Again, joanne begged Mother�s permission to enter the Sisters of St. John that September.
�I�ll sign the papers when you show me your degree.�
So she regarded the years of waiting as a test, a kind of entrance exam God demanded. She nursed her vocation, attending daily Mass, confessing weekly, relishing the Sacraments. She felt truly nourished when the Host warmed her throat, truly cleansed when she received absolution. Pushing back the occasional doubts about the purpose of her existence, she guarded her faith and rejoiced in its rewards. Often she reflected on the Mystical Body of Christ, the pure love that joined all his followers.
She could not believe that her vocation was grounded in fear and guilt, though she sometimes worried about the grim message Our Lady herself had delivered to the little children of Fatima, that without prayer the world would succumb to Communism and Godlessness. Pope Pius was expected to open and read a letter in 1960 and it relieved her to know she would be a novice by then.
When summer school started, Joanne found a sign of God�s support in a little cottage on the campus. The Sisters of St. John had rented it to house nuns studying and teaching there. They had moved in, and one of them was Sister Mercy, Joanne�s friend from Holy Angels. Joanne became a regular visitor at the cottage, where the three young sisters served her ginger ale, cookies and encouragement.
Joanne attended classes in the morning, swam in the afternoon, studied and relaxed at night. By August, she was nine credits closer to graduation.
Fall came and the dormitories filled again. The cottage now held five nuns, Sister Mercy still among them. She was bubbling with news.
�Michelle is Sister Erica now. She�s so happy and she makes a beautiful nun. She said to be sure and thank you for your letters. Oh, and there�s a retreat for high school students and graduates in March. Do you want to go?�
�Yes!�
March seemed like eternities away, but Joanne threw herself into her studies. The extra courses filled the time. She roomed with Mary Beth and talked to Mac occasionally, although they could no longer date. When others asked her out, she refused.
�Going to the motherhouse is going home,� said Sister Mercy as they drove to St. John�s. �I haven�t been back since last Easter. I made my retreat during Holy Week. We make an annual retreat, you know. It�s so peaceful there.�
�Yes,� said Joanne, remembering the calm, the quiet dignity of the building itself, the smiling serenity of the residents. It reminded her of Brigadoon. She thought of Michelle, Sister Erica now, blending into that unchanging world. Would she recognize her?
Winter still veiled the ancient mansion as they wound up the long driveway. Grey sky clung to its slate roof, but a spring-like anticipation stirred through the cold air. Sister Mercy bounced out of the car and inhaled deeply.
Joanne�s roommate for the weekend was Bonnie, a wispy girl who needed no help finding her way through the halls and up the steps.
�I live here during the school year,� she told Joanne. �I�m a prep. That means I go to the boarding school here for girls who want to enter. Are you going to enter in September?� Joanne explained that she would have to wait a year. �Oh, too bad. I wish you could be in my class!�
Bonnie�s exuberance was mirrored in the eyes of the novices and postulants at recreation that evening. They had prepared a skit and songs about novitiate life. The last one, �In the Halls of Our Novitiate,� knotted Joanne�s throat with longing. Sister Erica rushed up to her. Joanne had picked her out during the songs, but she had trouble remembering how she had looked as Michelle. �I can�t believe it,� she told her. �You look as though you�d been born in the habit.�
�Thank you. Sometimes I feel that way.�
The novices did not try to recruit vocations, but their enthusiasm was enough.
The year passed and another summer as well. Joanne had amassed enough credits to begin her senior year and begin student teaching. Dressed in a gray suit, her hair piled on top of her head to add height and, she hoped, age, she rode with Bill Garson, a fellow student teacher. The drive to Minersville took fifteen minutes. �What are you teaching?� she asked.
�Chemistry to juniors and seniors. You?�
�Freshman English, Junior French. I hope the students aren�t bigger than me.�
�I hear it�s not a bad school. The classes are pretty small.�
�I hope so.� She remembered how merciless she and her classmates had been toward substitute teachers. And these were rough, mining town kids. Would they know she wasn�t even twenty yet? �There�s no need to panic yet,� she told herself. �Today I just have to observe.� She smoothed her hair and went in to meet Mr. Michaelson, her helping teacher.
Joanne watched admiringly as he finished up a chapter, drawing out the shy students, challenging the more vociferous ones. Tomorrow, though, he wanted her to start.
She prepared elaborate plans, afraid to omit a sentence of what she would say. Mr. Michaelson sat in the back of the room as she began her first lesson. She walked to the desk and spread open her plan book. The ninth grade English class looked up expectantly, and, thank God, quietly. She called the roll, wondering if she would ever fit the names to the faces. Fortuitously, the lesson was on introductions. �When introducing a man and woman, say the woman�s name first: Judy Jones, this is John Smith.� They practiced introducing one another while she memorized their names. The blur of faces separated into individuals, children�s faces, eager to please. Joanne moved among them, forgetting her plan book. Her voice became louder. Mr. Michaelson left the classroom and she relaxed. Teaching was fun!
Her French class had only nineteen students and Mr. Michaelson let her walk in alone. �Bonjour, classe,� she greeted them and �au revoir� came much sooner than she expected.
Student teaching ended two weeks before graduation. Mr. Michaelson urged Joanne to apply for a teaching position in Minersville, assuring her she would get it. She explained her plans. On her last day there, both classes presented her with gifts, a white purse and gloves from the junior class and a lovely white rosary from the freshmen. That night she wrote thank you notes to both classes, then a letter to Sue, now Mrs. Michael Bryant. Then she typed a formal request for an application to Mount St. John.