Lying Awake

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1997 God’s Mystery

  JULY 25 Saint James, Apostle

  JULY 29 Martha

  JULY 31 Ignatius of Loyola

  AUGUST 6 Transfiguration

  AUGUST 15 Assumption

  AUGUST 22 Queenship of Mary

  AUGUST 29 Beheading of John the Baptist, Martyr

  AUGUST 31 Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time

  SEPTEMBER 3 Gregory the Great, Pope and Doctor

  SEPTEMBER 4 Twelfth Thursday in Ordinary Time

  SEPTEMBER 5 Twelfth Friday in Ordinary Time

  SEPTEMBER 8 Birth of Mary

  1969 The Call

  SEPTEMBER 14 Triumph of the Cross

  1982 The Desert

  JULY 16 Our Lady of Mount Carmel

  1994 Rain from Heaven

  MARCH 27 Holy Thursday

  1997 Darkness

  SEPTEMBER 9 Peter Claver, Priest

  SEPTEMBER 12 Thirteenth Friday in Ordinary Time

  SEPTEMBER 13 John Chrysostom, Bishop and Doctor

  SEPTEMBER 14 Triumph of the Cross

  1997 Surrender

  SEPTEMBER 26 Cosmas and Damian, Martyrs

  SEPTEMBER 27 Vincent de Paul, Priest

  OCTOBER 1 Thérèse of the Child Jesus, Virgin and Doctor

  OCTOBER 2 Guardian Angels

  OCTOBER 4 Francis of Assisi

  OCTOBER 5 Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

  1997 Faith

  OCTOBER 15 Teresa of Avila, Virgin and Doctor

  NOVEMBER 1 All Saints

  About the Author

  Other Books by Mark Salzman

  Acclaim for Mark Salzman’s Lying Awake

  Copyright

  To Jessica Yu, my north star

  1997

  God’s Mystery

  JULY 25

  Saint James, Apostle

  Sister John of the Cross pushed her blanket aside, dropped to her knees on the floor of her cell, and offered the day to God.

  Every moment a beginning, every moment an end.

  The silence of the monastery coaxed her out of herself, calling her to search for something unfelt, unknown, and unimagined. Her spirit responded to this call with an algorithm of longing. Every moment of being contained an indivisible—and invisible—denominator.

  She lit a vigil candle and faced the plain wooden cross on the wall. It had no corpus because, in spirit, she belonged there, taking Christ’s place and helping relieve his burden.

  Suffering borne by two is nearly joy.

  Fighting the stiffness in her limbs, she lifted her brown scapular, symbol of the yoke of Christ, and began the clothing prayer:

  Clothe me, O Lord, with the armor of salvation.

  She let the robe’s two panels drop from her shoulders to the hemline, back and front, then stepped into the rough sandals that identified her as a member of the Order of Discalced—shoeless—Carmelites, founded by Saint Teresa of Avila in the sixteenth century.

  Purify my mind and heart. Empty me of my own will, that I may be filled with Yours.

  A linen wimple, with the black veil of Profession sewn to its crown, left only the oval of her face exposed. Mirrors were not permitted in the cloister, but after twenty-eight years of carrying out this ritual every morning, she could see with her fingers as she adjusted the layers of fabric to a pleasing symmetry.

  Let these clothes remind me of my consecration to this life of enclosure, silence, and solitude.

  She sat at her desk to read through the poems she had written the night before—keeping her up until past midnight—and made a few changes. Then she made her bed and carried her washbasin out to the dormitory bathroom. She walked quietly so as not to wake her Sisters, who would not stir for at least another hour. The night light at the end of the hall was shaded with a transparency of a rose window; its reflection on the polished wood floor fanned out like a peacock’s tail.

  As Sister John emptied the basin into the sink, taking care to avoid splashing, the motion of the water as it spiraled toward the drain triggered a spell of vertigo. It was a welcome sensation; she experienced it as a rising from within, as if her spirit could no longer be contained by her body.

  Wherever You lead me, I will follow.

  Instead of going to the choir to wait for the others, she returned to her cell, knelt down on the floor again, and unfocused her eyes.

  Blessed is that servant whom the master finds awake when he comes.

  Pure awareness stripped her of everything. She became an ember carried upward by the heat of an invisible flame. Higher and higher she rose, away from all she knew. Powerless to save herself, she drifted up toward infinity until the vacuum sucked the feeble light out of her.

  A darkness so pure it glistened, then out of that darkness,

  nova.

  More luminous than any sun, transcending visibility, the flare consumed everything, it lit up all of existence. In this radiance she could see forever, and everywhere she looked, she saw God’s love. As soon as she could move again, she opened her notebook and began writing.

  JULY 29

  Martha

  Mother Mary Joseph, the former prioress, kept her hands folded under her scapular and her gaze lowered. She walked close to the wall so as not to draw attention to herself even though no other Sister was present. In spite of being nearly doubled over from osteoporosis and weakened from a recent bout of pneumonia, she still joined the choir for all of the canonical Hours. In religion for sixty-one years, Mother Mary Joseph was a Living Rule, a nun who epitomized the highest ideals of contemplative life. Tradition held that if the laws and constitutions of the Order were ever lost, they could be recovered simply by watching a Living Rule pray.

