Ascension

My beloved speaks and says to me: Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.

Song of Solomon 2: 10-12

Early spring, 1972, Sunday morning...

On this bright and sunny Sunday morning, Ruth sat beside Sr. Ambrose, amongst the congregants, gathered for the 9AM mass at St. Catherine's Church. They faced forward, heads up, and eyes fixed on the altar. Fr. Muldoon left the altar and approached the lectern, intent on delivering the Good News to the waiting ears of his congregation.

Father Muldoon:

"The Lord is with you."

Congregation:

"And also with you."

Father Muldoon:

"A reading of the Holy Gospel according to Isaiah."

Father, glancing down at the pages open on the lectern, found his place. "Shower, O heavens, from above, and let the clouds rain down righteousness; let the earth open, that salvation and righteousness may bear fruit; let the earth cause them both to sprout; I the Lord have created it."

Congregation:

"Thanks be to God."

Father Muldoon:

"The Lord be with you."

Congregation:

"And also with you."

Father Muldoon:

"Lift up your hearts."

Congregation:

"We lift them up to the Lord."

Father Muldoon:

"Let us give our thanks to the Lord our God."

Congregation:

"It is right that we give him thanks and praise."

Amen.

Father's message reached Ruth's ears. But still, her mind wandered, reflecting on the time she'd spent so far with Sr. Ambrose and her quickly approaching graduation. During this weekend alone, a lot has changed. The seasons have come and gone. Winter changed softly into spring. But most noticeably Ruth had changed. The once awkward and introverted 18 year old had changed, and blossomed, into a beautiful and devoted young woman.

Ever a daunting concept, change can trigger anxiety, fear, and doubt. These feelings, though not at the forefront, gnawed at the base of Ruth's brain stem. A strange sort of dull mixture of fear and sadness thrummed in her ears. She felt her skin flush with heat. Change was inevitable, this much, she knew.

Graduation was coming very soon. Then Ruth would be off to Barat College in the fall. Thankfully, Barat was somewhat close to home, but she'd still have to live on campus. It would be too much trouble to commute. Ruth was excited by the prospect of going off to college and living (somewhat) on her own. But she liked Sr. Ambrose and the Convent even more.

Beside her, Sister stirred. The nun, seeing Ruth's face, whispered: "Something on your mind, kid?"

Ruth's cheeks bloomed with heat. "No, Sister." She whispered back while Fr. Muldoon continued speaking.

After mass, the congregants emptied into the vestibule while Fr. Muldoon stood by exchanging greetings and light conversation with Mrs. Cacciapaglia and the Boshela family. Gail Boshela, a classmate of Ruth's, waved and shouted "Hi!" before heading to the stairwell of the church basement. Fellowship was offered every Sunday after mass in the form of a light breakfast. Donuts, coffee, milk and juice were usually served by volunteers under the watchful eyes of Sr. Donovan and Sr. O'Neil, who were still away at the Bishop Toomey Retreat near Wheaton. They were expected to return sometime tomorrow morning, but until then, Ruth and Sr. Ambrose would take their place.

Sr. Ambrose and Ruth joined Mr. Gentry, Mrs. Mera, and Mrs. Parker behind the long tables set up in the back of the basement in front of the kitchen entrance. Mrs. Parker flitted back and forth between the tables and the kitchen, getting another pot of coffee going while Mr. Gentry poured. Sister took her place behind the last table. Here was a slotted box for donations which were used to restock the Church kitchen and purchase the weekly supply of donuts.

Their work, though easy, was fast paced. As Ruth stayed busy pouring milk and juice, she barely noticed the time passing. After an hour or so, the crowd in the basement thinned out. Fr. Muldoon lingered with his cup of coffee long enough to thank his volunteers before heading back to the rectory. Mr. Gentry and the others left now, leaving Jean and Ruth to finish wiping the tables and pushing the chairs back in place. "It's such a nice, sunny day." Jean said. "Be a shame if we didn't spend some of it outside."

"I have a feeling Sr. Clement left you a whole list of chores." Ruth said.

"Now that you mentioned it, she did ask us to weed a few beds in the garden. I don't think it'll take too long."

Ruth, feigning exasperation, rolled her eyes. "You promise?"

"Solemn vow!" Jean said. She took the slotted donation box and Ruth followed Sister out of the basement and back up the winding marble stairwell to the vestibule. Jean produced a key and locked up. "I need to drop this off at the rectory," she said, referring to the donation box, "and I'll join you in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

"Don't get lost!" Ruth teased.

