Yet this glorious and practiced singing did not enchant me: it lacked the warmth and earthiness of the Quarr chanting. As I compared the singing style of both communities, my memory sailed back to Quarr, its church and the monks. The water level behind my eyes began to rise. Uh oh.
I remained on the precipice of a meltdown when the service rolled around to Communion. I decided to join the rest of the small congregation at the rail, not because I necessarily wanted a blessing but because I needed to be nearer to Father Luke, the closest friend I had at that moment. If it meant enduring the ignominy of singling myself out as a non-Catholic by crossing my arms across my chest, then so be it.
As I walked down the aisle, arms dutifully in formation, Sweater Lady leaped to her feet and surged like a scud missile through the clot of parishioners to intercept me.
“You’re not a Catholic,” she challenged in a not very quiet voice, “which means you can’t...”
“I know,” I hissed back with as much righteous indignation as I could muster without someone calling the authorities. “Why do you think I have my damn arms crossed?”
“Oh, jolly good then,” she chirped, and she returned to her seat.
There endeth my flirtation with Catholicism.
It was a mortifying experience, but more than that, it angered me that such a rigid and uncompassionate attitude still existed between two faiths that couldn’t be more related. What’s more, it was an attitude that was obviously condoned because no attempts were made to correct it: in the bulletins or on the signage there was no invitation to those of other faiths or to the non-baptized to come forth and join what is really a solemn gathering around Jesus’s table.
By the time I reached the Communion rail, I could not look at Father Luke. My eyeballs were holding back the Hoover Dam. I bit hard on my lower lip, and with head bowed I accepted the blessing and returned to my seat. I slipped to my knees, buried my face in my hands, and silently wept.
I was still on my knees when Mass ended and the parishioners were shuffling out of the church. I could hear Father Luke making small talk with some of them. I tried to dry my eyes. Please God, don’t let him see me cry.
“Jane,” he called out with a smile in his voice. “C’mon, I’ll take you through the special passage.”
I got up and walked toward him. Sweater Lady was standing beside him. She looked aghast that I, a non-Catholic, was actually on speaking terms with a Catholic priest, a monk at that! As I walked past her, I held back the urge to thrust my chin at her and gloat, “You know, he used to be an Anglican.”
I trailed Father Luke through the narrow passageway steeling myself from breaking apart while he blithely bantered away.
When we reached the rotunda, a parishioner took Father Luke aside, allowing me to turn my back and pretend to be fascinated by a collage of photos of the convent. Water began to leak dangerously around the edges of my eyes. Don’t. Don’t!
Someone called my name. I turned around. A smiling bespectacled nun strode purposefully toward me, her hand outstretched in greeting.
This was Sister Prudence, with whom I had made arrangements for my stay.
“How good to finally meet you,” she enthused as if we were old friends. “Let me show you to the Garth.”
We were almost through the door of the church when Father Luke interrupted his conversation with the parishioner and called out to Sister Prudence: “Make sure you look after that one.” I could not bear to look back.
By now aware of my emotional fragility, Sister Prudence gingerly asked, “Have you stayed in convents before?”
I had to reply; avoiding conversation would have been rude. As soon as I opened my mouth, the dam burst, and I bawled uncontrollably, gulping out my words like a fish flailing on dry land. One hand was dragging my suitcase; the other was plunging into my purse to grope for a tissue.
“I’m so sorry,” I sobbed between hyperventilating gasps. “I’m a little emotional today.” That might have been a lie: I’m a lot emotional every day.
We walked up the street a bit and then followed a path to a squat stone building (in a previous life, it was probably a semidetached home). It had small, white modern windows and doors that were unsympathetic to the style of the façade. Sister Prudence unlocked the front door.
