Cross and Conflicts

CHAPTER II: A Carmelite Novice

SAN JOSE CITY, NUEVA ECIJA, 2027

It was in 1968 when the Carmelite Monastery of the Blessed Virgin Mary in San Jose City was founded. It became one of the first Carmelite foundations of the country where women who have located the priceless value of the Kingdom of God have sought refuge to. As a cloistered order, the nuns commit to live a union of intimacy with Jesus alone, both God and man. They wish to live like the Virgin Mary, open to the will of God and always declaring His love.

“In the quiet, in the stillness

I know that You are God

In the secret of Your presence

I know there I am restored

When You call I won't refuse

Each new day again I'll choose

There is no one else for me

None but Jesus

Crucified to set me free

Now I live to bring Him praise

In the chaos, in confusion

I know You're sovereign still

In the moment of my weakness

You give me grace to do Your will

When You call I won't delay

This my song through all my days

All my delight is in You Lord

All of my hope, all of my strength

All my delight is in You Lord forever more.”

Vocal talent has always been one of the delightful equalizers in the world. It has the power to glaze it a symphony so beautiful that those who do not possess this gift wish that they have the capacity to wrap everyone at the mercy of a melody.

            Sunday has come again and the choir which is composed of thirteen nuns and two novices has mesmerized the churchgoers with incorporated angelic voices. This morning’s mass could never be complete without a euphony, and these women are the right ingredients. They stood in a platform adjacent the spherical altar; proud not because they can sing well, but because they are given the chance to sing songs of praise for the Lord.

            Because, of course, they have restricted access and interaction to the public, a partition made of iron bars painted in gold draped with a maroon curtain is placed in a section close to the altar where all thirty-two Carmelite nuns and novices can situate themselves during every mass.

            The Carmelite monastery complex comprises a number of buildings which include the church, the cloister, a refectory, a library and an infirmary. Through the years, the entirety of the monastery has had its own share of modifications. Old structures are replaced with new ones in order to cater to necessity. The church’s walls which are painted beige match the opulence of the white and peach porcelain tiles covering up to the altar where three majestic chandeliers hover over it.

            The Sunday first mass ended and the nuns heard the motion of the people unloading from the pews and taking their exit from the church. The singing nuns carefully stepped down from the platform as the younger nuns and novices assisted those who have time slowly rob them of facile mobility.

            “Thank you, Sister Mary Dymphna,” uttered Sister Mary Apollonia, her wrinkles showing as she looked at a pair of orbs of the lightest brown and responded a smile to that of lips of the brightest pink of the 26 year-old novice who’s only a few months away from taking her final vows and receiving her dark gray veil like that of hers.

            Two years ago, upon announcing her first vows, Noumenon Rosaryo received her new identity as “Sister Mary Dymphna.” Every Carmelite nun is given “Mary” to pay homage to the Holy Mother of God plus the name of a saint. For Noumenon, she is given the name of Saint Dymphna, the patroness of those who suffer from depression, mental and neurological disorders, and victims of s****l exploitation.

            Heaven may not have blessed her with a colorful backstory but it endowed her the glory of allure. Her skin, a shade of white, has the natural glow of a rose, delicate and refined. Her hair, the color of chocolate, is short and has the wavy rhythm of the sea and will gloss if the sun were to cast its shine. In her oval face are big round eyes which are susceptible to raptures of emotions and give nothing little to supplement expression. All these, nevertheless, are almost forsaken by her, for she has not seen herself in a mirror for half a decade. The monastery doesn’t allow them to conceive how they look like; to them, that knowledge is bane and it promotes vanity.

            The path to becoming a nun hasn’t been simple for her whatsoever, since it took a lot of her devotion, effort and contemplation. She has to have the resolve for this vocation; otherwise, she would need to strip off her habit which, at this point, consists of a headdress made of a white stiff coif with a long white veil attached to its top that runs down her back, and with a long sleeveless gray dress which extends below her knees over a baby collared white polyester shirt, matched with opaque black stockings and gray shoes.