  She lowered the wooden clapper from its place on the wall but felt, as always, reluctant to cleave the Great Silence. God’s mystery roared in her ears. The cool, still air felt good against her cheeks, and she gave thanks for that. In a few hours the sun’s heat would test her fortitude, but Mother Mary Joseph thanked God for trials, too. Gratitude must know no limits.

  She struck the clapper hard.

  More than just a summons to devotions, it was the voice of Christ calling to His servants. Any Sisters who were not already up answered with their knees as they dropped to the floor in their cells.

  “Praised be Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, his mother. Come to prayer, Sisters, come to praise the Lord.”

  Mother Mary Joseph struck the clapper a second time, then returned it to its place on the wall. She descended a shallow staircase, lifting her habit from the rear to prevent it from brushing against the steps. Causing the fabric to be worn unnecessarily would be a fault against the vow of poverty. Her sandals whispered across the parquet floor, then she stepped into the courtyard.

  It was still dark outside. The hush of predawn traffic drifted up the canyon and over the cloister wall. The world had closed in on the monastery since its construction in 1927. With the Golden State Freeway to the east, Chinatown to the south, the Police Academy to the north, and Dodger Stadium a mile to the west, the Sisters of the Carmel of St. Joseph now prayed from the very heart of Los Angeles. Still, tucked in a fold of hills at the end of an unmarked driveway, the monastery was as invisible as a sunken ship.

  The one-story buildings of the cloister spread out to form a U, with the open end facing west, up into the canyon. The main building housed the chapel and choir, the bell tower, the refectory, and the kitchen. The northern arm held the common room, the visitor’s parlor, and the scriptorium. The other had b
een divided into private cells for the nuns. Eaves of thatched mesquite provided shelter from the sun as the Sisters moved from one part of the cloister to another. Every fall, the youngest Sisters climbed up on ladders and laid plastic sheets over the eaves for protection during the rainy season.

  A masonry wall extended up into the canyon, sealing off the enclosure and giving them half an acre of property for walking, gardening, and contemplation. At the far end of this property, hidden by mulberry trees and a thicket of bamboo, two hermitages offered privacy for Sisters who felt the need for even deeper solitude than the regular schedule provided.

  Skirting under the eaves, Mother Mary Joseph entered the choir and turned on the lights, dimming them to the intensity of candlelight. The empty wooden stalls, where the nuns sat and stood to pray, faced each other in two rows from opposite sides of the room. Mother Mary Joseph genuflected before the altar, then crossed the room to her own stall, from which she had prayed for more than half a century. She removed her Liturgy of the Hours from under the seat and used colored ribbons to mark the pages for the chanting of Lauds; her devotions had worn the gold leaf on the edges of the pages to a dull brown.

  The nuns met in choir seven times a day to pray the Divine Office, the liturgy of the Church. Unlike private prayer or sacred reading, the Office was meant to be recited in public and out loud, so that the written word of God could be turned into a living encounter with the Word that is God. As Mother Mary Joseph prepared her breviary, the others floated into the room like apparitions until all were in their stalls except for Sister John of the Cross. No one broke discipline to stare at the gap in the row of seated figures, but every nun felt the absence. Nothing was more precious to the community, or to the Church, than a Sister’s voice and heart in choir.

  Mother Emmanuel, the Superior of the monastery, gave the benediction. She called upon all created things to praise their Maker, glancing one more time at the empty stall, then toward the door. Her lips moved silently, then she raised her chin and signaled for the recitation of the Divine Office to begin.

  Lord, open my lips.

  Then the antiphon:

  I have openly sought wisdom in my prayers,

  and it has blossomed like early grapes.

  The two sides of the choir called out to each other like bridegroom and bride, separated by fate and longing for each other. Gregorian chant, sung in unison without harmony, drifted over the screen hiding the nuns from chapel, then rose toward the heavens, joining the prayers of contemplatives everywhere whose vocation was to pray on behalf of those either unwilling or unable to pray for themselves. During the Office of Lauds, those souls caught in the struggle against temptation were particularly vulnerable, since the rest of the world was still asleep and not praying for their salvation.

  The Sisters bowed at the Gloria Patri. As they rose, Sister John of the Cross appeared in the doorway looking weary but exhilarated. Several of the nuns glanced at her, unable to mortify their curiosity. Sister Anne, who considered observance of the Rule to be of more value than all extraordinary states, kept her eyes on her breviary and resumed the chanting of the liturgy on her own, forcing the others to catch up.

  God, come to my assistance.

  Lord, make haste to help me.

  Without needing to be told what was required of her, Sister John prostrated herself facedown on the floor of the choir, her arms outstretched in the manner of the crucifixion. Even penance was love.

