PROLOGUE:
Nicole had been living at the Saint Agatha's Orphanage in Cottonwood, Rhode Island, for just over a year now; her 18th birthday a few days away. She'd come to stay at the orphanage when her parents had both perished in horrific train accident while traveling from Rhode Island to New York for an Easter celebration; she was nearly 17 at the time and thus knew her stay at the orphanage would be relatively short-lived.
Deeply scarred and afraid of being hurt again, Nicole was very quiet—keeping to herself the fragile feelings, thoughts and emotions that drained her of any hope for joy. The other children, perceiving her discretion to be snotty and stuck-up, virtually ignored her completely. In fact, the only person who seemed to care enough to attempt to build a positive relationship with her was one of the nuns—Sister Mary Elizabeth.
Sister Mary Elizabeth was a wonderfully kind and compassionate woman. She had come to serve at Saint Agatha's shortly after taking her vows of poverty, chastity and obedience to God—dedicating her life to service towards fulfilling His will. Her path to righteousness, however, had been both tumultuous and painful; the trials she encountered cruel and unyielding—her devotion to God the only reprieve from her vivid scars.
--Part One, Finding Faith…a prelude--
Born Mary O'Connell on October 16, 1947, her Irish-Catholic parents were first-generation immigrants who came for opportunity and settled in upstate New York. Her father, when working and not drunk, worked at a timber-mill while her mother worked as a cleaning-maid in downtown Albany. Mary's childhood was much like that of almost every child that grows-up in a working-class household—harsh and taxing—but at 16, life suddenly became dramatically worse.
It began when her father, quite an anomaly as he was an Irish man who really couldn't hold his liquor, went to work slightly drunk. In his stewed-state, he didn't properly secure the chains meant to hold the gigantic tree-trunks in place; they broke loose and he was caught beneath some of them. The accident turned-out to be quite severe, his back was broken and because he was intoxicated at the time of the accident, they were all left without any insurance to cover the medical bills nor the cost of unemployment.
Due to her father's impaired state, Mary's mother soon lost her job as well due to the time consumed by taking care of him. Mary was forced to get a part-time job while she attended school, but the family suffered dearly nonetheless—forced to move to a one-room shanty with only two mats for beds and a wood stove in the corner. Poverty and unemployment seemed only to stimulate her father's constant consumption of alcohol and he rapidly became more belligerent towards Mary's mother, and more explicitly-carnal towards Mary.
One night, Mary awoke to find her drunken father smothering her in her bed. The dank, robust odor of sweat and whiskey seared her nostrils, but she had to breathe through her nose because one of his large, clammy hands was clasped tightly over her mouth to keep her from screaming while his other hand groped her roughly, crudely beneath her nightgown. There was little that she could do—at around 280 pounds, her father easily outweighed her by over 150 pounds—struggle as she did, there was simply no way of stopping him.
That night, and many nights thereafter, her father raped her while her mother slept soundly on the mat just across the room. Mary endured her father's inebriated abuse for practically two years, until she turned 18 and was old enough to legally leave home unrestrained. The pain and misery of the abuse haunted her always—her image of men shattered, any desire for them had thus long-since vanished.
On her own for the first time—an indigent young woman living out of a storage closet within the factory she got a job cleaning at night—Mary toiled over her misfortunes and the purpose for her life, routinely contemplating the value of existence on a daily basis. She was a broken soul entangled by destitution—lost of all hope and deprived of spirit—wandering the empty halls of hollow buildings searching for just a small glimpse of promise.
Four months removed from her abusive home-life, Mary found a memo in her locker, taped to a check, informing her that she was being laid-off due to cutbacks; her locker and the storage closet were to be cleaned-out by the start of the morning shift. At sunrise Mary stood outside the factory—huddling close to the wall under the eaves to escape the chilling wind and driving rain—unsure of where to go or what to do. She wandered aimlessly down the sidewalk of the industrial district toting an undersized knapsack that held her only possessions: a change of clothes, a wool sweater, a pair of gloves, some stale crackers, a comb, a toothbrush and a dwindling supply of toothpaste.
Suddenly, the rain began pouring down in heavy sheets; knowing she couldn't afford to get sick, Mary scrambled to find the nearest place of refuge she could find. What she stumbled upon, drenched and muddy, was Saint Katherine's Cathedral—a stoic, sturdy and dry Catholic church. There existed a soft glow inside—a certain warmth that came as a surprise within a place of such grand proportions. Mary sat down on the very last pew, glad to warm her bones and ease the stiffness of her joints. Soon thereafter, she was fast asleep.
Mary awoke feeling the most delicate, comforting touch upon her face. Still rather groggy, she slowly opened her eyes to an image of such pure splendor that she nearly forgot to breathe. Sitting beside her was a young-looking nun, ensconced in a habit that hid-away most of her features, but with a soft and glowing face that smiled upon her. The nun felt Mary's forehead and told her she was getting sick and needed to eat, warm-up and get out of those wet clothes. Her voice was so soothing and inviting—Mary thanked her, following her deeper within the church.
