And Then There Were Nuns (17 page)

Like Quarr, it is an industrious community. The sisters bake and produce Communion wafers for much of the U.K. market; illuminate manuscripts; operate a gift shop that sells
CD
s of their music, religious books, and small crafts; and run a small guesthouse from which they receive donations from guests and from individual benefactors. They also grow and harvest their own fruits and vegetables.

Every sister at St. Cecilia's is taught to sing. Gregorian chant is central to the community's worship, and it is therefore fitting that its namesake is the patron saint of church music.

Not relevant to any of this but fascinating nonetheless is that St. Cecilia, who died in Rome in 177, is the first saint whose body was found incorrupt when it was exhumed in 1599. I read somewhere that her corpse was found curled on its side in a sleeping position, which leaves the impression that she might have been unintentionally buried alive. Creepy.

I closed my eyes and begged God to warm my feelings toward this church. Immediately, two older women—well, I think they were older than me—appeared at my pew.

“Can you read the lesson today?” the one in the soft pink cardigan asked me in a clipped no-nonsense voice. “We're stuck; one of our regulars can't make it.”

Wow. God's working fast today.

“Yes, I suppose I could,” I sputtered gratefully. In all my churchgoing years no one had ever asked me to read the lesson, so this was both a thrill and an honor. A feeling of goodwill began to percolate inside me along with the thought that perhaps I
should
convert to Catholicism.

“You're staying at the Garth, aren't you?” asked the other woman. She seemed friendly and had an American accent.

I nodded eagerly. The Garth was the name of St. Cecilia's guesthouse. I picked up a pew Bible and waited to be told the passage they wanted me to read.

But the English woman in the pink sweater had narrowed her eyes on me. “Are you Catholic?” she demanded.

The question took me aback. It's not like I was wearing a sign that said I was a non-Catholic; after all no one
looks
Catholic. Put the Pope in civvies, and no one would know he was Catholic.

“No I'm not, but...”

“No. You absolutely can't read. It won't do,” Sweater Lady said brusquely. “Should have asked you that first.”

Both women hurried away as if they feared contamination.

Well, that was harsh.
I picked my humiliation off the floor and dusted it off. I shifted in my seat again and sat ramrod straight, staring ahead at the altar. My chin began to wobble.

A wild clanging of bells started up, not the tidy singular and soft toll to which I had become accustomed at Quarr Abbey, but a veritable racket. Father Luke, preceded by a thurifer casting wispy threads of incense in his wake, strode toward the altar. He was dressed in a green chasuble and looked very priestly.

The clamor of the bells stopped, and an angelic sound rose from beyond the grill, a clear, ethereal sound, the type that gives you goosebumps. The sisters of St. Cecilia's filled the church with their soaring supra-soprano chant.

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 sound 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.