Excerpt
HANNAH
1912 - 1934
Chapter 1
Before Hannah met Wade she thought that being with God was her destiny.That's just the way it was. There was God or there was man, nothing in between but disgrace, a future dimmed by lack of purpose.
"I'm promised to no one, Papa." Hannah looked at the tip of her shoe, avoiding her Papa's eyes. The time for truth was nearing as the harsh, gray Dublin sky gave way to rain.
Hannah felt a shiver right through to her bones.
John Reilly laughed, pretending it didn't matter, wouldn't ever matter.
"You're too independent,girl," he said, wrapping his arms around her. "Men
don't like that."
Hannah knew that if a girl wasn't promised, she went to the convent.
That's where God wanted a woman if no man had asked for her hand.
"You'll make me proud, daughter," John Reilly said, kissing the top of
her head.
Hannah nodded. Acceptance now was all she had.
The shutter hit the open window as torrents of rainwater obscured the
view of Dublin's hills. They watched as lightning lit up the sky, leaving behind
a tenebrous shadow, blurred further by her tears.
"Of course," she uttered, breaking the silence that followed. "It's His
will."
She was twenty years old when she entered St. Michael's, too old for
hope.

The young postulants sat on the hard wooden pew and prayed. For hours, they did so. Rosaries slipped through their fingers like lace. Glass angels
smiled, blessing their hopes; all the good deeds of tomorrow sat in their
hearts, promises to the Lord, their worship as deep as the ocean floor.
Hannah would adjust. A whisper of prayers pushed through her breath,
a plea for forgiveness, for wanting more than the blood of Christ on her
lips.
Their hair was gone, cut short as a boy's; fleeting memories remained of
gold and auburn trusses that fell to their laps, disappearing like dust.
"Thy will be done," they whispered. "Thy will be done."

They were praying when they got the news. Their heads rose up when
they heard the footsteps, eyes landing on the altar, soft in trust. They stiffened each in turn, as she approached, her black gown trailing the floor, her coif and guimpe as white as the soap that cleansed her skin.
"The five of you will be going off to America." Mother Mary Angelica
looked at them pensively. "Better off in America, I'd say."
Hannah bolted upright. Her mouth fell open as the prayer book came to her breast. Better not show joy, she thought, feeling Bridget Regan's elbow
hit her waist.
Hannah turned to find Bridget's smile and let her expression crinkle up before quickly returning her eyes to the blessed Mother and the solemn acceptance of God's will.
Hannah's expectations had been bleak. A consistent cluster of women and endless hours of prayer were what she had expected the rest of her life to
look like. No more barefoot romps through the emerald valleys or bashful
glimpses of boys with unruly curls, and certainly no trips across the ocean
to a faraway place would ever touch her future.
"I'll let you have Patrick Sullivan if I can go in your place. I want to go
to America," her sister Anne whined when Hannah gave her the news.
"That's generous of you, but if Jesus had wanted you, he would have
come knocking."
She'd had a dream that night. Jesus had appeared to her, his eyes so
black it was startling. Then he winked. He looked right at her and winked.
Hannah woke up with a confident laugh and said to her sister, "Do you
know Jesus winks, Anne? A sure sign he approves of my journey."
Anne put her hands up over her face and giggled like a crazed hyena.
"Oh, yes, a sure sign. Oh, yes, of that I am certain."
She threw her pillowat Hannah and made a face.
"Well, it's true," Hannah said. "He's given me the sign with that wink."
Not that it was easy for Hannah to leave her homeland and trust that
life in an American convent would be any better than in an Irish one. She
was petrified, at first. America was so far away. But, she thought, it is God
himself calling my name, surely God himself sending me across the Ocean.

They never strayed far from the dock in Liverpool; they stood anxiously
in a line, staring out over the sea; breathless and eager they watched until the Campania approached - the ship that would be taking them all the way to
their new home. Hannah clutched Bridget's hand so tightly she cried out.
Their hearts pounded in unison as the dot in the distance grew bigger.
"Blessed Jesus," Bridget Regan screamed as the mighty Campania's anchors splashed into the harbor waves "That ship is the size of a small country."
Euphoria took hold of Hannah like it was heaven, all its angels appearing
in her midst. Fate was unfolding before her very eyes. She'd soon be a nun, an American one at that. She grabbed Bridget's hand again and squeezed it tight. "Blessed be to God," she whispered. "It's His will."

