And Then There Were Nuns (6 page)

Sister Jessica was born and raised in Glasgow, she told us, and had trained as a nurse. She never planned on becoming a nun, but when she reached her early forties, she found herself edging closer toward the sisterhood. “Me, called to religious life? I thought it was a joke!”

She was now in her mid-seventies, plucky and fun, with a deep rolling laugh. The way she humanized religious life captivated us. Convent life was not the romantic bubble some of us had envisioned, but neither was it austere or humorless. Not with people like Sister Jessica around. What's more, nuns were not the saintly, virginal beings we assumed they were. Any one of us could be nun material. Even me.

( 2:v )

“AT LEAST
we're getting a cardio and strength-training workout,” said Lorraine, our feet shuffling along a dusty concrete floor as we lugged a six-foot wooden altar from one end of the basement to the other.

As part of our daily labor—
Laborare est orare
(to work is to pray) was St. Benedict's ethos—Lorraine and I had been assigned the job of sorting through a jumble of old furniture and knickknacks discarded by the sisters and then cleaning and pricing it for a garage sale that was to take place in two weeks. It was the first garage sale the sisters had held.

I was glad to be paired with Lorraine. She was a strong, good-humored woman with wavy shoulder-length hair, and like me, she was divorced and in her fifties. She was working toward a theology degree: her thesis argued that Western churches had misinterpreted the gospel when it claimed that justice was central to Jesus's teaching, and she was comparing the Greek and Hebrew texts of the Bible to support her theory.

“But the Anglican Church in Canada is all about peace and justice at the moment,” I said slightly puzzled.

“Don't get me started on that,” Lorraine said, gritting her teeth. But usually she
would
get started on it and rant a little to explain her point.

“The church has hijacked Jesus's call to righteousness and created an assumption that it's a call to social justice. I don't believe that it is. Did you know that in the King James Version of the Bible—
the
Bible of the English-speaking Protestant world for several hundred years—the word ‘justice' doesn't appear once—not once—in the New Testament? And it appears only twenty-eight times in the Old Testament. And the word ‘justice' is almost never defined by the people who use it: What does it mean? Fairness? Equity? Equality? And what's the relationship between justice and the law? The whole social justice thing is a great deflector, a patronizing finger-pointer that says ‘The problem is with systems and not within us.' It's easier for the church to talk about social justice than to talk about the inner journey or the inner work that individuals need to do.”

In the early hours of morning, Lorraine and I would often bump into each other in the small library down the hall from our cells. When the sisters and some of the more devout among our Crossroads group were tuned to private prayer, Lorraine and I would be in the library checking our email. (The convent had Wi-Fi.)

Lorraine loved books, and she was forever recommending titles for me to read. Occasionally, while sitting across from one another in the library, my laptop would ping with the arrival in my inbox of yet another book recommendation from her. By the time I left St. John's, the list had grown to about twenty-five books. (The sheer number of books about faith that are published each year is staggering. The moment you express an interest in a religious vocation, everyone has a dozen books that “you absolutely have to read.” They are rarely loaned and seldom stocked in public libraries; you can find them only in religious book centers. It required a self-imposed vow of poverty to save me from the tyranny of book recommendations.)

I looked forward to Lorraine's suggestions because she would often throw in a title that had nothing to do with religion, and once in a while she would email me a joke, which sent us into uncontrollable giggles during what was supposed to be the Greater Silence.

In the basement, as we sorted, cleaned, and hauled furniture, we chatted and joked some more.

The other thing that made our basement work enjoyable was our supervisor, Sister Sue.

Like Sister Jessica, Sister Sue was a character. In her pre-nun life, she had been a professor of ancient history in the United States—and an atheist. It was while dealing with an addiction via a twelve-step program that she forged a bond with God, likening the experience to being wrapped in a big electric blanket of comfort and warmth. She gradually began yearning to be part of a community that was rooted in a common faith, and ended up baptized, much to her surprise. After becoming Christian, she realized that she wanted “more God” in her life, and that got her thinking about the religious life. She visited the Canadian convent hoping she wouldn't like it, “but as soon as I got here, I felt at home.” She entered religious life at age fifty.