  JULY 31

  Ignatius of Loyola

  Sister John and Mother Mary Joseph sat opposite each other at a cherrywood table covered with boxes of handmade paper, bottles of colored ink, tubes of paint, jars filled with sable brushes, and a stand for her pens and pencils. A parishioner had donated the table after it had been water-damaged. The Sisters had stripped and refinished it, then given it pride of place in the scriptorium. They dubbed it the Ark because so many precious objects were crowded onto its surface.

  Mother Mary Joseph had been working for several days on an illuminated page for Father Aaron’s reading at Mass on the Feast Day of Saint Christopher. Her illustration showed the saint carrying a child on his back across a storm-swollen river. She brushed the final touches of gold on the child’s hair, blew a few times on the page to stiffen the paint, then handed it to Sister John of the Cross for the copying out of the text.

  Start here, end there, Mother Mary Joseph indicated through hand signals. Speech was permitted in the cloister only during the recreation periods following dinner and evening collation.

  The sermon, written by Father Aaron for the occasion, described the saint’s efforts to keep the child from being swallowed up by the river:

  The rain stung his eyes and forced them closed, the waves splashed up over his head, making him choke and gasp, and his legs, which had been carrying people to safety all day, seemed about to give out. And still, the waters rose higher! At the point of despair, he thought of the child on his shoulders and knew he had to fight on, he had to reach the other shore, no matter what.

  Sister John could see the river in her mind as she copied out the text, and she understood the saint’s anguish. She knew what it was like to feel abandoned by God. She had languished in the cloister for years, her prayers empty and her soul dry, until grace came and brought the drought to an end. When the story finally brought Saint Christopher across the river, and he fell exhausted into the mud, Sister John had to put down the pen to read through to the end:

  At last the child revealed himself to the poor giant as Christ, and he said, “You carried the weight of the whole world on your back when you carried me.” Sometimes we all feel that way when we share Christ’s burden, we feel we are drowning in the sorrows of the world, but if we ask God for the strength to endure for the sake of others rather than just ourselves, we discover how powerful love really is.

  Her eyes welled up. This was not just a story to Sister John, it was sacred reading. God spoke to her through these words and evoked, from the center of her being, a response of surrender and gratitude. Mother Mary Joseph watched her and thought: God showers this one with graces.

  The monastery bell tolled, summoning the community to midday prayer. Sister John rose to her feet; the copying would have to be completed later. The two nuns filed out of the scriptorium and followed the bare corridor toward the choir. At a turn in the hallway, Mother Mary Joseph stopped, noticed something, then flashed a smile. Lost in the emotion created by the parable, Sister John had forgotten to remove the paper napkin she had tucked under her chin to protect her habit. The two nuns exchanged a glance, then shook with noiseless laughter.

  AUGUST 6

  Transfiguration

  I cried out, and the Lord heard me.

  Sister John held her breviary out in front of her, not allowing her elbows to sag or rest against her sides. She welcomed the pain of her headache, knowing that those who love more want to suffer more, in imitation of Christ’s difficult life. The stained-glass window on the south side of the choir, an abstract pattern of yellows and oranges and Indian reds, burned a knife-edge of color into the floor near the wall. She listened as Sister Miriam, a novice preparing to make First Vows, read aloud:

  My soul is waiting for the Lord,

  I count on His word.

  My soul is longing for the Lord

  more than watchman for daybreak.

  Sister Miriam did everything deliberately, as if under constant examination. After three years in the cloister, she still seemed unsure of herself. Her tentative manner and novice’s white veil reminded the others of a bird in adolescent plumage.

  Expectant silence.

  Sister John emptied herself for the voice of the Holy Spirit, letting it resonate within her, turning her heart into a cathedral. The text of the psalms led her, day after day, year after year, through the cycle of life. It looped endlessly, but also spiraled inward, bringing her closer to the mys
tery of God and the meaning of their lives in God.

  The full choir chanted the prayer:

  All-powerful and ever-living God,

  with You there is no darkness,

  from You nothing is hidden.

  Fill us with the radiance of Your light.

  After the last note had died away, the Sisters filed out of the choir for Sext, the examination of conscience. Sister John made the short journey to her cell, walking slowly because of the headache, then closed the door behind her and faced the simplicity of the room: light, air, and cross. She sat down in her chair, closed her eyes, and reviewed the day and the motivations for her actions.

  Have I acted and spoken with God’s presence in mind? Have I been grateful for my trials as well as my consolations? Have I lived up to my commitment to trust in God’s love completely?

  A mockingbird sang in the heat. Sister John heard the sky in its voice.

  Cicadas, the rustle of eucalyptus leaves; the music of sun and shade.

  Sister John opened a fresh notebook and began to write. Adoration welled up through the pain, closing the gap between lover and Beloved. The force of his presence curved eternity in on itself; it was not her love rising after all, but his love pulling her toward him. She fell upward into brilliance, where all suffering was released.

  In the fire of his embrace, all that was her ceased to exist. Only what was God remained.