            The color of the habit of the official Carmelite nuns in this monastery is referred to the first hermits on Mount Carmel who wore a tunic or robe of undyed, “rough” wool which was grayish brown in color. They wear a habit that consists of a headdress made up of a stiff coif which frames the face, a white wimple which extends this coverage up under the chin and down onto the chest, and a long gray veil attached to the top of the coif that drapes down the back. A long gray dress, stockings and shoes and a woven belt holding the rosary complete the traditional habit. The belt is an indication of the eremitical roots of Carmel, their striving for solitude and intimate union with God, as well as the vow of chastity.

            Noumenon along with the other nuns were walking along the corridor which faces the garden of the monastery and that leads to their dormitory. From Monday to Saturday, she is assigned to clean the garden along with two other sisters, but as today is the Sabbath day, their entire day is entitled to prayer as it is commanded  by the Lord to be kept holy.

            A Carmelite nun’s day always begins at 5:00 in the morning. The Sister appointed sounds the clappers through the corridor and breaks the solemn silence of the morning with the following salutation: “Praised be Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary His Mother. Come to prayer, Sisters; come to praise the Lord.” Each Sister echoes this praise when she wakes from sleep.

            The rest of the day is spent in prayer, manual labor and some good time. Many people often build up the notion that what all nuns do in their days is kneel and pray and work. There are times of the day when just like common people, they can relax and enjoy themselves—of course, within the monastery’s premises. On some supervised occasions, they can even watch television.

            Noumenon felt someone wrap a hand around her left arm. She saw Sister Mary Theresa at her side.

            “You shouldn’t space out like that, Sister,” the woman with small eyes said.

            Jamaica Lamesa is her real name and whose past has a share of grave misfortune. She comes from a municipality in Mindanao—the second largest island of Maharlika—and she became a novice in the same year with her. The reason why she chose to follow this vocation was due to Sister Lita’s influence. She was sexually exploited by her own grandfather for more than thirteen years. This is why she hated the world along with the one who created it. She loathed God so much because of why He let her have the hellish life she had. Sister Lita stumbled upon her and convinced her to come with her to the monastery. She was hugely enlightened to the point of deciding to become a Carmelite nun herself. She also grew fond of Noumenon while always being together with her in the process.

            “You might worry Sister Lita and me with that look.” Sister Mary Theresa also knows about what happened to Noumenon’s parents when she was younger.

            “I’ll try not to look sad then,” she assured her but the other novice isn’t buying it.

            How long has it been since that harrowing night? Years have increased the weight of a memory hard to remember but not easy to forsake, for it had been what put a scar on her mind. It’s still impossible not to think about it anymore.

            There were nights before that she had to endure the recollection in her nigthmares. It became too common that she’d always wake up soaking her pillow wet. As the quantity of her tears increased, it constantly faltered until the point where her brain decided to forget the person who caused her too much pain. Even so, it seems to her a mystery hidden behind a thick curtain of bafflement how she can’t register the face of her father who killed her mother, and the one who also tried to kill her. Maybe the pain made it possible. Maybe the shock took its toll. Or maybe she tried her earnest not to remember him.

All thirty-two nuns and novices gathered together in the refectory. They, however, unlike other people, don’t get to eat what one would consider good food. They must only eat what the monastery provides. For that morning, and for most mornings, served for them is rice and fried Tilapia. They said their grace first before indulging on the meal. What was supposed to be a typical day for Noumenon became otherwise when the Prioress, Sister Mary Laura, asked for her attention.

            “Excuse me, Sister Mary Dymphna.”

            Noumenon refrained from taking another spoonful of rice. “Yes, Reverend Mother?”

            Twelve years ago, Imelda Punzalan or Sister Mary Laura as she is known in the monastery, came like a magisterial figure. She was transferred here from a Carmelite Monastery of a neighboring city. She has a Caucasian complexion, and she literally came with a smile on her face. Every time she smiled, her dimples showed, adding to her sweet character. At first, they thought that she’d be a replica of the previous prioress who was stern and indifferent, yet she later turned out to be a very accommodating middle-aged woman. This day, nonetheless, her smiling signature is a soberness bit.

            “Come to the Monsignor’s office later. We have something to talk about.” The clatter of dining utensils ceased for a moment, since attention channelled towards the novice.

            This is supposed to be something conventional, but she felt uneasy. She couldn’t grasp what she was feeling that she became anxious just by thinking about it. Her final vows are coming a few months from now; it couldn’t be something that would compromise those.

Noumenon stared at the mahogany door before her and composed herself before she knocked. It took a while that she decided to knock again but didn’t actually have to when the door was opened for her.

