Foreign service: in search of a Catholic church in not-so-religious Sweden, one American family living there discovers a small yet vibrant community.

Sweden. Skiing, ice-skating, Vikings, herring, ladies bedecked in glowing candle headdresses, a bilingual population, and meters and meters of snow. When my husband sprang through the front door, home from work, and announced that we had been offered the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live abroad, these were the first thoughts that crossed my mind. Do I really want to transplant my young family to this foreign, frozen territory? We decided, yes.

Pulling them out of a perfectly good Catholic school in Seattle, Washington was a bit worrisome, but it still felt right and I had to face it: I had been praying for a Homeric change of course for us. And you know what they say about praying.

The move was captivating from the start. As we got to know the Swedes, we immediately felt their deep respect for privacy, their infectious love of nature and the outdoors, and their keen, eager way of assisting when asked for help. We also promptly discovered that Swedish is a fascinating language in that it is nothing like our native tongue. "Exit" in Swedish is "utfart," which still causes the kids to giggle. "Thank you" is "Tack sa mycket." And the word for "children" is "barn," which somehow made sense to us.

We settled quickly and happily into our new community and school, the British International Primary School, a 15-minute walk from our rented home in Djursholm, a suburb of Stockholm. All four children could attend, and the classes were small and quite accelerated, which was what we were looking for.

The environment at the school was moderately relaxed but in a "high expectation" sort of way, which worked well for our brood. We were meeting such interesting international people who were kind and welcoming. My husband found his job healthily challenging and was dug in. And the travel. We were ecstatic.

But there remained the looming question of where to find a church. Knowing that Sweden is not a deeply religious country, this "church search" was hanging over me like a swollen Swedish snow cloud.

In the entire country, there are a mere 151 priests. And of 9 million Swedes, exactly 1.6 percent are Catholic. That's a whopping 144,000 total. Despite these statistics, I tried to stay positive.

I quickly discovered that there are three Catholic churches in the city of Stockholm: St. Eric's, St. Eugenia's, and Marie Bebadelse. But only one offered Mass in English and that was on Sunday evenings, which did not work well for us. The hunt was on. I could not envision two years without taking part in the Mass. Before the full-on panic ensued, I began to inquire at our school regarding my dilemma.

Just north of us, we were told, was a small Catholic church called the Church of Our Lady. We attended Mass in Swedish for a while but found the children were not taking part at all but instead enjoying a long, leisurely nap. My husband and I convinced ourselves that receiving Communion alone was worth continuing. My bush-beating, however, was still on full force.

I decided to approach Father Frederick Emanuelson, a small, shy priest with large, friendly eyes at the Church of Our Lady to ask if he could enlighten me. He mentioned a convent full of Bridgettine Sisters not far from our house that ran a retirement home. He said Mass there every Sunday morning at 8:30 in Swedish. We were welcome to join the sisters for Mass whenever we liked. We decided to give it a try. At least it was closer.

Their order, the Order of the Most Holy Savior, was founded in the 14th century and established by, of course, St. Bridget, although they have only resided in Djursholm since 1923. Their apostolate is prayer and tending to the elderly in the retirement home they run.

Dressed in full habits, scurrying and tending to their daily details, the sisters were unfailingly darling and hospitable. They seemed sincerely happy that we joined them each Sunday. We even spent an incredibly devout Lent, Holy Week, and Easter season with them at their chapel and found ourselves moved by their remarkable piety, devotion, and faith. In this small, modest, dark chapel full of nothing but silence and sisters, I felt God's love so completely it was palpable. Their jubilance and delight was infectious as we celebrated Christ's Resurrection on Easter Sunday. We attended Mass among them through the spring months until I worked up the confidence to ask the humble but grand Mother Veronica to consider teaching the children religious education one hour a week. She politely and thoughtfully said she would consider it.

Please, dear St. Bridget, please open a window for my family and me.

One Sunday after Mass, she approached me and tenderly told me that she wouldn't be able to teach the children, due to the language differences. But with calm and care she informed me, "There is always the Vatican Embassy."

As we sipped coffee on that cold, crisp spring morning after Mass, she directed my eyes through the trees, still barren, to a sizeable terra cotta-colored house with a Vatican flag proudly displayed on a manicured lawn.

She explained that there are five residents at the embassy: three Filipino sisters; Archbishop Giovanni Tonucci, the apostolic nuncio from Italy; and his Hungarian assistant, Msgr. Gabor Pinter. They did have a chapel, although small, and the archbishop said Mass there every day in English.

I could not believe what I was hearing: Mass in English a mere five-minute drive from our home. She had already rung Sister Lorna, who would be expecting my call. Jackpot, my bush-beating days were over.

Sister Lorna invited our family to join their small community for Mass the next Sunday. We arrived early and were welcomed by three tiny, giggling, affectionate sisters full of joy, anticipation, and curiosity. While greeted with kisses from the whole gaggle, it was strongly suggested that we provide lectors for the Mass we would celebrate together. Once introduced to the nuncio, Archbishop Tonucci, a dignified gentle man with a kind face and a ready smile, our eldest son, John, was invited to receive altar boy training during Mass. He was thrilled, as were we. The nuncio celebrated the Mass with Msgr. Pinter, whose warmth and joyfulness set us all at ease.

We spent the next 50 fabulous minutes celebrating our Mass with one another. The children, all four of them, have never sat so still or listened as closely as they did that icy, intimate morning.

In one tiny chapel filled with strangers, mismatched chairs, and numerous accents, we again experienced God's love perfectly. I was beginning to sense a pattern. Our tiny congregation has grown to a group of four to six families, depending on the departures and arrivals of expatriates. We have learned to sing the Gloria in Tagalog, been tickled as the nuncio has presented the sisters with new Italian shoes on his return from his latest trip to his homeland, and witnessed the transformation of our humble chapel into a proper church complete with six pews and carpeting. We have welcomed families from the United States, Ireland, the Philippines, Africa, England, Sweden, Mexico, and Spain.

We shared a joyful Christmas Eve Mass complete with a procession from a handmade creche filled with the Holy Family, hand-sculpted by the nuncio, which was prominently displayed on the Vatican Embassy lawn. And the children provided all the lectoring. But most importantly, we have lovingly celebrated Mass together, in English, month after month.

Sister Lorna, along with one of the American expatriate mothers, has even taken on religious education classes for our children. And together they are doing a fabulous job.

We've now called Sweden home for 16 months. We have skied snowcapped mountains, skated on frozen lakes, and learned to acquire a taste for some herring. We've visited the Ice Hotel, taken part in St. Lucia Day, and experienced the exhilaration of dog sledding.

And as I drift off each night, I thank God and St. Bridget for their extraordinary guidance in finding this needle in a haystack.

Sweden may not be full of Catholics, but for my family, Catholicism is alive and well in Sweden. And as for making memories, this one leads the pack.

Now, just what are we going to do about First Communion?

JULIA M. ADLER lived in Stockholm, Sweden for two years and now resides in Gig Harbor, Washington.