And Then There Were Nuns

by Jane Christmas

  The memory of the rape was riding the surface of my emotions. I could no longer hide from it. A few nights earlier I had gone out with Lorraine and had told her about it. I needed two glasses of wine before I could broach the subject, but at least it was a start.

  The bells of the Angelus now rang steadily and my thoughts turned to bells, cow bells, dusty path, pilgrimage—and I remembered that it was July 25, the feast day of St. James the Apostle. I knew all about James: he was the patron saint of Spain’s Camino de Santiago de Compostela. I was on another pilgrimage now, one that didn’t come with a map.

  ( 2:xv )

  I MISSED the convent of St. John the Divine the moment I returned home. Some of the routine there had chafed, but now that I was home it was my freedom that chafed. I would look at my watch and imagine what the sisters were doing: I pictured them in their places in chapel chanting the litany, praying for Bible societies; for peace; for the homeless, the sick, the depressed, the disenfranchised; and for their fellow sisters around the world. I pictured them silently processing from chapel to the refectory and withdrawing into their own zone of silent reflection while eating their meals. I missed my twenty-five new friends.

  I molded my newly acquired monastic skills around a full-time job. At work, I stole off to read the psalms (part prayer, part sonnet for my thirsty soul), and sought out prayer meetings and ecumenical services. At home, I said the offices each morning and evening, but it was not the same without a community of chanting cheerleaders.

  “Every time you begin something, pray. It marks the start of a new chapter in your day and your life,” Sister Jessica had taught me.

  And pray I did. I became a veritable praying machine. Monastic life is about a way of looking at the world, of directing your gaze toward God’s creation—the good and the not-so good—of engaging with reality. On my way to work in the morning, I viewed those I passed not as street people or business people or tourists or single moms or up-to-no-good students, but as children of God. On the bus I prayed for the driver, for the old woman struggling with her walker, for the student zoned out on his MP3 player. Instead of being irritated by them, I marveled at them. Good heavens, that person across the aisle is a child of God! I prayed silently before meetings started, for co-workers who were off sick, for those I passed in the hallway. I even prayed for my scheming boss.

  I did not let on where I had spent my summer vacation. The reaction would have been predictable. Had I said I was at an ashram, a Buddhist retreat, or a kibbutz, people would have said, “Wow.” But if I told them I had been to a Christian convent they would have said “Ew.”

  The few friends I did tell were surprised that nuns still existed and even more surprised that there were Anglican nuns. George Carey, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, once remarked that nuns were “the best-kept secret of the Anglican Communion.” He got that right, but why has the church been reluctant to talk openly about their religious orders?

  Three things became clear within a few weeks of being back in the secular world: I could no longer stay in my job; I could no longer worship in a parish church, or rather not the one I had been attending; and I had to find a convent to join and start living a monastic life.

  The weekly Sunday church service, a sort of church lite, seemed so watered down compared with the rich monastic version I had come to know. There was no room for prayerful reflection. Hymns were sung at breakneck speed; ditto for the prayers. The intercessions were particularly lazy territory. Instead of praying for the unemployed and the dying, the congregation prayed for the Queen, for the prime minister, for the Anglican primate, and for high-ranking clergy in Canada and around the world. Sure, these people need our prayers, but when your intercessions are loaded up with political and religious luminaries what place do you assign to the common man or woman? I wanted a more creative and more civic-minded approach: to pray for specific environmental problems in the town or city, for the mother who had lost her son in a gang murder the day before, for the children who were battling for their lives in the local cancer wards, for the father who had suddenly found himself out of work, for street people, and for the new immigrants to the city.

  The politicization of religion was there, all right; the prayers for peace and justice and other buzz words and feel-good notions. Lorraine would have burst a blood vessel had she been present.

  Four months later, I left my job. I teetered in a state of bewilderment; rarely had I been without employment in thirty-five years.

  As if called by a siren, I was drawn back to the convent, back to where I knew my equilibrium would be restored. The only place I knew where I fit in. A bus took me from Hamilton into Toronto and then a subway carried me north. Emerging from the subterranean jungle to the blare of street-level traffic, my legs took over, as if on auto pilot, taking me toward the convent.

