it, in the time it took her to merely turn her cheek and bow her head, her eyes disappeared behind the stuff edge of her bonnet. When she looked up again – her eyes behind the glasses were small and brown and caught the little bit of light the way only a hard surface could, marble or black tin, nothing watery – the truth of the suicide was both acknowledged and put away. She had pried handkerchiefs from the tight fists of young women, opened them to see the blood mixed with phlegm, and then balled them up again, nodding in just such a way, She had breezed into the homes of strangers and seen the bottles in the bin, the poor contents of a cupboard, the bruise in a hidden place, seen as well once, a pale, thumb sized infant in a basin filled with blood and, saying nothing at all, had bowed her head and nodded in just such a way.
The life of a nursing sister is the antidote to the devil’s ambitions [to convince human beings they were no more than animals, never angels]. A life immaculate and pure. A sister makes herself pure … not to credit her own soul with her sacrifice – her giving up of the world – but to become the sweet, clean antidote to suffering, to pain. “You wouldn’t put a dirty cloth to an open wound ……. Down here [in the convent laundry] we do our best to transform what is ugly, soiled, stained …we send it back into the world like a resurrected soul. We’re like the priest in his confessional … We send the sisters our each morning immaculate … a Clean cloth to apply to the suffering world
the long train ride showed her the truth of the dirty world, showed her that her own impulse was to meet its filthy citizens not with a consoling cloth, but with a curse, a punch in the face
Growing old, we indulged him. We listened to the same stories told again and kept silent about the truth: that our mother’s midlife melancholy was clinical depression, unspoken of in those days … That Great Aunt Rose’s happy tremor …. was surely Parkinson’s ….. that the Holy Nuns who sailed through the house when we were young were a dying breed even then. The Bishop with his eye on their rich man’s mansion even then. The call to sanctity and self-sacrifice, the delusion and superstition it required, fading from the world even then
"The madness with which suffering was dispersed in the world defied logic. There was nothing else like it for unevenness. Bad luck, bad health, bad timing. Innocent children were afflicted as often as bad men. Young mothers were struck down even as old ones fretfully lingered. Good lives ended in confusion or despair or howling devastation...There was no accounting for it. No accounting for how general it was, how arbitrary."