There are moments in life that carve themselves deep into our souls, moments that leave scars far beyond the physical. I found myself in one of those profound experiences after speaking up against the injustices I witnessed, especially concerning Tita Mi. It was a turning point that shattered my world, sending me spiraling into an emotional abyss.
The punishment that followed was swift and merciless. I was ordered into silence, a strict decree that cut me off from the very community that had once provided solace and support. Instead of comfort, I was met with an overwhelming sense of isolation during a time of intense sorrow and grief. The emotional turmoil I faced was like a tempest, swirling with hatred, anger, misunderstanding, and a pain so deep it felt as if it could consume me whole.
In those dark moments, I found myself pleading to God, my heart a raw wound seeking healing. I called upon the Blessed Mother and every saint I could recall, desperately asking for intercession. The physical punishment inflicted upon me—long hours without sleep, the deprivation of food—paled in comparison to the emotional torture I was enduring. This internal chaos was the worst suffering I had ever experienced. The very individuals I once revered as holy and benevolent turned into figures of betrayal. They were supposed to guide me towards salvation, to heal the wounds I carried, yet they became the very instruments of my anguish.
I can still vividly remember the chapel, a sanctuary that had seemed to be transforming more into a prison. Laid out on my stomach, hands folded in front of me, I pressed my head against my arms, trying to shield my heart from the pain. For so long, I had masked my turmoil, presenting a façade of strength. But that day, my body betrayed me. Tremors coursed through me, and tears streamed down my face—an outpouring of grief that felt like a release from a dam that had held back a flood for too long.
The haunting memories of the hospital remained etched in my mind, images of suffering that I couldn’t escape. They played on a loop, a constant reminder of the helplessness I felt in the face of such overwhelming grief. It was a relentless burden, an ache that seemed insurmountable.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, I finally pulled myself up, hoping for a glimmer of connection. To my astonishment, one of the elder sisters entered the chapel. She knelt beside me, wrapping her arm around me—a gesture that felt both foreign and comforting. I was taken aback. Was she out of her mind? Didn’t she realize the consequences of showing compassion towards someone deemed a black sheep, a pariah for my outburst?
As she whispered that Mo. Agnes would be down soon to have a manifestation with me, I felt a flicker of hope. In that moment, amidst the pain and isolation, I realized that perhaps there was still a thread of connection, a chance for healing, and a way to reclaim my voice. That simple act of kindness reminded me that even in the darkest of times, there are still glimpses of light, moments that can guide us back to the path of healing and understanding.
This journey through pain and isolation was far from over, but it marked the beginning of a struggle for redemption, for understanding, and ultimately, for my own sense of peace.
As I sat in the chapel, surrounded by an almost tangible silence, I sought solace in the presence of God. The air was thick with a numbing stillness, the kind that wraps around you like a heavy blanket, making it difficult to breathe. In that moment, I closed my eyes, desperately trying to find peace. But then, the door creaked open, shattering my fragile cocoon of tranquility.
I turned to see her, Mo. Agnes, entering with a grace that felt both familiar and foreign. She knelt, a sign of reverence that only deepened my turmoil. As she walked directly toward me, my heart raced—flooded with emotions swirling like a tempest within. I wanted to scream, "How could you?!" The relationship we shared felt like an incomplete jigsaw puzzle, with crucial pieces missing, leaving me lost and disoriented.
I had traveled internationally with her on numerous occasions, each journey woven with moments of camaraderie and shared dreams. Mo. Agnes was not just a mentor; she was a fierce advocate for my vocation, the one who opened doors to the SITH and fought for my place within it. She often told me how much she cared for me, how she would show me what true motherly love felt like—always referencing the pain I felt with my own mother as a poignant point of connection.
But with Mo. Agnes, there were two distinct sides. When we were alone or on missions together, she revealed a different persona—one filled with compassion and understanding. We would share laughter and light-hearted moments, and she taught me the intricacies of media and advocacy. In those instances, her affection felt genuine, and I could almost believe in the love she professed. She often remarked that she saw herself in me at a young age, igniting a flicker of hope within me that perhaps, just perhaps, I was on the right path.