  Sister Jessica was there, and she took me in her arms. So did Sister Helen Claire and Sister Sue. Yes, I do belong here.

  Sister Elizabeth Ann had contacted the prioress of the Order of the Holy Paraclete in England, and my visit was arranged. I would spend three months immersing myself in cloistered monastic life. All that remained was to book my flight and confirm my arrival date.

  From there, things proceeded with lightning speed—always a sign that you are on the right path. Incredibly, everything I prayed for was miraculously answered. I prayed that my former employer would give me three months’ severance before my pension kicked in: approved. I prayed that a tenant would be found to sublet my condo: done. I prayed that my children would get jobs and placements that would enable them to be entirely self-sufficient while I was away: granted. I prayed for a few freelance jobs to sustain me until my departure for England: check.

  Almost overnight I was emptied of everything I had known and refilled with tough, direct questions: Are you prepared to give up your life and follow Me? Can you rid yourself of material possessions and the distractions of this world and commit your life to Christ? Can you shed your ego, your vanity, your attachments and desires, and disappear into my world?

  Yikes! Would you like fries with that? I wasn’t sure whether I had the attitudinal rigor for such a life, but that was apparently immaterial because, with or without my consent, the transformation was underway.

  First, my femininity pretty much packed up and walked out the door. I used to be a fairly fashion-conscious gal: I loved intense colors, jewelry, makeup, and shoes—oh, I could not get enough of shoes.

  Now I had completely lost the will to shop. On the rare occasions when I ventured into a shop, I would gravitate to the same color palette: black, gray, brown. (On those days that I felt daring, I’d peruse the rack of navy-colored clothes.) I developed—out of nowhere—a fondness for dull thick shoes with sensible heels. I used to love kitten-heel shoes; now I was lacing up Doc Martens. Docs!

  I stopped wearing makeup, cut off my hair, and stopped coloring it. Catching sight of myself in the mirror one day, I wondered, When did I become a lesbian?

  My personality flatlined. I used to be high-spirited; always game for a bit of fun. Laugh? I’d laugh plenty and tell dirty jokes, to boot. But all that evaporated. Gone. Just like that.

  This metamorphosis had all the markings of a midlife crisis, but in the deepest reaches of my being I knew it was not; it was the long beginning of an awkward awakening.

  What I did not realize at the time was that my actions were typical of someone wrestling with post-traumatic stress. The desexing, the defiance against the status quo are as much a reaction as they are coping mechanisms for those of us who have sustained physical and emotional abuse.

  In advance of my long stay in Whitby, I decided to spend a few weeks at St. Cecilia’s Abbey, home to a community of Benedictine nuns on the Isle of Wight. They were renowned for their Gregorian chant, and I longed to bathe in that music so that its crystalline sounds could flow over me and flush away the toxins of cynicism, weariness, pride, shame, hurt, anger, disappointment, fear, stress—oh, it
was a long list—and purify me.

  However, St. Cecilia’s could only accommodate me for a week, so it was suggested that I contact the monks at nearby Quarr Abbey. I had never heard of Quarr Abbey—not that a males-only monastery would have been on the radar of a wannabe nun—but nonetheless, I sent off an email to its guestmaster, who accepted my booking for the week preceding my stay at St. Cecilia’s. A week at Quarr would, I reasoned, ease me into the routine of religious life.

  St. Benedict was not a fan of religious tire-kickers. He considered these “gyratory monks” to be aimless, “restless servants to their own will and appetites.” What choice did I have? Either I risked Benedict’s scourge for being a dilettante or I ignored the tug inside me that propelled me on my way.

  Both Quarr and St. Cecilia’s were Roman Catholic communities, but given my dual religious upbringing and my ease at toggling between the Anglican and Roman Catholic traditions, I did not think it would be a problem.

  Meanwhile, Colin, bless his heart, offered to drive me from London to the Isle of Wight and drop me off at Quarr.