A side-parted chin-length blunt cut, which she hooked behind an ear, gave her a girlish look, but it was her inscrutable expression with its Mona Lisa smile that hinted at a feisty side.

It came as no surprise when we discovered that Sister Sue had a “colorful” past, as they like to say in hagiographic accounts. A few of the nuns had alluded obliquely to their past relationships, but Sister Sue was entirely upfront about hers—she had lived with a few men.

We adored her candidness, and during our tea break, the other members of our Crossroads group would come in from dusting the library shelves or cleaning the guest house—Lorraine and I had obviously drawn the short straw when it came to manual labor—and migrate to our table to hear Sister Sue dish the goods about a nun's life.

Was convent life really just high school in a habit?

“If you mean, ‘Do the others get bitchy and are there bruised egos from time to time?' the answer is yes,” said Sister Sue. “What do you expect from people who live and work together day in and day out?”

Do you feel oppressed?

“Ha! Are you kidding? There is a great sense of freedom here. I don't feel I'm missing anything from the outside world. I've been liberated from consumerism and all that other crap.”

No one had the nerve to ask, “Do you miss sex?” Well, not yet.

She did not sugarcoat convent life, nor did she castigate it. She seemed proud, defiant even, that she had taken the brave and unconventional path, though she was quick to admit that the call to religious life had taken her by surprise, as it had Sister Jessica. “This is the last place I thought I'd end up.”

( 2:vi )

IN NO
time, I was as embedded with the nuns as I could hope to be. I loved every minute of it.

The place bubbled with optimism and activity, and it had a collegial, noncompetitive vibe.

Being a bit of an architecture freak, I was initially disappointed that the convent wasn't a dark Gothic cliché. It had been built in the past five years and was airy, with an abundance of windows. Glass lined the corridors and the entire wall in the refectory, which faced out to a beautiful courtyard of swaying wildflowers and young trees; the nuns' cloister featured a glass-enclosed porch on all four sides; and the chapel had a glass clerestory that allowed you to watch the clouds pass as you listened to a sermon or a Bible reading.

The light and airiness had a great impact on my well-being. I felt as if every care in the world had fallen away from me. I began to regard myself more as one who could be useful to others than as one with something to prove. My ambition was subsiding nicely, thanks to regular ministrations of kindness, and I glowed with the radiance and earnestness of a new recruit. At times I had to pinch myself to believe that I was really there.

The more I saw of Sister Elizabeth Ann scurrying around the place, listening to everyone's two cents—always with a genuine smile, not a patronizing one—the more I appreciated what a mammoth job it must be to lead thirty or so women
and
run a convent. My thoughts returned to the Camino pilgrimage where I had been the de facto leader of fourteen women. I had lost the group a week into the hike, which says something about my leadership abilities, but was a blessing for the others in that group because by then I had used up a small reserve of patience. A reverend mother supports, counsels, consoles, works with, lives with, and eats with her sisters 24/7. I couldn't do that.

Far from feeling detached from the secular world, I actually felt more connected to it. The sisters monitored national and international events and brought these into the daily corporate intercessions during the offices. That summer, one or two professional sports teams and those competing in the Tour de France were included. We prayed also for people known to the sisterhood, and the prayers became very personal petitions for those who were in hospital or who were bereaved, depressed, or unemployed. Some of the sisters had specific areas of interest: Sister Helena always prayed for Bible socie-ties, Sister Helen Claire prayed for the community's associates and oblates, and Sister Beryl prayed for First Nations dioceses. Frequently, one of the sisters would pray for “those in our Women at a Crossroads program, that they may be guided toward a vocation with our community.”

