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mtxref_ficAuthor's Note: Based on the 1960s classic movie, with some help from the novelization. Written for < lj user="love_bingo">'s "yes!", and I'm taking a broad interpretation of love here (applicable since a lot Catholic mysticism regarding the union of God and the believer takes the form of romantic lyricism). Featuring a possible backstory on Sister Albertine.
Word Count: 1,133
The chapel was was nearly ready for the dedication Mass just an evening and a sunrise away, the first time Vater Murphy would have a solid roof overhead and four walls and a solid floor under his feet while he offered the Eucharist. Meantime, Schwester Albertine was putting the last touches on the image the Sankt Dame von Guadalupe, one of the patrons of the makeshift parish.
All thanks to Herr Schmidt, whose grudging yes to Mater Maria Marthe's orders had made this simple but holy place a reality and a home for the fledgling parish.
Just as her own, Schwester Albertine's own yes to God had made it possible for her to be here now, decorating this place, making it a proper dwelling place for God's presence and a fitting place for His Children to gather and worship.
Once she had finished this image, she would start on her preliminary sketches for a masterpiece to decorate the main wall behind the altar, a portrait of Saint Benedict the Moor, the patron saint of the chapel, a man who said yes to God even when the personalities and prejudices of some of God's flawed and fallen servants made it hard for him to keep saying yes.
Much as she had had her difficulties in saying yes to God: her family had made it hard for her when she had chosen to go to art school in Berlin. Mama considered it unladylike and Papa had refused to pay her fees. She had paid her way through her studies by modeling for other classes, despite how it made her cringe to be on display. All for the love of art.
She had lost her way during those wild years, and she had fallen far, mocking her family's propriety and snubbing the way that they had brought her up. She had become the Prodigal Daughter, as it were.
It was when she had fallen to her lowest, when she had fallen in with a crowd that spent more time in clubs where strange things went on and who muddled their minds with foreign chemicals in the name of "expanding their creative minds", that she found her way again. One night, during a crawl between clubs and bars, she had gotten separated from her companions and started to wander about the wintry Berlin streets, clad in a thin dress and satin shoes. Seeking warmth and shelter, she went in search of any open door that might offer her a place to take refuge and warm her blood.
The first one she found led her into a church. The place lay dim and quiet, the only light coming from the banks of candles before the statues of the saints and the beating light of the sanctuary, like a heart glowing, on fire with love.
A church, a place where, no matter how much people irritated her, she always felt a sense of peace and shelter. The air felt chilly, but she had gotten out of the reach of the wind and the snow.
The flickering shadows and mottled light fell over the portrait of Christ the King, enthroned above the high altar, surrounded by saints and angelic courtiers, His Mother Mary seated at his right hand. The haze of absinthe in her head likely had to do with it, but she thought she saw the eyes of Christ turn toward her in a gentle invitation, His raised hand beckoning her to approach.
Stay, a gentle voice whispered from the shadows. She sat down on one of the front benches, making herself comfortable, alone with Christ, He looking at her and she looking at Him.
At some point, her body, tired from the business of her pleasures, started to betray her: her head nodded onto her shoulder, and she dozed. And in that doze, she heard a voice whisper again, soft and warm, from the shadows of the altar, Do you love me...?
Snapping herself awake, she looked about. She saw no one, but the eyes of Christ seemed focused on her. "Yes...?" she murmured, perhaos a noncommittal answer, perhaps a genuine if half-hearted assent, perhaps both in concert. Awake now, she saw no other being in this holy place, only herself and the image of Christ on the wall, with the lamp burning below it, to show the place where He dwelt.
Again she felt her head sink onto her shoulder, again the voice spoke from the darkness. Do you love me...?
Again, she twitched herself awake, wondering if the voice came from the absinthe or from God working in a strange way.
"Yes, Lord?" she spoke, the words slipping out before she could pull them back. Only the gaze of Christ met her reply.
A third time she dozed, and a third time the gentle voice spoke to her, Do you love me?
"Yes, if you will show me your face," she said.
And to her eyes, the light of the sanctuary lamp burned brighter, seeming to glow more brightly on the face of Christ, showing more detail, as if He might hover over her, His hand outstretched, offering her to come to him.
She must have dozed a fourth time, for the next time she awakened, she felt a hand on her shoulder, gently nudging her awake. She looked up into the apple-cheeked face of an older nun, leaning close to her.
"It looks like you spent the night the way the Apostles spent their night in Gethsemane: He brought them to keep watch with Him, and they fell asleep," the nun said, gently but with a mother-like concern and a hint of playful jab.
She had let the nun lead her to join her fellow sisters for morning prayers and a hot meal. More questions, more yeses would follow, all in simple steps back onto the path she had strayed from.
Till she said the great Yes to her vows, marking her as a bride of the Christ Who had called her, yeses to Mother Maria, following her through the dark times in hiding during the rise and collapse of Hitler's "thousand year" Reich, and the greater darkness to follow under the Communists, to another yes that lead them to America and a new life in a new house and now a new chapel, a task to which a strong young man had said "yes" in his own odd, gruff way, a "yes" that had worn the clothes of "well, maybe", but which had had the heart of a yes well hidden beneath. And she, too, had gladly said yes to helping, when she had mixed the adobe to mould the bricks, and now when she put her talents to the purpose they were meant for, to making the chapel more than just a shell.