"What do you think America will look like?" Hannah asked Bridget, as
Liverpool faded from sight.
"The ground between the rectory and the chapel is about all we'll see of
America," Bridget answered.
"Maybe we'll travel to poor schools and distant towns to help the poor."
Hannah's eyes were wide with hope.
Bridget put her hands on her hips. "You best not be fooling yourself,
Hannah Reilly."
From out of her mouth came Hannah's tongue, her eyes closed and her
face squinted into lines.
"Have you no faith, Bridget?" she asked, for she did not want to be disillusioned,not yet.
"Maybe, we'll run away, escape from the convent; we'll hop an American train. We'll be vagabonds." Hannah suddenly laughed so hard she fell to the ship's floor. "Oh, God, forgive me."
Bridget Regan made the sign of the cross.
"I think you stole the wine from the ship's chapel," Molly Flynn said,
pointing a finger in Hannah's face.

There were many young girls arriving through Ellis Island in 1912. Most
were sent off to convents throughout New York and New England. Hannah
was promised to the Convent of Saint Anthony in Concord, Massachusetts,
along with Bridget and Molly. The other two girls were put into a separate
carriage and sent to a small parish in Queens, New York.
"I think I'm going to like Concord," Hannah said, through half-closed
eyes as the carriage they'd taken from the Concord rail station finally approached St. Anthony's. "I thought we'd never get here."
Bridget laughed. "You're so tired, Hannah Reilly, you don't know what
your eyes are resting on."
That wasn't far from the truth. Hannah had come through Ellis Island exhausted, so tired from lack of sleep on the crossing, and then there had
been the tedious process of going through immigration; it had left her weary,so many questions, so much waiting. It was impossible to shut her eyes except on the train from New York to Concord. She'd slept so deeply then
that she didn't see a thing of America.

The minute they arrived at Saint Anthony, Mother Superior sent them
right off to sleep, after brief introductions and a tour of the rectory.
"I'm not tired," Hannah whispered. "I want to see the city."
"Shush," Bridget whispered back. "We're not supposed to have any interest
at all in the city."
"Mother Superior is nice," Molly Flynn said softly, "though she reminds
me of a Jersey cow."
"Best be watching your mouth, Molly Flynn," Bridget whispered again
from behind her hand. "I hear they punish nuns for their sins in America;
they make them drink salted water."
"Better that than American tea," said Hannah, as the others laughed.
As the days passed, they became ambiguously dissatisfied with their
surroundings. The church of Saint Anthony looked just like St. Michael's
Parish in Dublin. "We might as well be looking out on the Wicklow Mountains,"
they told each other with a disappointed sigh. Even Jesus looked the
same, thin and long on the cross, benevolently silent. The Virgin was blonde and the apostles all bearded and dark. It was the same everywhere.
The mornings brought no light, and breakfast was meager.
"Is there no butter for the toast?" Hannah tried to be inconspicuous as
she spoke into Bridget's ear.
"Be grateful.‰"Bridget smiled. "For the toast."

They would never have expected it. Father John came in to the dining
hall one morning, only weeks after their arrival, gloating over something or other. What could it be? they wondered. Whatever it was, he was pleased to tell them. He walked to the front of the small dining hall and waited for silence.
"I am sure you are going to be very surprised," he said, his smile like
taut string.
"I don't think he has any teeth." Molly giggled softly, nudging Hannah
in the ribs.
"Shush," Bridget whispered from behind.
Father John held up an envelope. "The oldest Catholic Church in America
is in Boston," he said, grinning through a slight gap between his lips.
"You've been offered a tour, my good women."
Hannah let out a yelp she couldn't quite hold back as Molly reached
for her hand.
"We're going to Boston?" Bridget cried out.
The priest nodded. "Courtesy of the Boston Archdiocese."
Hannah wanted to fall to her knees. She'd be seeing a bit of America
after all, before settling behind the walls of St. Anthony's for the rest of her blessed days. The good Lord needed to be thanked.
Father John read from a piece of grey paper so thin it looked transparent.
"You must spend some time at our beautiful church," he read loudly,
spending at least three seconds on every word. "We · await · your · visit with · much · anticipation."
Hannah could barely keep her feet from leaving the ground. She was as excited about traveling to the big city of Boston as she had been about boarding the boat in Liverpool.
Reaching for her rosary, her eyes traveled up to the Lord's. When she
knew she wouldn't be noticed, she winked, knowing in her heart, the Lord
was winking back.