Study of Light Through Stained Glass

I was fifteen when the visions first came. There were far off voices, one of which was my mother's. It had a strained, frightened tone that came out clearly even through the distance. I was burning up, and nothing could make it stop. I remember waking and seeing walls of flame all around me. The heat was unbearable, and sweat poured down my body like candle wax. I thought to myself, Oh my God, I'm dead and this is Hell. There's been a mistake, God! I want to live! I cried out every care in my soul, confessed every sin, both real and imagined and promised God if He would only hear my prayer and save me from the eternal flames, I would give my life gladly. I stood there, enduring the pain for what seemed lifetimes, with my eyes closed to the grinning fire.

Slowly, I became aware of a brightness--a steady light unlike the dancing flames. I opened my eyes, only to see a light so strong that it hid everything. Instead of merely shining, it seemed to move through every bit of space, until it enveloped and then passed through me, sending prickles of static throughout my pores. The light was cool, refreshing, cascading in and out until it found the deepest part of my soul, where the despair had lodged. With a brilliant flash it burned away all the fear, leaving only peace. I heard a light, tinkling music from all around, as if a thousand wind chimes had chosen to move in precise time. I looked at the wondrous glow that enveloped me, that was brighter than even the light itself. It played upon my fingers and on every strand of hair, a gently moving rainbow of hues which, taken together, formed a brilliant white. In that one instant, I felt that I had been touched by God.

I woke in a darkened room, surrounded by monitors and tubes. My mother sat slumped in a chair, a torn magazine carelessly slipping down her lap. She looked so old and so tired that for a moment I couldn't understand why I and not she should be in bed. She seemed grey--almost half-alive. There was a blur to her features as if a dull darkness covered her.

I must have made a noise. My mother came awake, all at once, as if ready for a fight. She looked at me, her face taking in every detail, as if she had never thought to see it again. Then she ran to the door, pulling it open, screaming, "Nurse!"

The next few minutes were chaos. Nurses and doctors came in and out, ordering tests and asking questions. Finally one of the nurses quieted the din with a gesture and reminded everyone that I "was a very sick girl, who was no doubt tired and should be left in peace." I was tired--but I was also fascinated with the life around me. They were all surrounded by dancing colours--blues and greens, reds and oranges. Some were white, some dull, but there was a spectrum of vitality before me. Even the plants and flowers along the windowsill glowed with their own muted colours. The bed, the doors--everything inanimate had their edges blurred slightly. But all the life glowed with a special radiance.

"It's so beautiful," I marveled. "The light drove away the fire."

My mother looked at the nurse, who shook her head slightly. "You've had meningitis, Sarah," Mom said.

The nurse chimed in, "You were a sick young lady. But the fever's broken, and you'll soon be better. Why don't you get some real rest and we'll see how you do tomorrow."

I looked down at my own hands. The sparks were weak, but I could see the interplay of colours around my fingers. I swallowed hard. They couldn't see it. They'd think I was crazy, or that the fever had done some damage. But I knew it was real and that it was the touch of God. I fell asleep thinking of our bargain, and my promise.

That was three years ago. As I stand by the abbey pond I see my own aura as part of my reflection, just as I see yours. I have newly taken the veil--the wedding ring I wear still feels strange and new but my new life is one of peace. Yours is a traditional convent, with the Rule, long habits, and Latin prayers--a life for which I have longed. You will say that I am young and exuberant, yet I know my responsibilities as one of the few young sisters in an Order of older women. I would like to see to their needs in the infirmary. Sister Gabriel says I have a healing touch, but I can tell what is wrong by the colours around the sick. I have never told anyone about the visions, no one but you, Reverend Mother, for I was afraid. I once had a friend who heard voices. An ambulance took her away one night, screaming for them to save her. My mother explained that it was schizophrenia, and that it was often first seen in the teens. My friend came home eventually; she took medication that kept her calm. She was much better, everyone said, but the price was the spirit of the girl I remembered. It was like watching a shadow of a real person come back in her place.

I told God that I would give my life, and I've done so gladly, devoting myself to His works. The Orders are slowly dying out; few young people have the temper for cloistered life. There are few sisters here, a blessing for me, for in crowds I cannot sort out all the dancing colours; it is as if the tones all jar together.

I saw an elderly woman once in church who, having taken the sacrament, returned to her seat to pray. I watched her worn face, wondering what sort of life her eyes had seen. Her light was weak, almost ebbing away, and in a blink of an instant it drained away completely. It took every effort in my being not to scream aloud, but my mind did so until they came to take her way. Eventually I learned to accept that death must come, and that when it comes in her fashion, quietly and piously, it is to be cherished. How strange that I should be given this gift at a moment so close to death, and yet it eventually helped me accept that death is a part of life. It is both a wonder and a burden. I can only pray that I will use it wisely according to His plan. I can think of no other reason why I should have such a gift--I'm really not special in any other way. There are times, though, when I wonder if others could see what I see, would their hearts find ease, too? Would they use it to help others, or would they glean dark secrets and use them in spite? You, Mother, are my confessor. I see the concern in your eyes. Do we have another Hildegarde, you think, or have we encouraged the delusions of a poor mad soul? Only time will tell, I think. I value your guidance in all things, and trust that if at anytime you suspect that this gift is leading to the dark path of delusion that you will tell me. In the meantime, please give me work where this gift can truly work to some holy purpose.

And with that I brush her hand with my lips and wait for my judgment.