            “Come in.” The prioress welcomed her.

            She came inside to see not only Sister Mary Laura along with the abbot but also her senior, Sister Mary Peter.

The room is adorned with an air of formality. There are two large windows behind the Monsignor’s desk, two shelves encasing various books to the left and an elegant altar to the right.

            Monsignor Carlos Alvez has been the abbot of the Carmelite Monastery of the Blesed Virgin Mary for over five years now, and he is the kind of priest who doesn’t possess that much of a sense of humor. To put it simply, he only knows how to be serious. He can be lenient about his subordinates’ mishaps, but if it’s too much, expect otherwise.

            Noumenon found herself a seat beside her senior and before the abbott and prioress.

            “Let’s stick to why you’re here,” Monsignor Alvez straightforwardly stated.

            “It has been reckoned for years that Intramuros City is a lost cause for Catholicism, but for the past three years, a brave brother of ours, Monsignor Miguel Cabrera, revived a parish there, and his efforts are bearing modest fruits. Our Cardinal has asked us to conduct a field observation in that parish. He wants to be informed of what’s going on in there, so that the superiors can better address and understand what needs to be really done in Intramuros. We understand that Sister Mary Peter here is perfect when it comes to things like this, but Sister Mary Dymphna, you are at the final phase of your training before your final profession. We trust that you can also carry this out.”

            The name Intramuros was hanging in Noumenon’s head. The task at hand couldn’t be that hard; it’s a test for her to battle the temptation of leaving the monastic life. But going back to where revolting episodes of her life happened is another story. She became stunned that she couldn’t find a good word to respond.

            “Sister Mary Catherine?” Her senior snapped her back to her senses.

            “Oh?”

            “I pray that this field observation will be a success with you.” Sister Mary Peter smiled thriftily at her.

            She wanted to refuse. She wanted to tell them that even after thirteen years she’s afraid of going back to that place. She’s afraid of reliving the painful memory there; moreover, she’s more afraid of the idea that she might remember the face of her murderer of a father once she’d step inside those walls again.

            “So? Sister?” The Monsignor asked.

            “I—uh—will do my best.”

            The decision she made was irrevocable at this point. Her mind told her not to say those words, but her mouth spoke the opposite.

            “Alright, you and Sister Mary Peter will leave with me for Intramuros in two days, so prepare.”

Unknown to many people is that nuns do not wear their habits when they go to sleep contrary to what they have seen in movies. Just like ordinary women, they wear nightgowns or pajamas just like Noumenon in her powdered blue pajamas later in the night. She became troubled for some time. After praying the rosary inside her dorm, she contemplated over her decision and calmed down. Just as she was about to sleep, Sister Mary Theresa came to knock on her door.

            “May I come in?” She heard her say.

            Every nun’s dorm consists of a single bed, a small desk beside it, and a cabinet for them to store a handful of belongings. This reflects simplicity and goes by their vow of poverty.

            “I guess what you told me earlier confuses you a lot, Sister. Why don’t you just decline and tell our superiors the truth, and how you really feel?” She suggested as soon as she sat on the bed with her.

            “You know that that’s not easy to do especially that I’ve affirmed it. I don’t want to disappoint them just because I’m afraid of letting go of the past.”

            “How I wish Sister Lita is here to talk you out of that field observation.”

            The main responsibility of an extern sister is to take care of the exterior business connected with the monastery, and she does not live within the enclosure. Sister Lita, being one and along with three others, was tasked to represent the institution to give commiseration and veneration to a certain Bishop Archimedes Garibaldi somewhere in Sorsogon. She won’t be available within four days.

            Noumenon forced a smile. “Well, it can’t be helped.”

            “What if the past is not meant for you to let go? What if there’s

still some significance to it in your present?”

            Sister Mary Theresa’s inquiry left her wondering at the idea that what if her father is still out there and alive? How would she face him? More importantly, how would she bring justice to her mother and put him at the mercy of the law? These things have consumed her before, and these are all coming back to her now. She doesn’t really know what to do. Her life before depended on the idea of retribution, but right now, she is clueless, and it’s throwing her in tumult.

            “I don’t really have any idea, Sister.”

            She gave her a quizzical look and said anyway, “Be careful there.”

            “I will; besides, God is with me.”