Joy

The Sister hunkered down in my little brother’s sled, gathering her habit around her, the rubber soles of her nurses’ shoes squeaking against the plastic. She and the older Sister beside her were not dressed for the January cold, unlike my two siblings and me, cocooned in snow pants, puffy coats, mittens, and stocking hats.

Yet, they accepted the sled ropes with grace when my brother offered them a ride. “Here,” he said, when he noticed the Sisters had slipped from the convent and stood silently watching us, their smiles soft. “It’s fun.”

At first, I feared they’d come to scold us for trespassing. As the oldest at ten, I was responsible for my brother and sister on our afternoon excursion. The convent grounds, which bordered our backyard, were private property and technically off-limits for sledding. But the siren call of unmarked snow was too enticing. While the front lawns of the neighborhood teemed with snowmen and forts, and streets were ugly with compacted gray slush, the pristine snow-covered knolls of the convent grounds beckoned us. Untouched, they whispered promises of adventure. We couldn’t resist the temptation. 

*

Home to about thirty Missionary Benedictine Sisters, the Immaculata Convent stood as a beacon of peach-colored serenity at the edge of our neighborhood. Flowers bloomed in its beds each spring and a bountiful garden sprouted vegetables through the summer. The Sisters mostly kept to themselves, steeped in the quiet rhythms of devotion: praying, studying, and serving at the hospital across the street, which their order had established decades before my family arrived in the neighborhood. Their lives seemed a soft hymn against the hurried verses of our block, where a chorus of lawnmowers set pace in the summer and snowblowers buzzed across driveways in winter. Most of the adults I knew — including my parents — were in constant motion: carpools, trash night, laundry, bustling to usher kids out the door in the mornings, rushing home to get dinner on the table in the evenings.  

Occasionally, our paths crossed, and the Sisters would greet us with polite nods and simple hellos. Though kind, the Sisters were mysterious to me. What had drawn them to a life of God? Were they truly brides of Christ, and how could they all be married to the same guy — even if he was the son of God? Did they ever get tired of praying? 

My brother reveled in our encounters with the Sisters. And they seemed to delight in his company.  

“Hello, hello!” they’d call brightly.

My brother, a cute little four-year-old at the time, would stop his bike, prop it on its training wheels, and respond with a crisp “Hey, Nun.”

*

Our little sibling trinity was together nearly all the time when we were young, save for school, summer camps, soccer games, and piano lessons. We shared the same babysitter until I became old enough to take on that role. Then I was in charge after school or on weekends when our parents worked. Generally, two-thirds of us kids got along, though the alliances shifted constantly. At times we’d dance on the edge of mischief, trying to lure one of the others into trouble. But we knew not to push too far — early on, we learned that spiteful schemes weren’t worth the punishment awaiting us when our parents got home. Sometimes, we mended our rifts with laughter. Other times, we lost our giggles entirely.

One afternoon, my brother and several neighborhood kids went missing. Parents congregated in our front yard. After discovering the kids' big wheels and bicycles parked in a neighbor’s driveway, they determined the children must be together. But where? Backyards and garages were searched, as were basements and the empty lots across the busy street we were forbidden to cross without an adult.

Just as panic began to set in, my mother spotted the kids up the street, my brother leading the procession. Each child clutched a cookie, their faces beaming with delight. My brother had assured the kids of the nuns' kindness and led them to the convent, where the Sisters gifted them freshly baked treats before sending them home.

He got into trouble, as he often did. Of the three of us, he bore the brunt of our parents’ frustrations. I made it my duty to shield him and my sister as best I could. There was nothing I dreaded more than feeling our world quake as the mood in the house shifted from good to bad.

*

We crossed the wintry convent grounds, our sheltie Maggie weaving figure-eights around us, barking and diving into the snow. We reached the top of a modest hillock, which gently sloped downward, flanking a concrete walkway. My sister sledded first, Maggie bounding alongside her with shrill yips. Then my brother followed, his sled narrowly missing hers at the base. I watched as they giggled and rolled in the snow.

I waited for my siblings to climb back up the hill then centered my sled. I rocked myself back and forth before letting go. My descent began slowly but quickly gained momentum. By the time I cleared the first slope, I was barreling down the second, trying to steer my sled straight, feeling a mix of giddy excitement and anxious trepidation. Near the bottom, I let everything go, tumbling into the snow. Once stopped, I sat up, catching my breath. My siblings, tiny figures at the top of the hill, tossed snow in the air and waved at me. The thick snow absorbed most sounds, but I could tell they were cheering. I rested, momentarily, in peace.

I stood, gathered my sled, and began the uphill trudge. Near the top I noticed the two Sisters emerging from the convent. I prayed we weren’t about to get into trouble. I watched as my brother extended a mittened hand, offering his sled ropes. Giggling, one Sister accepted and followed our tracks into the snow. I grabbed hold of Maggie and watched the Sister select her launch point.

That moment is frozen: the Sister’s smile, the way her nose crinkled and her eyes sparkled, her soft but uncontainable laugh all the way down the hill. I see my siblings’ small faces animated with delight. Maggie wriggles from my arms, unable to contain her excitement. 

The second Sister took a turn with my sister’s sled. She was older and exerted more effort fitting into it, but once settled, she sped down with ease — steering as if accessing memories from long-ago days.

They each took just one turn before returning the sleds. After brushing the snow from their shoes and shaking out their veils, they thanked us and disappeared through the convent’s doors.

*

I knew many grown-ups, but none as fully present or as joyful as the sledding Sisters in that moment. Their delight — unrestrained, genuine — was a revelation. 

It’s a memory I return to now and then. Perhaps it was my first glimpse of something sacred revealing itself. Sometimes it surfaces in my meditation practice and walks through my neighborhood. Last year, my husband and I bought our first house — though thousands of miles from where I grew up, it stands across from a school that was once a convent. The idea to write these words came to me during a Buddhist retreat on the grounds of a former Catholic seminary. It feels as if I’m trying to preserve, or protect, something precious.

I wonder what my siblings recall from that day. Were they too young to remember it? Can they still feel the cold on their cheeks or hear Maggie’s bark, the crunch of snow, and the swish of snow pants? Can they see the wind catching the Sisters’ veils as they sped down the slope? 

I wonder why I don't just ask them. Maybe I’m afraid of a different recollection — or worse, no recollection at all. It feels as if speaking of that day might somehow release it from the divine space where I’ve held it. But perhaps that fear itself is what makes memory sacred — its fragility, the faith in its existence, the way time seems to stand still in such rare moments. 

There’s something extraordinary about a spark of joy: fleeting, precious — yet powerful and profound. To witness it in others is a gift. To share it together is holy.

-Chelsea Yates

Chelsea Yates is originally from northeast Nebraska. She now lives in the Pacific Northwest and is a writer for the University of Washington. Her essays have appeared in HerStry, The Good Life Review, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Hear Nebraska, and more.