CRAMPS & PRAYERS.

A NUN AND HER THOUGHTS AND MEMORIES.

Sister Leo kneels by her bed in her room. Conversations, prayers, whatever, her father said, waste of time, best get out in the real world and put your shoulder to the wheel. She remembers his words like beestings. God was an anathema to him; his archenemy if he ever thought he existed at all. She feels an ache in her knees; her thighs feel crampy. She closes her eyes. Breathes in deep. Keep those old thoughts out. Mother was too timid; said nothing when Father bellowed, when he hit her, when he dragged her from her knees half in prayer to scrub the floor in the downstairs’ toilet after Mother’d defecated with the cancer and all. She brings her hands together; feels the flesh on flesh. Warm. Rubs them; feels the friction. Lifting her mind and heart. The Crucified on the wall above her bed. She opens her eyes and looks up. Framed picture. Often gazes at Him. Speaks, utters prayers. Above her pillow, a plain wooden cross. The symbol of torture; of negation; of salvation. Old wood; time stained. Sister James had said, It’s the I crossed out, the negation of self. Lost in darkness. No light some days. But he’s there, Sister James had insisted. Always there. She closes the eyes again. Holds the breath. Did that as a child to see how long she could hold it. Or maybe a way to die. Out of it all back then. Father as he was; Mother dying of cancer. Thin as a reed in the end. Blown by ill winds. Where’s your God now? Father’d say. Where the great almighty right now? He bellowed staring her right in the face, his huge brown eyes boring into her. Forgive those that interfere with us, she mutters, thinking of her father, not wanting to, wanting him long gone. Even in the convent within its high walls, he’s there in her memory, ghostly walking the cloisters, mocking, taunting. Without forgiveness there can be no forgiveness, without remorse no mercy, no pardon. She allows prayers to rise, fresh prayers, new ones. Her knees ache still. The thighs have cramp. She rises awkwardly and paces the room rubbing the back of her thighs with her hands. Sister Bede gazed at her lunchtime. The eyes bright as stars. The smile warm as an embrace. Not to dwell on that. Not to lose focus. Whatever you focus on is your reality, Father had insisted. All things are just atoms in motion; no reality you can see. You can stick your God, child, no way that’s a reality. She had wanted to tell him he was wrong but she feared him. The dark eyes brooded; the large hands smacked. She squeezes her eyes shut tight trying to keep him out and God in. She pauses and stands by the window looking down into the cloister. Sister Bede is pulling weeds in the garth flowerbeds. The fingers busy; the back bent. She watches the scene for several minutes taking in each motion, each movement, each pause for rest. God is in each part of us inward dwelling. Never found him in her father no mattered how hard she looked. But Sister Bede…she sighs. The cramp in her thighs has eased. Offer it up, the pain, the prayer, the thoughts, the wants, the sins, the deeds, the kisses. He sees all; there’s nothing He misses.