  As much as I tried to remain upbeat about my upcoming journey, the truth was that I was scared. Now I was working through two issues: finding out whether I was being called to be a nun, and finding resolution to the rape.

  God never makes these things easy.

  Battling Demons

  ················

  Quarr Abbey

  Isle of Wight, England

  MY FIANCÉ IS driving me to a nunnery.

  The words drummed steadily in my mind like a mantra as I tried to make sense of the ludicrous reality of it all. I turned my face toward the passenger window and quietly shook my head. Why does my life have to be this weird?

  Colin’s car clipped along the A36 (or was it the M2?) through the Somerset countryside (or were we in Wiltshire now?) toward Southampton and to the ferry that would take us to the Isle of Wight.

  My mind was swirling with enough what-ifs, whys, and what-was-I-thinking admonishments to trigger a breakdown. Perhaps that was where I was headed: toward a breakdown. I invoked some calming strategies—deep slow breaths, imagining a blackboard eraser wiping clean the clutter in my brain, even commanding myself to relax—Relax!—but nothing worked for long. I tried to distract myself by turning my attention to the English countryside that was whizzing past the car window—Look how green everything is! Like spring! The leaves on the holly and azalea bushes are so glossy you can practically see your reflection in them. You’d never get a January like this in Canada. But as soon as I locked onto the lichen-covered tree limbs, vines, and tree trunks, my thoughts disassembled into word association: They look like they’ve been wrapped in a mossy veil of chiffon. Veil. Gown. Wedding. Gulp. The distraction-therapy tactics came to a screeching halt, and the mantra resumed: My fiancé is driving me to a nunnery.

  I alternated between weepiness and excitement. I couldn’t decide whether I was doing the right thing or the wrong thing. A babble of voices in my head jeered in unison: Why are you doing this? Are you mad? Each time that happened, the Voice Within would calmly intervene: Have faith. There’s a reason for this. Keep going. I was beginning to wish I had never paid attention to those voices.

  We missed the entrance to Quarr Abbey, not once but twice. On the third attempt we spotted a small sign partially obscured by dry, desiccated vines at the edge of a narrow roughly paved driveway and turned in. The car bounced over and around ruts and potholes as Colin steered it with care. It lent a jaunty air to the excursion, and combined with the unusually sunny and warm January weather, it felt like we were going on a picnic.

  The road eventually brought us to an uneven parking area set amid barns and garages.

  I got out of the car, stretched my legs, and took a measure of the place.

  Quarr Abbey’s rose and yellow brick bell tower loomed over us. It was a curious style of architecture: a fusion of Moorish, medieval, and masonic sensibilities that made you wonder whether the architect had been channeling Fritz Lang. The dome of the bell tower resembled a minaret topped by a squat cross. On the main building, sharp triangular shapes like eyebrows raised in surprise topped the stylized gothic windows; broad gothic arches marked doorways; and the partially crenellated façades and blind arches gave the monastery a severe, almost militaristic look.

  By contrast, the landscaping was soft and undulating, from the serpentine contours of the flower beds and hedges to the rise and dips of the terrain. Tall, dark green iron fencing delineated the gardens from the main buildings, and benches and pieces of religious statuary encouraged contemplation. Everything pointed to a property tended with great care and affection, a place where peace and stillness were sacraments.

  ( 3:ii )

  “I’M AFRAID, because you’re, um, female, you can’t eat in the refectory with us. We’ll serve you your meals in this dining room instead. I’ll make sure the door is left open between the two rooms, though, so you feel part of us. Oh, and you can’t enter the church through this door: it leads to our cloister and, well, men only, you know. Your room is on this floor: you can’t stay upstairs, because that area is for men only, too.”

  In the space of thirty seconds, Father Nicholas had uttered three can’ts. The word caused a jerking reflex in my shoulders.

  As Quarr’s guestmaster, Father Nicholas had the duty of providing an orientation to guests. His slightly rushed delivery left the impression he would rather be doing something else.

