Free The Christmas Tree by Jill; Julie; Weber Salamon

young.
    When Sister Frances added up the names of everyone who wanted to go, she realized there were far too many people for the convent van to carry. That didn’t stop her, though. The convent had funds for special occasions, and she thought this was as good an occasion as she could imagine to spend some of that money. So she chartered a caravan of buses. She wanted to find out if I could arrange parking for them. No problem, I told her.
    Then, two weeks later, she called again.
    â€œI’m sorry to bother you,” she said, “but I have a problem. I’ve been so busy running around preparing for the trip I didn’t really notice how quiet Sister Anthony has been lately. Then, yesterday, I was looking over the list to see who had signed up and I realized someone was missing.”
    I interrupted. “She isn’t coming?”
    â€œDon’t rush me, young man,” said Sister Frances.
    Obviously she was going to tell the story her way.
    â€œThe minute I realized she hadn’t signed up I found her in the library and, I’m ashamed to say, spoke rather sharply to her.”
    I couldn’t help smiling, imagining the showdown between these two.
    â€œShe asked me if something was wrong and I said, ‘Yes, indeed there is. Why aren’t you coming to Rockefeller Center with us?’
    â€œI already knew the answer, of course. I must say, my heart went out to her, but I told her, ‘There’s a time to say good-bye.’
    â€œYou know what she said to me? ‘I’ve already said good-bye.’
    â€œAt that moment she seemed like that sad little girl I’d seen almost sixty years ago, looking so lost and alone.
    â€œâ€˜Are you sure?’ I asked her. Well, I could just see from the look on her face that I wasn’t going to change her mind.”
    There was silence.
    â€œSister Frances?” I said.
    â€œYes,” she said, sounding somewhat startled. “Oh, yes. That’s why I’m calling. I need you to come out to Brush Creek the day of the tree lighting and bring Sister Anthony to Rockefeller Center yourself. You’re the only one who can do it. I’m counting on you.”
    And then she hung up.
    At first I wanted to call her back and tell her it was impossible. How could I spend the biggest day of my year driving all the way out to the middle of New Jersey and back? But my next thought was, how could I not?
    When I arrived at Brush Creek the buses were already there. It was a long way into the city and the weather was poor for traveling. The temperature hovered around freezing, and the light snow that had begun to fall was wet and sloppy.
    Despite the gloom outside, inside the convent felt festive. The main room was full of nuns, the townspeople who were going along and a huge number of children, some of whom I recognized as Sister Anthony’s­ students.
    Sister Frances was in her element, lining people up and telling them which bus to get on. You could see she was happiest when she held a clipboard in her hand.
    When she saw me she didn’t even say hello. She just nodded toward the back. “She’s out in the greenhouse,” she said. “She doesn’t know you’re coming.”
    â€œThat’s just great,” I said to myself, kicking myself for coming on this fool’s errand. What made me—or Sister Frances, for that matter—think I could change Sister Anthony’s mind? And why should we try? Was it our place to decide how Sister Anthony should deal with the end of the most meaningful friendship she’d ever had? We couldn’t even begin to understand the connection between her and Tree, and what it meant to have it broken.
    I wanted to turn around and drive right back to New York, where I belonged. I didn’t have it in me to be anyone’s spiritual advisor—least of all a nun’s.
    While all of this was going through my mind Sister Frances was still tending to