Sunday, January 8, 1961


On days like this when I don’t know what to do with myself, I start to get very blue. It’s a different kind of blue than when Myron died. That kind is grief. This kind is because I’m so lonesome and everything around here gets so monotonous. It’s so darned hard to be happy, or even act happy. Thank God for my Happy Secret; just knowing I have it lifts my spirits. But even my Happy Secret leaves me wondering about a lot of things. Things like: What? When? Where? How? You see, I only know that I have a Happy Secret; I just don’t know what it is…yet! I realize this all sounds pretty silly, alright, but I don’t make stuff like this up! Heck, I don’t think I could even if I wanted to! Besides, who in their right mind would say “I have a secret but I can’t remember what it is?” How dumb is that? Anyway, for now all I can tell you for sure about my Happy Secret is I know that I know something about it, but for the life of me (and I have racked my brain!) I simply cannot remember what it is. A couple times I felt like it was right on the tip of my memory, too! Oh, well, I have to believe God will tell it to me when he knows I’m ready to know! And not one second sooner—or later—either!


Friday, June 2, 1961


Mama and I went to Mass this morning while Dad stayed with the other kids. After Mass we waited for Father outside Church, and then walked with him over to the rectory where he lives. I’d never been inside the rectory before, and I couldn’t get over how pretty it is. It’s actually the nicest home I’ve ever seen. Everything in there is just so beautiful; the furniture is fancy, the curtains are velvet with gold tassels holding them back, there is thick carpet on the floors and magnificent paintings on the wall—everything is just so…well, luxurious! Nothing looks old and used, either! To top everything off, Father had a roast in the oven that smelled just delicious. He took the linens, was very nice, and thanked Mama, going on and on about the “professional quality” work she’d done. Then he turned to me and said in his thick Polish accent, “Well, young lady, I’ve heard you are considering entering the religious life.” I was really surprised, let me tell you; surprised that he was talking to me, and surprised that he knew this. But I just said, “Yes, Father, I am.” And he went on, “The religious life is a very high calling, and a very challenging and difficult one. There is much you have to give up!” “I know, Father,” I said. But he asked, “I wonder; do you really? Do you really understand the stringent requirements involved in being a nun?” Now he was making me feel so uncomfortable that I was starting to have doubts, and I stammered, “I... think... I…do, Father.” And he said, “Well, we shall see then, we shall just see...”



Saturday, July 1, 1961


Jeff came and picked me up this afternoon, and we went to play tennis on the blacktop between the convent and Sacred Heart High School. I didn’t mind playing there because I knew the nuns were gone for the summer. And besides, Jeff only lives one block from the school. Once we were there, Jeff showed me how to hold the tennis racket, and after that I did my best to hit the ball every time he knocked it towards me. It was a sunny, hot day and we got drenching wet with sweat, running back and forth so hard the way we were. But still, we played quite a long time. Right as we were getting ready to leave, who should we spy making a fast beeline towards us from the rectory, but Monsignor Albright! As he drew near, we both spoke politely to him and he spoke back, but then he did something very odd. He motioned us to come close and stand side by side directly in front of him. Then he plopped his right hand on Jeff’s left shoulder, and his left hand on my right shoulder! I have never seen him do anything like that with anyone else, and it made me feel so-o-o-o uncomfortable! (If I hadn’t already been hot and sweaty, I assure you, just his hand on me alone would definitely have caused the same thing!) Then what did Monsignor do? Why he immediately started lecturing us on—what else?—why, being pure and chaste, of course! I cannot begin to tell you how humiliating this was to me. I felt my face grow even hotter than it already was, and I saw that Jeff was blushing beet-red, too! What I would have dearly loved to say to Monsignor is, “WE’RE BOTH VIRGINS, for God’s sake! But if you’re this worried, why don’t you go yell at Father Kotz; he’s the one who fixed us up!” Of course, out of respect, I said absolutely nothing. Neither did Jeff. We just stood there quietly, but then, Monsignor did have a firm grip on each of us! So we were forced to stand there and listen…and listen…and listen…and nod our heads like two mindless robots the whole time! OH! It was just terrible, let me tell you! And yet, what Monsignor was saying didn’t bother me half as bad as that strange, sneery grin he kept plastered on his face like a mask the whole time he was preaching away at us!