Based on the descriptions given to me by everyone at Quarr, the Garth sounded superb, on par with a four-star hotel. Sadly, there was no correlation between those reviews and the reality. It was a pokey, dreary place with low ceilings and no charm. The walls were bare save for the occasional crucifix decorated with a sprig of dried-out something that required the botanical equivalent of dental records to identify its species. The furnishings were so bland and institutional looking, so uncozy, that it prompted another dribble of tears. It had all the warmth of a hospital ward, and it rather smelled like one, too.
“You’re the only guest till Friday,” Sister Prudence announced, believing that the news would make me feel better. Never have I been so relieved to have privacy; never have I been so in need of company.
She listed the times for the offices and for good measure showed me a list on the bulletin board in the hallway with the same information. God bless women and their penchant for organization.
I gradually regained my composure, and we chatted briefly about the reason for my visit. Sister Prudence regarded me with a degree of curiosity. Or was it skepticism?
“May I ask how old you are? She asked this as diplomatically as possible, but it pricked nonetheless.
“Fifty-seven,” I replied, trying to make it sound like thirty-seven.
She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, sizing me up and down.
“Too old?” I asked in disbelief.
There are many indignities that beset a woman in her fifties, but perhaps none stings as much as being told that she is too old to be a nun.
“A bit,” said Sister Prudence. “Look, I have to be somewhere right now but can we talk longer about this tomorrow? Say, 11:15?”
“Yes, that would be great,” I smiled.
Then she was gone. I stood alone in the hallway with my luggage not knowing whether to cry or kick myself. I’m too old to be a nun? To serve Christ? What the hell? And I’m being told this now? Does He know about this?
I stomped angrily through the Garth trying to decide whether to take the upstairs bedroom or the one on the main level. Fifty-seven? Fifty-freaking-seven? I repeated this aloud—practically spit it out—like a mantra. When did fifty-seven become the new eighty? And who the hell decided fifty-seven was “old”—some thirty-two-year-old? Some tucked and Botoxed “I’m-in-my-forties” sixty-two-year-old?
I thought of my circle of friends—none of whom you would dare accuse of being too old for anything, not if you hoped to keep your internal organs intact. And me? I was accomplished, educated, healthy, enthusiastic. I had strong communications skills, media connections, public relations experience. I had mentored others, I could cook, I could renovate a house, I regarded God as the center of my universe. And I wasn’t worth consideration by a religious order? Hell, if I were a religious order, I would have snapped me up! DON’T THESE PEOPLE KNOW WHO I USED TO BE??
I poked around the guesthouse and wondered how I was going to survive the next six days.
I wheeled my suitcase into a corner of the main-floor bedroom and reluctantly unpacked. It was such a pathetic room; large enough but without that certain quality that makes strange places feel like home. The ceiling was low; a small sink hung forlornly on a wall in one corner; a wardrobe that looked like it had gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson stood in another. The limp, defeated towel that drooped from a rail beside the sink looked to be older than me. Even the little crucifix hanging between the two twin beds looked lost and cold, and I wanted to tuck a small piece of cloth around Jesus’s body to warm it up.
I dropped myself on the edge of one of the beds to take in the staggering banality of it all, and as my bum made contact with it, a crinkling so
und emanated from the mattress, like the sound made when you scrunch up an empty potato chip bag. I peeled back the pink bedspread, the bed sheets, and the mattress protector. Beneath it all was a mattress encased in thick, industrial-strength plastic. St. Benedict, who made hospitality a cornerstone of his Rule, would never endorse plastic mattress covers. Hospitality is about trust and comfort; it does not presume your guests will wet the bed, unless you are expecting a very young guest. Or a guest with incontinence. Is that what they thought of me? At fifty-seven? The cheek!
( 4:ii )
ON A shelf in the hallway, I fished out a map of Ryde from a messy slew of travel brochures, all of them extolling cheerful stays on the Isle of Wight that were completely at odds with the one I was having. I studied the map briefly, got my bearings, then grabbed my coat and purse, and took off in search of a grocery store. The Garth was a self-catering arrangement, which meant I had to cook for myself. God, I missed Father Sting.
