Free In This Small Spot by Caren Werlinger

“That reading is connected to
a… a difficult time in my life. I’d rather not pray with that
one.”
    Gently, Sister Anselma said, “Maybe that’s
why I was prompted to give it to you. Please try.”
    Mickey nodded and closed her journal.
    ╬ ╬ ╬
    The virtuous woman, though she die before
her time, will find rest.
    “Tell me,” was all Sister Anselma said the
next day. She noticed, but didn’t comment on, the dark circles
under Mickey’s eyes. She suspected Mickey had not slept at all.
    Length of days is not what makes age
honourable,
    Nor number of years the true measure of
life.
    Mickey stared at the pen in her hands,
pushing the cap off with her thumb and clicking it back on, over
and over. “I’m afraid I didn’t really get anywhere with the
readings you gave me yesterday,” she said in a low voice.
    “Why not?”
    She has sought to please God, so God has
loved her.
    Mickey frowned and rubbed her forehead. “I
don’t know,” she said irritably. “I just couldn’t seem to settle my
mind.”
    Sister Anselma sat silently for a long time,
until Mickey finally looked up at her.
    “Michele,” she said, her expression neutral,
“I would like your permission to speak with Mother. I believe we
should extend your retreat.”
    Mickey’s heart sank. “How long?”
    “A full thirty days.”
    After the seventh day, Mickey ate alone in
the room off the refectory. The others returned to the normal
routine of abbey life. Sister Anselma didn’t give Mickey different
Scriptures to pray with. She kept asking Mickey to stay with the
ones she was stuck on. Not until the tenth day did Mickey begin to
open up even a little.
    “The reading from Wisdom, with some gender
changes, was one of the passages used in the funeral of my partner,
Alice,” she finally told Sister Anselma that afternoon.
    “How long were you together?” Sister Anselma
asked quietly.
    “Twelve years. We met while I was in medical
school.” Mickey’s eyes stared, unfocused, at the wall.
    “Tell me about her.”
    For the first time in days, Mickey’s face
softened a little. “She was everything to me,” she said in a voice
barely above a whisper. “She was the gentlest soul I have ever
known. She always knew what I needed – whether it was just to
listen when I needed to vent, or hold me when a patient died, or
make me laugh when I was taking myself too seriously.”
    Mickey was surprised when Sister Anselma
didn’t ask any more questions. She finally gave Mickey three new
Scriptures. When Mickey sat down to pray with them, they were
joyful passages – Psalms 138 and 139, the Song of Songs. A front of
unseasonably warm air had moved into the region, and she was able
to go outside to spend the hours praying with those passages,
immersed in memories of the love and happiness Alice had brought to
her life. She felt tremendously relieved that she was through the
worst of this retreat. She slept better that night, and felt more
prepared to face Sister Anselma the next day.
    To her disappointment, Sister Anselma didn’t
ask any questions about those prayer sessions.
    “What kind of surgeon were you?” Sister
Anselma asked unexpectedly.
    “I’m sorry?” Mickey asked, not sure how to
interpret the question.
    “What kind of surgeon were you?” Sister
Anselma repeated, refusing to clarify.
    “I was a general surgeon, but my specialty
was oncological cases – removing cancerous tissues,” Mickey opted
to answer.
    Sister Anselma was looking at her intently.
“Were you a good doctor?”
    Mickey could feel her face burn. “I don’t
know how to answer that,” she responded honestly.
    Sister Anselma simply nodded and continued
watching Mickey. “Tell me how Alice died.”
    Mickey was unprepared for this. She felt her
face get hotter, and her heartbeat quicken. “She was complaining of
back pain. But she taught second grade; she was always having to
bend and stoop.” She had to stop to try and breathe. “By the time
an MRI was