Word Count: 1,133
The chapel was was nearly ready for the dedication Mass just an evening and a sunrise away, the first time Vater Murphy would have a solid roof overhead and four walls and a solid floor under his feet while he offered the Eucharist. Meantime, Schwester Albertine was putting the last touches on the image the Sankt Dame von Guadalupe, one of the patrons of the makeshift parish.
All thanks to Herr Schmidt, whose grudging yes to Mater Maria Marthe's orders had made this simple but holy place a reality and a home for the fledgling parish.
Just as her own, Schwester Albertine's own yes to God had made it possible for her to be here now, decorating this place, making it a proper dwelling place for God's presence and a fitting place for His Children to gather and worship.
Once she had finished this image, she would start on her preliminary sketches for a masterpiece to decorate the main wall behind the altar, a portrait of Saint Benedict the Moor, the patron saint of the chapel, a man who said yes to God even when the personalities and prejudices of some of God's flawed and fallen servants made it hard for him to keep saying yes.
Much as she had had her difficulties in saying yes to God: her family had made it hard for her when she had chosen to go to art school in Berlin. Mama considered it unladylike and Papa had refused to pay her fees. She had paid her way through her studies by modeling for other classes, despite how it made her cringe to be on display. All for the love of art.
She had lost her way during those wild years, and she had fallen far, mocking her family's propriety and snubbing the way that they had brought her up. She had become the Prodigal Daughter, as it were.
It was when she had fallen to her lowest, when she had fallen in with a crowd that spent more time in clubs where strange things went on and who muddled their minds with foreign chemicals in the name of "expanding their creative minds", that she found her way again. One night, during a crawl between clubs and bars, she had gotten separated from her companions and started to wander about the wintry Berlin streets, clad in a thin dress and satin shoes. Seeking warmth and shelter, she went in search of any open door that might offer her a place to take refuge and warm her blood.
The first one she found led her into a church. The place lay dim and quiet, the only light coming from the banks of candles before the statues of the saints and the beating light of the sanctuary, like a heart glowing, on fire with love.
A church, a place where, no matter how much people irritated her, she always felt a sense of peace and shelter. The air felt chilly, but she had gotten out of the reach of the wind and the snow.
The flickering shadows and mottled light fell over the portrait of Christ the King, enthroned above the high altar, surrounded by saints and angelic courtiers, His Mother Mary seated at his right hand. The haze of absinthe in her head likely had to do with it, but she thought she saw the eyes of Christ turn toward her in a gentle invitation, His raised hand beckoning her to approach.
Stay, a gentle voice whispered from the shadows. She sat down on one of the front benches, making herself comfortable, alone with Christ, He looking at her and she looking at Him.
At some point, her body, tired from the business of her pleasures, started to betray her: her head nodded onto her shoulder, and she dozed. And in that doze, she heard a voice whisper again, soft and warm, from the shadows of the altar, Do you love me...?
Snapping herself awake, she looked about. She saw no one, but the eyes of Christ seemed focused on her. "Yes...?" she murmured, perhaos a noncommittal answer, perhaps a genuine if half-hearted assent, perhaps both in concert. Awake now, she saw no other being in this holy place, only herself and the image of Christ on the wall, with the lamp burning below it, to show the place where He dwelt.
Again she felt her head sink onto her shoulder, again the voice spoke from the darkness. Do you love me...?
Again, she twitched herself awake, wondering if the voice came from the absinthe or from God working in a strange way.
"Yes, Lord?" she spoke, the words slipping out before she could pull them back. Only the gaze of Christ met her reply.
A third time she dozed, and a third time the gentle voice spoke to her, Do you love me?
"Yes, if you will show me your face," she said.
And to her eyes, the light of the sanctuary lamp burned brighter, seeming to glow more brightly on the face of Christ, showing more detail, as if He might hover over her, His hand outstretched, offering her to come to him.
She must have dozed a fourth time, for the next time she awakened, she felt a hand on her shoulder, gently nudging her awake. She looked up into the apple-cheeked face of an older nun, leaning close to her.
"It looks like you spent the night the way the Apostles spent their night in Gethsemane: He brought them to keep watch with Him, and they fell asleep," the nun said, gently but with a mother-like concern and a hint of playful jab.
She had let the nun lead her to join her fellow sisters for morning prayers and a hot meal. More questions, more yeses would follow, all in simple steps back onto the path she had strayed from.
Till she said the great Yes to her vows, marking her as a bride of the Christ Who had called her, yeses to Mother Maria, following her through the dark times in hiding during the rise and collapse of Hitler's "thousand year" Reich, and the greater darkness to follow under the Communists, to another yes that lead them to America and a new life in a new house and now a new chapel, a task to which a strong young man had said "yes" in his own odd, gruff way, a "yes" that had worn the clothes of "well, maybe", but which had had the heart of a yes well hidden beneath. And she, too, had gladly said yes to helping, when she had mixed the adobe to mould the bricks, and now when she put her talents to the purpose they were meant for, to making the chapel more than just a shell.