*****

A testament to their contemplative union with God, the Convent garden was a beautiful and serene little sanctuary. The large walled tract of land represented the cloistered life of the sisters of St. Catherine. The abundance of trees, flowers and vegetables represented obedience and dedication. Turning the earth and sowing the seeds mirrored God's faith and hope in his creations of being fruitful and multiplying. Communion with him amongst his creations was, and is, essential to the nuns' routine of life.

The single acre of land was opened, occasionally, to a few visitors. But it was visited regularly by the Colettine Poor Claires who lived in the Nazaret Monastery over in Geneva near Wheaton. A car pulled up to the Convent every other week, dropping off two or three of them. Ruth remembered once when Sr. Clement and Sr. O'Neill introduced them to the junior and senior girls during an assembly gathered in the gym, which also served as the auditorium, for school plays and other events.

But this sunny Sunday was different. Jean and Ruth had the garden all to themselves. Today's project was to move a few bluebells and a bed of geraniums and, of course, do some weeding. The vegetable garden usually had carrots, tomatoes, lettuce, beets, and rhubarb. The rhubarb beds exploded with shades of bright green and red. "What's that?" Ruth eyed several plants with dark green leaves. "Spinach." Jean said. "Eat enough, and it'll put hair on your chest." Ruth rolled her eyes.

"No thanks." Ruth muttered. She knelt down beside a bed meant for the bluebells. "Only a few here." Jean said. She set a tray of bluebells beside Ruth. "The others can go in the bed beside this one."

With the help of a hand fork and trowel, Ruth stabbed at the dirt, packed hard from winter cold, and managed to create a shallow fissure. She paused and carefully selected a sprouted plant from the nursey tray. "How's it coming over there, kid?" Ruth heard Jean's voice faintly inquire. The nun was busy weeding a bed along the garden wall. "Uh, okay, I guess." Ruth said. "Should I leave these others alone with the bluebells?" She asked, referring to the Lilies of the Valley which surrounded the base of a statue of Mary holding the infant Jesus. The statue held court in this quiet little sanctuary, along with a few others, bathed in the light of the spring sunshine.

Jean stopped what she was doing and went over to where Ruth knelt. The nun's eyes narrowed from behind the oval frames of her glasses. She was thinking over the Lilies, Ruth guessed. She brushed her hands against her tunic. "Yes, leave them. I think Sr. Clement would say the same thing." The nun turned and went back to her weeding.

An hour or so passed by the time Ruth finished with the bluebells and weeding. She'd filled at least two buckets with weeds and yard debris when she realized the sun was beating down almost directly overhead. She stood, pacing back and forth along the path near the kitchen door of the Convent, while Sr. Ambrose decided that she, too, had enough. She held up her hands jokingly. "Gardening's dirty work! Sun's a little too hot right now and I'm beat."

"I'm tired too." Ruth admitted.

Jean favored the girl with a soft knowing smile. "Come on back inside." She said, beckoning to Ruth playfully with a crooked finger.

They retreated upstairs with intentions on practicing sensual alchemy. With intimacy they'd experience divine transfiguration through kiss and touch. In the sanctuary of Jean's sparse little room, she pulled Ruth Cahill towards her, embracing the girl, before leaning in to share a long and lingering kiss. Lips parted briefly, and Ruth felt the nun's tongue probing her mouth, brushing hers in greeting. The tactile sensation had an instant effect. Ruth shuddered when she felt the prickling tingle of gooseflesh. A soft little whimper erupted from her throat.

Slowly, Jean retreated, breaking the kiss. She took her glasses off and laid them on the tiny dresser before closing the curtains on the window overlooking the garden. "Let's go in the bathroom and have a shower." Jean suggested. "After all that hard work outside, I think we both need it."

A shower...

Jean thumbed the switch, flooding the bathroom with light. This space, like the bedroom, was tiny and utilitarian. The sink stood sentinel beside the toilet on its slender white porcelain pedestal. A mirror concealed a small medicine cabinet above the basin. Ruth saw the shower reflected in the mirror. And now, briefly, the black and white clad nun obscured the girl's view when she came up behind to kiss the back of her head.

Sister's hands settled on Ruth's shoulders, squeezing affectionately. "You seem a little tense, dear." She observed.

"Just thinking is all." Ruth softly replied.

The nun's hands moved and Ruth felt her shirt coming out of her waistband. "It's okay, I can get it." She said as started to undress. The nun retreated and opened the shower door to reach inside.

