Changing Habits Read Free

retreat?”
    â€œIt’s just for the weekend,” Angie explained. “Every graduating class goes away for retreat.”
    â€œAt a convent?”
    â€œYes. Sister St. George said it was a contemplative time before we graduate and take our place in the world.”
    Her father read over the permission slip again. “You know your place, and that’s right here next to me at Angelina’s.”
    â€œEveryone’s going,” Angie protested.
    â€œAll the girls in your class?” He sounded skeptical.
    â€œYes.” She wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but Angie wanted to be part of this retreat. After attending twelve years of parochial school, she was curious. Convent life was so secretive, and she didn’t want to lose this one opportunity to see it from the inside.
    â€œAll right, you can go,” her father reluctantly agreed.
    He was right, of course; her future was set. She would join him at the restaurant and cook or wait tables, whatever was needed. The restaurant was the only life she knew, and its familiarity a continuing comfort.
    Early that June, St. Mary’s School for Girls’ senior class left by charter bus for Boston and the motherhouse of St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption. It was three weeks before graduation. The first thing Angie felt when the bus pulled up to the convent was a sense of serenity. The three-story brick structure was surrounded by a tall fence and well-maintained grounds. While traffic sped by on the busy streets surrounding the convent, inside the wrought iron gates there was tranquility. Angie didn’t know if her friends felt it, but she did.
    Friday evening the sisters served dinner.
    â€œThey aren’t going to eat with us?” Sheila Jones leaned close and asked Angie. Sheila and Dorothy French were Angie’s two best friends.
    â€œHaven’t you ever noticed?” Dorothy whispered. “Nuns never eat with lay people.”
    Angie hadn’t noticed, hadn’t thought about it until then.
    â€œI wonder if they’ve ever tasted pizza,” Dorothy said.
    â€œOf course they have,” Angie insisted. “They eat the same food as everyone else.”
    â€œI wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Sheila murmured.
    Angie wondered. She couldn’t imagine life without pizza and fettuccine Alfredo and a dozen other dishes. These were the special recipes her father had entrusted to her care.
    Later that evening, Angie was intrigued by the Spartan cell she’d been assigned for the weekend. The floors were bare, as were the walls, except for a crucifix that hung above the bed. One small window took up a portion of the outside wall, but it was too high to see out of and only allowed in a glimmer of sunlight. The single bed had a thin mattress and the bed stand could hold a lamp and a prayer book, but little else.
    That first night when Angie climbed into bed, the sheets felt rough and grainy against her skin. She’d expected to fall asleep almost instantly, but her mind spun in ten different directions. This was holy ground, where she slept—holy ground on which she walked. Women who had dedicated their lives to the service of God had once slept in this room. This wasn’t something to be taken lightly, she realized. She finally fell into a deep sleep sometime after midnight.
    The second day of the retreat included an hour of solitary prayer. Each girl was to spend time alone to assess her calling in life. No talking was permitted, but they could speak to one of the sisters if they desired. Angie took pains to avoid her friends because it would be too easy to break silence.
    â€œAngie!” Dorothy French’s loud whisper echoed through the chapel as she loped down the center aisle.
    Angie cringed and ignored her.
    Undaunted, Dorothy slipped into the pew next to her. She rattled her rosary as she lowered her head and pretended to pray. “I’m going to bust if I