  The three of us were standing in a long, narrow dining room where I would take my meals. The dining-room table, which ran almost the length of the room, easily accommodated the dozen chairs that had been neatly arranged around it. A side counter held a toaster, bread, coffee mugs, and kettle; on a far wall stood two massive and somewhat forbidding armoires that I guessed served as a pantry for cereal boxes and dishes. A pair of doors, now closed, separated the dining room from the monks’ refectory. I was hoping Father Nicholas would permit a peek.

  “Let me show you your room.”

  Guess not.

  He turned on his heel and headed out of the dining room, his voluminous black habit swishing and fluttering in his wake.

  Colin and I scurried after him like children, down a long white corridor on the main floor of the abbey’s guest wing. Halfway down the hall, Father Nicholas stopped abruptly at a door on the right-hand side, drew a key from beneath his black scapular, unlocked the door, and flung it open.

  The room was adorable, if that isn’t too girly a description for a monastic cell. The walls were white; the floors were polished natural pine. The door and window frames, skirting boards, fireplace mantel, and window shutters were painted a pale sage. All the furniture was natural pine: a single bed—which had a neatly folded stack of crisp white linens atop a pale green bedspread—a bedside table with drawers, two chairs, and a desk in the corner. The window faced a courtyard abutting a quaint-looking outbuilding that housed Quarr’s book and gift shop. There was an en suite with tiled terracotta floors, a pine tongue-and-groove ceiling inset with pot lights, a small tiled shower, and a large bowl-shaped sink fashioned out of polished concrete or stone that sat on the tiled countertop. It was all very fresh and modern.

  “Does this work?” I asked excitedly, pointing to the fireplace and envisioning cozy evenings curled up with my Bible in front of a cheerful fire.

  “Ah, no,” Father Nicholas said with a tight smile, as in, “Nice try.”

  “This is quite nice,” Colin murmured with surprise as he surveyed the room, his hands clasped behind his back like a police officer conducting an inspection. It was a posture that came naturally to Colin because he was, in fact, a police officer, though a more unlikely member of the London Met you will not find. He had been sure of his vocation, certain that joining the police would enable him to help people and make society better. (We are all eventually disillusioned by our chosen vocations.)

  I was pleased that Colin was concentrating on the physical s
urroundings rather than on the fact that he was dropping off his fiancée at a monastery so that she could decide whether to marry him or be a nun. If he felt any weirdness or discomfort, he never let on. I would like to think that I would have been equally magnanimous if he were the one exploring a religious vocation. I glanced up at him and imagined him in a black cassock and scapular.

  I had been unsure how to introduce Colin to Father Nicholas. To call him my fiancé seemed contradictory, given that I had told Father Nicholas I was discerning a religious vocation. “Boyfriend” sounded desperate, and “friend” would have sounded denigrating to Colin. In the end I just stammered over it all until Father Nicholas, rocking on his heels and looking at Colin, jumped in with a jovial, “So, you’re the one who brought her, eh?”

  I guessed Father Nicholas to be in his mid-fifties. He was of medium height and build—though it is tricky to determine someone’s physique when it is hidden beneath a shapeless floor-length habit—and he had short, wispy light brown hair. I could not determine whether the crown of his head bore a tonsure or indicated naturally thinning hair. His dark-framed glasses gave his long, sharp features an engagingly nerdy and punctilious quality; he struck me as the type who, as a youngster, probably relished reminding the teacher to assign homework. He was chatty, perhaps more out of nervousness than a desire to be chatty. He didn’t appear to favor eye contact. When he became excited or agitated, his arms flapped like a penguin.

  “We don’t really have anything written down for you, but here’s the schedule: vigils at five-thirty—doubt you’ll make that; lauds at seven; then breakfast, followed by Mass at nine. Then it’s...”

  Whoa, buddy! He rhymed it off so quickly I could not keep up. There was a mention of lunch, but when was that again?

  “... by which time it’s vespers at five, supper at seven, and then it’s topped off with compline at eight-thirty. Of course, you don’t have to come to any of the offices, you’re free to do whatever you like—walk around the gardens, walk into town, read, whatever you fancy. So, shall I leave you to say good-bye to each other?”