A high pitched squeak, as if in protest, emanated from the faucet handle. This was followed by the low rumble of the pipes behind the wall. Jean put her hand out, testing the water. She turned and seized the now naked teen, shoving her in the cubicle against the wall. Ruth let out a shocked gasp when her back pressed against the cold tiles. "What're you--" the sound of the glass door closing cut the girl's inquiry short.

Ruth ignored the showerhead spitting its hot cleansing rain while a bank of steam rose thickly upward, surrounding her. She ran her hands over her face and head, slicking her hair back. Her eyes opened, narrowing, while she tried to peer through the fluted glass which was designed to obscure the occupant from view if anyone should walk in the tiny bathroom unannounced.

The fluting distorted the nun's prim and modest form. Ruth rubbed her eyes, blinking, while her vision grew accustomed. She saw Jean moving behind the reeded glass, undressing. Slowly, deliberately, Sister shed the pious and priggish trappings of her Dominican order. Though she couldn't see clearly, Ruth guessed by the movement of Jean's arms and hands, the veil and coif were the first to go.

Father Muldoon sometimes called these "adornments." They were meant to protect the nun's dignity and shield her from vanity. They worked well enough, Ruth supposed. There were no young nuns residing in the Convent of St. Catherine. And Sr. Ambrose and her colleagues weren't what any man (or woman) would call conventionally attractive. "You belong to God and are subject to his whims and his will." Ruth heard Sr. O'Neill say once during catechism. "With the veil, we are brides of Christ."

Each article represented statements, made often during catechism. Each article was a reminder that Sister Ambrose was one of many women, called to separate herself from the world and give herself completely in service to God and to the community where she lives.

Through hundreds of years, a nun's dress has changed very little from the veil and coif, tunic, cincture, and scapular. Like the others who lived in the Convent at St. Catherine, Jean's choice of footwear was serviceable and simple. The middle aged woman perched briefly on the lidded toilet. She removed her shoes and set them aside along with her stockings. Slowly, she stood back up, and her hands went to her waist beneath the scapular.

Each scared garment was blessed. Jean loosened and removed the cincture around her waist, a reminder that Christ wore chains. The scapular, modest and straight, symbolized the yoke of commitment. With both hands, Jean lifted this off and draped it over the back of the singular chair just outside the bathroom door. Her simple tunic, last symbol of Sister's consecration and modesty, joined the scapular on the chair.

Which left one thing...

Like most women, Sister Ambrose wore the same bra and panties combination found at every department and variety store in the land. But unlike Ruth and many other women and girls in the parish, Jean's choice of undergarments reflected the ever present demure and priggish dedication to modesty. The nun unhooked her plain white

Exquisiteform

bra. She pitched it aside somewhere and whisked off her high waist cotton briefs. At last the barriers were removed. The glass shower door parted and Jean stepped inside.

Though she was arguably butch, both in appearance and mannerisms, Sr. Jean Ambrose was very much a woman. A handsome figure of a woman, with a slim, athletic build, and striking Nordic features that set off her halo of short, pale blond hair. A glint of metal flashed, drawing Ruth's eye to the ancient looking St. Benedict medal around Jean's neck. The girl's eyes drifted, taking in the sight of her lover's middle aged body.

Sister's dedication to modesty and humility extended beyond the habit and her devotion to teaching. In full light Ruth silently admired her middle aged lover's natural pulchritude. Jean shunned the razor, preferring to leave the lissome pillars of her slender legs natural. Blond, slightly gold, curls of hair sprouted from the fair skin of her thighs and shins. An equally dense thatch sprouted from the space between her thighs. And hidden in the pale hollows of her underarms were twin sprays of light blond fuzz, fragrant with her natural essence.

"Ruthie, you're so beautiful!" Jean cooed.

The nun's hoary gaze fixated on the naked teen beneath the steamy faux rain. Her hair was completely soaked. Long snaking tendrils of light strawberry blond locks plastered themselves against Ruth's fair skin around her small shoulders. Ruth Cahill wasn't just beautiful, she was beguiling. The symmetry of her exquisite face drew Jean in. The nun's eyes took in the pert swell of Ruth's breasts. Twin B cup mounds quivered perceptibly as Ruth shifted on her feet. The small and pink areolas jutted fiercely outward, boasting fat little tips of distended flesh begging to be touched and kissed.

Below the girl's flat little abdomen was the secret garden, meant only for the eyes of her maker...and her lover. Jean's eyes drank in the triangle patch of hair modestly covering the girl's sex. Her eyes narrowed now, thinking dirty thoughts. Sr. Ambrose knew what lay beneath the soft and fragrant curls of pubic hair. And what lay beneath was hers and hers alone. A garden of earthly delights delivered by providence.