The weather had turned gloomy and cold. I pulled the collar of my coat tightly around my neck and dug a pair of gloves out of my pocket.
I schlepped along Melville Street pondering my future, which seemed as bleak as the February afternoon. What if I was too old to be a nun? What then? What do women do when they yearn for monastic life and are rejected by a community because of their age? When did ageism creep into the church? Should I have lied about my age?
What plausible age-related excuses might there be for turning down a candidate for religious life? Can’t get down on her knees fast enough? Might have a hemline preference for her habit? Her singing voice is on the raggedy side? She insists on gluten-free Communion wafers? On the plus side, there were plenty of benefits for taking on older candidates. Brains for one thing. What does a twenty-two-year-old know? An older woman would also bring a steady pension along with a wealth of work experience that could benefit the convent. And let’s not forget commitment. Women of a certain age know the value of working together for a common cause.
I raised my eyes from the ground just in time to notice a road sign alerting traffic to road construction: CHANGED PRIORITIES AHEAD. I gave a snort: it rather summed things up.
Across the street a window display of furniture caught my eye, and I crossed over for a closer look. I stared vacantly at the items, alternately admiring them and trying to figure out what to do with my life. I caught sight of my reflection in a mirror; staring back was a sad, colorless little face framed by short, spiky hair that showed more salt than pepper. I suppose all women wake up one day to the reality of their older face, but this was not a case of a few lines and wrinkles, this was Benjamin Button on speed: jowls had pillowed along my jawline, deep crevices were etched around the base of my nose, the dreaded “marionette” lines drew my mouth downward into a permanent scowl. Good grief! Is this what happens when you go au naturel; when your role models are people who have survived sandstorms and lived on twigs? Oh sure, those dried-up desert mothers and fathers had inner radiance, but inner beauty is for amateurs.
In his homily that morning, Father Luke had spoken about how, when we have been wounded by the words or deeds of others, our first reaction is to retreat from the world, which actually makes things worse for ourselves. Better, he said, to use the experience to reach out to others who have also been wounded. Spreading our light lights others around us, as Matthew had said in his gospel: “Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.”
Maybe my desire for invisibility was not what God intended for me. Perhaps my sin was trying to wear the hair shirt.
( 4:iii )
SISTER PRUDENCE arrived at the appointed time the following day, flying through the front door in a flash of black and white.
There was a time when I admired the look of the traditional habit—there was nothing that a pair of tall black boots couldn’t remedy. I had regarded the habit as a symbol of feminine power and independence. Now, on closer inspection, it struck me as severe and fussy—a sort of Christian burqa: the white-lined black veil (How do you keep that thing on?); the tight white wimple gripping the head and face (Itchy? Hot?); the starched bib (Can you eat soup without dribbling on it?); the full-length black tunic (Constricting? Bulky?). At the end of a day, do Sister Prudence and her fellow sisters talk about “getting out of this hot habit” or complain about having a case of wimple hair?
A few strands of wavy strawberry blonde hair had liberated themselves from Sister Prudence’s wimple, and as she settled into a chair in the living room, she tucked them back out of sight.
We faced one another on two stiff chairs. It felt like the Inquisition was about to commence.
She remained silent, which made me a bit antsy, so I filled the empty space with chatter, beginning with an apology for my emotional state the day before. I told her that I had been unprepared for the considerable contrast between Quarr and St. Cecilia’s. I also told her about being approached in the church to read the lesson and about being intercepted on my way to the Communion rail.
Sister Prudence was appalled, and apologized. She promised to look into it.
“Why can’t a non-Catholic read the lesson in a Catholic church or take Communion?” I asked, trying not to sound petulant. “Exclusivity is contrary to Christian teaching.”
I mentioned that I had a Catholic mother and an Anglican father, and that our family had freely worshipped and participated in each church. I told her I had often taken Communion in an RC church and that my RC mother had taken Communion in an Anglican church.