I took to the routine and the arrangements so easily that I began to wonder whether the attraction was for the wrong reasons. I had a tendency to latch on to an idea and burrow into it, nose around for information and sniff out the truffle of truth, at which point my interest usually waned. I didn't want that to happen to my ardor for monastic life.

So I put on my objective-thinking cap, tamped my zeal, and considered “the life” with more practicality than passion. I got out my pen and a pad of paper, and made a list—
Finally. An excuse to make a list!
—of pros and cons.

From a practical standpoint, religious life was the perfect all-inclusive lifestyle: an excellent balance of prayer, work, and leisure; three squares a day; small but comfortable rooms; a chapel; a couple of libraries; Wi-Fi; and an infirmary. I privately wondered whether the nuns would consider installing an outdoor pool in the courtyard garden. You know, just for exercise. A large barbeque was already set up against a wall in the courtyard, and when I allowed my imagination off the rein, I could conjure up a scene of white umbrellas and teak patio tables and perhaps a covered bar along the wall manned by a couple of cabana boys—cabana monks, perhaps?—who would serve gin-and-tonics and nibblers while I sat on a chaise longue in my tankini habit and pondered God.

In all seriousness, the convent was sublime, a masterpiece of serenity and order. No divas or drama queens that I could see. And the pace was good: I liked being on convent time.

With my pen, I drew a vertical line down the middle of the page and made a secondary list of the emotional and material sacrifices:

• Limited family contact.
  Difficult one. The kids were older and independent, and I was probably just a nuisance to them now, but I would miss being involved in their lives, and if they ever had children of their own, I would miss the grandparent stage.
  
• No more boozy, giddy lunches with the girls.
  I loved hanging out with my friends, but the opportunities for getting together were not as frequent anymore: everyone was glued to their job. As for eating out, it was becoming less satisfying and more expensive: alcohol was the new smoking; food, the new sloth.
  
• No more luxury shoes or nice clothes.
  Give up my only pair of Blahniks? And how would I handle seeing a great pair of boots or kitten-heeled shoes that I could not buy? Then again, amazing age-appropriate fashion for middle-aged women just doesn't exist, so it would be a blessing to no longer have to worry about any of it.
  
• No more travel.
  Yeah, that would be tough. I get a thrill from seeing the world and immersing myself in different cultures, and I revel in the freedom to go where I want.
  
• No more Colin.
  Very tough; ending our relationship would be close to traumatic. I thought of some of the highlights of our time together: a year earlier, we had been in Spain, exploring Andalusia's white-washed villages, spending hours cavorting on clothing-optional beaches and diving into sapphire waters. Was I really willing to trade that for a habit?
  

Lots to think about. There was no rush to make a decision; I hadn't been in the convent that long. Still, at the back of my mind the idea had lodged:
Yes, I could definitely live here.

( 2:vii )

“SO? HAVE
you come to a decision?”

We were in the courtyard garden, taking a morning tea break from our class. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the little pond was burbling like a coffee percolator, and a slight breeze was causing the flowers to sway as if they were listening to a gospel choir.

The question had not exactly surprised me. I had been asked it half a dozen times since Day One. This was only Day Seven. What was I—the vocational bellwether? Talk about pressure. If I made a move, would the rest fall like dominoes?

“There's a lot that I'm liking about this life,” I said cautiously. I didn't want to tip my hand, especially with Sister Elizabeth Ann within earshot—she was weeding among the snow queen hydrangeas and pink spirea. “But it's also not an easy decision. Lots to consider. How about you?”

“Nah. That's not the reason I'm here,” said the woman. She was one of the younger ones in our pack. “But it is really nice. I don't know. I thought by this stage in my life I'd be married or at least have a boyfriend. I worry about my future—I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life. If some of you guys join, though, I might be tempted.”

Our group—the Crossroads Coven, I dubbed it—had gelled easily. A good bunch. Lots of intense discussion, but lots of laughs, too. Most of us were divorced with grown children; I think I was the only one with a steady partner: steady in my case being defined as being romantically attached to someone who lived more than 3,700 miles away.