The nun put her hand out to Ruth, pulling the naked teen towards her. They embraced and shared a deep and languid kiss beneath the hot spray. Jean's hair soaked up the water and plastered itself to her head. She passed a hand though it, brushing it back, and her eyelids fluttered through the drips.

"Here..." Jean's hand went to a small niche in the wall just above the faucet handles. She took the bar of soap, rubbing it in her palms while the spitting water churned up a mound of fragrant lather. "Close your eyes Ruthie." She softly commanded. Without questioning, the girl obliged, and the nun's soapy hands made contact. "You feel God's presence with us?"

"Mmm, hmm..."

The lather built up in great snowy peaks and runneled between the nun's fingers as she caressed the slippery taut curves of Ruth's body. "His love and teaching falls softly as rain while his touch distills as the morning dew..." Jean's hand moved up to Ruth's throat and the girl's head fell back against her lover who started kissing the creamy porcelain flesh beneath her ear. Seconds later, Jean turned Ruth to face her.

She kissed the girl aggressively, pushing her tongue between Ruth's pouty full lips. The water rained hotly over them, shrouding them in a thick cloud of mist and steam while they kissed again and again. Kissing had become a favorite thing for Ruth. It was like learning another language when Jean's tongue found hers. Their tongues elucidated their pent up feelings, revealing their mutual attraction and desire for more.

"...want you, Ruthie, so bad!" Jean seethed. Her hands closed over Ruth's breasts, grappling the pert little mounds.

Ruth's lips parted and she let out a gasp when she felt the nun's fingers toying with her nipples. "Fuck!" She blurted, realizing too late, what she'd just done.

The girl's eyes snapped open, shocked by the tightening of her throat when Jean collared her and slapped her hard across the face. "I'll hear none of that language in the Lord's presence, young lady!" The sting registered instantly and Ruth's eyes welled up. "I'm sorry, Sister, I--" The girl's hand touched her burning cheek and she sobbed. "I didn't mean to swear like that!"

It was an accident. Jean had to have known that. But she slapped Ruth anyway. It certainly wasn't the first time she'd been slapped by a nun. Corporal punishment was just another tool in the teachers' bag of tricks at St. Catherine's. Sr. O'Neill was fond of using her pointer as a switch on any girl who deigned to fall asleep in class or talk back. If a girl behaved or spoke out of line during gym class, she could find herself running laps all hour, or performing sets of pushups with the weight of a few textbooks balanced squarely on her back. Ruth even heard that Sr. Clement tanned the hide of some senior girl in front of everyone during lunch hour several years ago for pitching her tray at another girl and almost starting a food fight.

"Ruth, look at me..." Jean gently grasped the girl's chin, turning her face up to meet her gaze. "That was uncalled for, what I did just now."

Ruth drew a ragged breath and blinked. She tried hard to keep the tears at bay. "I'm sorry, Sister, please, I didn't mean to--"

"Ruthie, I know." Jean said. "You're a good girl and you've never spoken out of place. I love you very much. I never meant to hurt you, but I did..."

"It's okay." Ruth muttered.

"I won't ask your forgiveness. I'll do better going forward...earn it."

Ruth said nothing. She saw the nun's hand in front of her. Jean's fingers settled tentatively on the St. Benedict medal around her young lover's neck. Ruth slowly raised a hand and her fingertips did the same. They trembled visibly as they touched the ancient looking charm, the symbol of Jean's sacred vows, brushing lightly against it, mirroring the nun's gentle touch. Slowly Jean leaned closer. Ruth closed her eyes and tilted her head, giving access to her graceful neck. The nun pressed her lips against her lover's willing flesh, kissing her. Ruth's lips parted, exhaling sharply, when she felt Jean's hands return to her breasts. "You want me to stop, honey?"

"No..." Ruth sighed. Slowly she put her hands out, touching the tiled wall on either side, while she concentrated on the sensation of Sister's loving touch.

Jean's hands retreated and she held the bar of soap again. She rubbed its surface, whipping up another creamy mound of floral scented suds. Ruth stood still, bracing herself, when the nun's hands returned to her breasts. The palms made contact with the teen's pert little mounds, caressing tenderly, with a slick barrier of soap and hot water between them. "That--that feels so good!" Ruth breathed. By now, she'd forgotten all about the slap across her face and the resulting sting, both to her skin, and her ego.