Yet, the moment we returned to the community, everything shifted. The warmth evaporated, replaced by a coldness that felt like a slap in the face. Mo. Agnes became the embodiment of discipline, often using me as an example for others to follow—an object lesson in obedience and humility. I was bewildered by the stark contrast, caught in a whirlwind of confusion and conflict. How could someone who claimed to care for my soul turn so harsh? It felt like being swept away in a storm, struggling to find solid ground amidst the chaos.
As I sat there, grappling with my emotions, I felt like a ship lost at sea, tossed by waves of uncertainty and longing. The laughter we shared seemed a distant memory, overshadowed by the weight of her expectations. I yearned for clarity, for the pieces of our relationship to fall into place, but they remained stubbornly out of reach.
In that chapel, enveloped by silence, I realized that I was not just fighting for understanding but also for my own sense of self. The journey of navigating love and confusion was far from easy, but it was a path I had to walk. I had to confront the duality of my experience with Mo. Agnes, seeking to reconcile the warmth of our shared moments with the coldness of her public persona. It was a delicate balance, a dance between love and pain that I was still learning to navigate.
The jigsaw pieces were scattered, but somewhere within the chaos, I held onto the hope that one day, they would fit together, revealing a complete picture of understanding and acceptance. Until then, I would continue to seek peace, one moment at a time.
As I sat there, the air thick with unspoken words, I slowly opened up during the manifestation. Mo. Agnes leaned in, her gaze earnest as she asked me questions that stirred the depths of my soul. I felt like I was treading water in a tumultuous sea, desperately trying to hold on and get through the storm.
I began to express the turmoil that raged within me, the questions that haunted my mind. But in an instant, she redirected the weight of my struggles back onto me, using Tita Mi’s life and struggles as a poignant guilt trip. Her words dripped with a heavy sense of obligation, reminding me that Tita Mi had asked permission to ask God for suffering to save my vocation. I was struck dumb, grappling with the enormity of what she was suggesting.
“She did this for you,” Mo. Agnes insisted, her voice filled with a mix of urgency and compassion. “She knew you were in crisis, and this was all to help you persevere.” The pressure mounted, and I felt a swell of guilt wash over me. Tita Mi had cared deeply for me, sacrificing her own well-being to be a victim soul for our vocations. How could I reconcile this with my own struggles?
Speechless and confused, I felt the burden of expectation settle on my shoulders like a heavy cloak. It was overwhelming, and just as I was trying to process this revelation, Mo. Agnes delivered the news that would change everything: I needed to pack my bags. Tita Mi was being sent home for her final goodbye and burial.
Panic surged within me. I didn’t want to return to the Philippines; I didn’t want to face Mo. Ethel and relive the horrors from my time in the Novitiate. The thought of confronting those memories felt like a dark shadow looming over me, threatening to engulf me whole. But Mo. Agnes reassured me, telling me we would be traveling back together and staying in the mission house for the funeral.
“What about the missions here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, clinging to the hope that I wouldn’t be abandoned in this tumultuous time. She nodded, affirming that the missions would continue in the United States. I could still be part of the community, and I was no longer bound by the silence that had felt like a prison.
For a fleeting moment, a glimmer of relief pierced through the fog of my tortured thoughts. Perhaps there was a way to escape the weight of my grief, at least temporarily. I agreed to travel back to the Philippines, to give Tita Mi her final goodbye, a gesture I felt I had no real choice in.
As I prepared for the journey, I found solace in the fact that I would be accompanied by Sia and Olivia. Their presence felt like a lifeline, grounding me amidst the chaos swirling around us. Together, we would navigate the pain of loss and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
In that moment, I realized that grief is a complex tapestry woven with threads of love, obligation, and confusion. As I packed my bags, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was walking into a storm, but perhaps, just perhaps, I wouldn’t have to face it alone.
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OMgosh , once again your writings amaze me. Did you ever go to college? You are a brilliant writer. Who knew what was involved in becoming a nun, thanks for the eye opener. When Des was born I delivered her at the Yankton hospital , I actually had to stay in the Nuns home close by the hospital because of the fear of my unusual uterus could burst at any moment. I became close friends with a nun there, she told me to pray for her, NOW many yrs later I realize why she
said that after reading your writings. Sister Rosalyn Diekes , I’ll remember her forever. When Des was born they did an emergency baptism, a nun was her sponser, I have no idea her name as I was so out if it on anesthesia. My story….