Sister Prudence was shocked. She adjusted her large pale-framed glasses; the thick lenses gave her the look of an alarmed owl.
“Why weren’t you raised a Catholic?” she demanded, her big eyes zooming in on me. “In those days, non-Catholics who married Catholics had to promise to raise their children in the Catholic faith.”
I shrugged.
“Your father must have been a very strong personality indeed to resist that,” Sister Prudence said in a serious tone.
“Actually, he was a very gentle and quiet man, a man who respected authority, but who put the rules of God before man-made rules.”
“Well, let’s talk about you,” she said, quickly changing the subject. “Tell me about yourself.”
I took a deep breath and gave her the Coles Notes version of my life.
It would have been amusing to see the thought balloons that sprang from beneath Sister Prudence’s wimple as she listened. It could not be said that she had a good poker face.
“I have three children,” I said at length.
Her big eyes widened and she exclaimed, “You do?”
“I’ve been married.”
“Oh!” Her eyes became saucer-sized.
“Twice.”
“Oh my!” She raised her hands to her mouth and averted her eyes.
When I mentioned that I was engaged to be married a third time, she nearly passed out, and it seemed best to stop and spare her more distress.
“Given that background, I don’t know how you have the nerve to attend church at all. And you want to be a nun?”
The remark was such a slap that I flinched. I barely knew how to respond.
“Yes,” I said steeling my confidence. “But you say I’m too old.”
“Our upper age limit is forty,” she said with a tight smile.
It was clear that this nun thing wasn’t going to happen. Not here anyway. And yet I wanted to argue my case with Sister Prudence. I wanted to cite the case of St. Angela of Foligno, who had whored her way through much of her life until she renounced her behavior, founded a religious order, and became a saint. Wasn’t the church all about forgiveness? As for divorce and age, those were hardly grounds to deny someone a chance to devote her life to God. Wasn’t there dispensation for late bloomers? If I had told Sister Prudence that I had a million dollars to donate to the convent, I’ll bet that “upper age limit” would have been dropped pretty quickly.
&nbs
p; And yet I desperately sought her approval. I wanted her to ignore the evidence before her and see the big picture. I wanted her to look into my heart and recognize its longing to belong, its desire to surrender its vagabond life for divine stability.
“Look, it’s not like I planned my life this way,” I finally said. “Stuff happens. Some things are beyond our control; when a partner constantly denigrates you in public or up and leaves you because he’s decided that you’re holding him back from some greater glory, what are you to do?”
She looked blankly at me, but I could tell that the wheels in her head were churning beneath that starched wimple.
She asked about my previous marriages, and suddenly she arrived at a solution.
“Two marriages would disqualify you from becoming a Catholic, but we could have your first marriage declared annulled because you married under duress...”
“I didn’t,” I countered. “I just...”
“But I don’t think there’s anything that can be done about the second. You could become a Catholic and you could receive the Holy Sacraments, but you would never be able to marry again.”
Removing from the equation my ambitions to become a nun, Sister Prudence saw an opportunity to snag me as a convert to Catholicism, and offer it as a consolation prize.
“What if...”
Anticipating my question she said, “If you marry again, you will not be permitted to receive Communion. Ever.”
The statement was delivered like a thick metal door of a vault slamming shut.
I am embarrassed to admit that I sat there for a little bit weighing Communion against sex, but there you go. I wasn’t about to give up.
“Why is there such an intractable difference between the Catholics and the Anglicans when both originated from the same root?”
“Because,” sighed Sister Prudence, “when the Anglicans broke with Rome they severed the apostolic succession. You do understand apostolic succession, don’t you? You know, Jesus laid his hands on his apostles, they went out and laid their hands on others to ordain them as priests, and so on. In breaking that sacred tradition, Anglicans have no God-given authority to ordain others.”
And Then There Were Nuns Page 13