On the eve of the feast of St. Disibod the following Sunday, I stood before Archbishop Adalbert of Mainz, exhausted from lack of sleep and poor appetite. Jutta had remarked on my wanness earlier that day and praised it as proper and fitting for my soon to be holy state, but Juliana had remained silent, regarding me with what I thought was pity. Yet she had no way of knowing what was in my heart.
The ceremony was held at dusk as the profession of anchorite vows was meant to symbolize a death in life akin to a burial. I had remained inside the convent all day until Abbot Kuno had come to escort me to the church. The evening was overcast, with none of the Rhenish sunset glory. That disappointed me, for I would have liked the fiery light that normally flooded the courtyard at that hour to usher me into my new life.
I entered the church barefoot and clad in a white robe, hoping fervently that the imminent shield of my vows would protect and deliver me from the anguish once and for all.
The interior was dim, the only light coming from the tapers flickering around the chancel where the monks had taken their seats, their shapes outlined against the wood panels of their stalls. As they intoned Veni Creator Spiritus, I glanced up at the small gray squares of the clerestory windows; by the time my new life began, they would be completely dark.
I approached the altar. Uphold me by your promise and I shall live; let my hopes not be in vain, I recalled the words of a psalm in which I wanted desperately to believe.
I lay prostrate while Brother Gottlieb read from the Scriptures. “If you make a vow to the Lord your God, do not be slow to pay it, for the Lord your God will demand it of you.” The words reflected hollowly off the stone walls, acquiring a quality of admonition for which I was grateful. “Whatever your lips utter, you must be sure to do because you made your vow freely to the Lord your God.”
With that exhortation ringing in my ears, I bowed before the archbishop as he sprinkled holy water, blessed me with frankincense, and gave me a white veil. “Then he said to them:” he quoted from an evangelist, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me.”
The symbolic funeral rites commenced with an antiphon followed by psalms from the Office of the Dead before the monks led me back to the convent. The archbishop sprinkled the doorstep with holy water, and as he did so, the words Juliana had spoken in the midst of a dark night of despair came to me: And now I am left alone, sealed in this tomb!
Before I crossed the threshold, I kneeled and prayed aloud, aware of the faint tremble in my voice. “For the Lord has chosen Zion; he has desired it for his dwelling place. This is my resting place for ever: here I dwell, for I have desired it.”
The next day I went to work at the infirmary as usual, and Brother Wigbert informed me that Volmar had left the abbey without professing his vows.
23
December 1124
Jutta’s practices finally caught up with her in her thirty-third year. Brought to a state of enfeeblement well ahead of her time, she looked like a frail old woman, and the periods of convalescence between her bouts of illness had grown increasingly shorter. When her fasts had turned into a refusal of all food, accompanied by extended vigils, I knew that she would not rise from her bed again. It was the winter of the year 1124.
I still did not understand what had made Jutta choose to use her time in this world—full as it was already of violence, want, and disease—to make her life more painful than it had to be. Four days before Christmas, when there was a stillness in the air that usually portended snow, I went to bathe her forehead with yarrow water and found her sitting on her pallet. It was the only concession to comfort she had made during her illness but she had insisted it be strewn with ashes. Jutta’s eyes were shining with an unnatural light, something I had seen in gravely ill patients before, and it bode nothing good.
“You are weak, Sister; you should not exert yourself,” I said as I put down the bowl.
“I must keep vigil for the coming of my Heavenly Spouse. The moment is near.”
I touched the towel to her face and felt the fever through the cloth.
“My only care as I depart this life,” she resumed, “is to leave the convent in reliable hands.”
There was an opportunity in this admission, and I took it. “If you let me bring you some food and water, you will strengthen and such a transition won’t be necessary just yet.”
“The time is short.” Jutta repeated, excitement bubbling under the surface of her voice. “I want you to take over when I am gone.”
My hand froze midair. “But I am not the next in line. Sister Juliana—”
“Juliana never wanted this life.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Even so, you are worthier than anybody I know.” She gazed at me with her usual intensity, and I looked away. If she was asking me, who was so averse to asceticism, to uphold the convent’s reputation in that area, I was not going to make that promise.
“I don’t think I can follow your example.” I admitted honestly.
Jutta’s gaze did not waver. “You can do more than I did . . . I have mortified my flesh, but it is to you that God chose to speak.” She was tiring, and her voice dropped to scarce above a whisper. “Use all you have learned for the elevation of the people to help them understand . . .
