also she had embarked upon it fresh from the novitiate—a brand, spanking-new Sister turned loose on nun-baiting school kids.
Yet Perpetua had carried it off. In the face of these challenges, she’d stuck it out for seven years.
But now she was about to face the greatest crisis the Theresians could mount. Its name was Adalbert, and its purpose was geared to be a launching pad—sending Perpetua out into the lay world.
St. Adalbert had begun as a legitimate parish in Detroit’s far west side, actually straddling the border between Detroit and Dearborn. Neither Detroit nor Dearborn was willing to out and out claim the territory. Its atmosphere comprised the cinder belched from the gigantic Ford Rouge Plant that turned out cars and soot. It had not taken long for the St. Adalbert’s plant—church, rectory, school, and convent, all very small—to become encrusted with the automotive giant’s spewing waste.
In short, the neighborhood grew to be an undesirable place to live and to support a Catholic parish. The parish plant did one favor for the diocese: Instead of become an imposing white elephant it remained tiny.
As for clergy staffing the parish, even in the Church’s heyday in the 1960s—when priests were abundant—St. Adalbert’s never had more than the one lonely pastor.
As for the convent, gradually, the Theresians managed to post there the order’s most cantankerous, irascible, obnoxious, peevish, bad-tempered, disagreeable Sisters—with a mean age in the mid-to-high seventies. Thus did the Sisters of St. Adalbert’s form a chute to the outside world.
Young women, such as Sister Perpetua, would from time to time mistakenly enlist in the Theresians. Usually, any Theresian convent to which such hopefuls were missioned quickly and easily—one might even say, with relish—made them see the error of their ways. And the once idealistic candidate would leave the order.
The Sisters of St. Ursula’s had done their darnedest to ease Perpetua out of their company. They undoubtedly would have succeeded had it not been for her little miracle in the form of a relevant Gospel text for meditation. Armed with that revelation, and supported by the counseling of her director, Father Anderson, Perpetua had kept her feet on the path despite the undertow created by the Sisters.
Thus the religious powers that be decided that Perpetua needed the St. Adalbert’s convent to catapult her out into the mainstream of American life.
Within the week Perpetua met her van—it wasn’t a large van—but then she scarcely needed much space.
Notified that Perpetua was now ensconced at St. Adalbert’s, Casserly made his phone call to Mother Superior. He came on strong. He wasn’t asking for any favor. Sister Perpetua had voluntarily and spontaneously requested that he be her spiritual director and he intended to do just that. He had even taken the trouble to check with the chancery; it was fine with the boys downtown. And so Mother Superior, as head of this convent, had better make transportation available.
At the first words of Mother Superior’s response, Casserly was willing to confess to overkill.
She couldn’t have been more agreeable. Of course she would take care of the necessary details. All she needed was to know when such transportation was desired.
Casserly was almost speechless. He didn’t know what to make of this spirit of cooperation.
For her part, Mother Superior was simply confident that the spirit of the St. Adalbert’s nuns would win the day. To date, it had never failed.
Dumbfounded, Sister Perpetua learned no one was putting any barrier between her and her spiritual director. Could Father Casserly have been misinformed? He had come on so strongly about the pitfalls that awaited her at St. Adalbert’s.
Casserly shared her wonderment.
Mother Superior couldn’t have been more cooperative. Initially, Casserly and Perpetua met once a month. The convent’s Damoclean sword seemed to call for nothing
Yet Perpetua had carried it off. In the face of these challenges, she’d stuck it out for seven years.
But now she was about to face the greatest crisis the Theresians could mount. Its name was Adalbert, and its purpose was geared to be a launching pad—sending Perpetua out into the lay world.
St. Adalbert had begun as a legitimate parish in Detroit’s far west side, actually straddling the border between Detroit and Dearborn. Neither Detroit nor Dearborn was willing to out and out claim the territory. Its atmosphere comprised the cinder belched from the gigantic Ford Rouge Plant that turned out cars and soot. It had not taken long for the St. Adalbert’s plant—church, rectory, school, and convent, all very small—to become encrusted with the automotive giant’s spewing waste.
In short, the neighborhood grew to be an undesirable place to live and to support a Catholic parish. The parish plant did one favor for the diocese: Instead of become an imposing white elephant it remained tiny.
As for clergy staffing the parish, even in the Church’s heyday in the 1960s—when priests were abundant—St. Adalbert’s never had more than the one lonely pastor.
As for the convent, gradually, the Theresians managed to post there the order’s most cantankerous, irascible, obnoxious, peevish, bad-tempered, disagreeable Sisters—with a mean age in the mid-to-high seventies. Thus did the Sisters of St. Adalbert’s form a chute to the outside world.
Young women, such as Sister Perpetua, would from time to time mistakenly enlist in the Theresians. Usually, any Theresian convent to which such hopefuls were missioned quickly and easily—one might even say, with relish—made them see the error of their ways. And the once idealistic candidate would leave the order.
The Sisters of St. Ursula’s had done their darnedest to ease Perpetua out of their company. They undoubtedly would have succeeded had it not been for her little miracle in the form of a relevant Gospel text for meditation. Armed with that revelation, and supported by the counseling of her director, Father Anderson, Perpetua had kept her feet on the path despite the undertow created by the Sisters.
Thus the religious powers that be decided that Perpetua needed the St. Adalbert’s convent to catapult her out into the mainstream of American life.
Within the week Perpetua met her van—it wasn’t a large van—but then she scarcely needed much space.
Notified that Perpetua was now ensconced at St. Adalbert’s, Casserly made his phone call to Mother Superior. He came on strong. He wasn’t asking for any favor. Sister Perpetua had voluntarily and spontaneously requested that he be her spiritual director and he intended to do just that. He had even taken the trouble to check with the chancery; it was fine with the boys downtown. And so Mother Superior, as head of this convent, had better make transportation available.
At the first words of Mother Superior’s response, Casserly was willing to confess to overkill.
She couldn’t have been more agreeable. Of course she would take care of the necessary details. All she needed was to know when such transportation was desired.
Casserly was almost speechless. He didn’t know what to make of this spirit of cooperation.
For her part, Mother Superior was simply confident that the spirit of the St. Adalbert’s nuns would win the day. To date, it had never failed.
Dumbfounded, Sister Perpetua learned no one was putting any barrier between her and her spiritual director. Could Father Casserly have been misinformed? He had come on so strongly about the pitfalls that awaited her at St. Adalbert’s.
Casserly shared her wonderment.
Mother Superior couldn’t have been more cooperative. Initially, Casserly and Perpetua met once a month. The convent’s Damoclean sword seemed to call for nothing
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