The Ear of the Heart: An Actress' Journey From Hollywood to Holy Vows (47 page)

Since her entrance seven years before, I had remained in contact with Dolores—Sister Judith—by letter, yet I was surprised when she invited me to participate in her Consecration, to present the veil during the ceremony. “You, more than anyone else, have veiled me”, she explained. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but I accepted her invitation.

—
Most strikingly, you made certain that I was veiled in the most intense ways in matters professional, mainly having to do with the press, but which expanded into personal nurturing. You made me feel protected
.

The morning of her Consecration was dark and rainy. I arrived at the monastery early, hours before the scheduled ceremonial Mass, because I thought there surely would be a rehearsal.

I think most civilians must deal with immense unease in anticipation of a first visit to a cloistered monastery. My sole impression of monasteries came from movies I had seen. They were thoroughly gloomy. Although the masterful movie villainess Gale Sondergaard never played a nun on the screen, in my mind she was what I expected to find at a monastery.

I rang at the door of the main building, a plain gray structure that beggared description—industrial gothic?—and crossed the threshold into a small entry where a stern-looking nun looked through a grille. She said something in Latin in a low, accented voice. I thought to myself, “Gale Sondergaard lives.”

The nun directed me to a small chapel where I was to wait. The chapel itself was from another era, another place—a perfect set piece for a French movie. I waited for a very long time, and when guests started to arrive, I began to get anxious. All of a sudden, a tiny nun with a Southern accent that seemed to drip magnolia blossoms appeared before me. “Are you Mr. DeNeut? Well, where have you been?”

This was Mother Ruth Barry, who, I later learned, was in charge of the sheep. She led me smartly through a door that put me smack back in the entry where she outfitted me in a robe (called an alb) and tied a rope sash (called a cincture) around my waist so tightly I wondered if they were going to let me out afterward.

I had no idea what was expected of me during the ceremony. “Never mind,” she said, “I’ll be right at your side—just do what I do. I’ll nudge you when it’s time for you to present this”—she handed me a metal plate with a folded piece of black cloth on it—“then you’ll go up the three steps to the altar. The veil will be taken from you and given to Sister Judith. Then you will back down the steps and return to your seat. It will be fine.”

Back down
the steps?

The chapel was packed long before the Mass began, strictly standing room only. Seated near me were Maria Cooper and Estelle Coniff, there as Dolores’ godmothers, and a young Japanese woman who was to present the ring.

—I wanted Nobuko to be a significant part of the ceremony and the depth of her participation to be acknowledged. The symbol of the ring was strong enough to bear her sentiment of belonging to us in the “foreverness” of this moment. This would blossom in a way I couldn’t have anticipated
.

At the beginning of the ceremony, Sister Judith was escorted in procession out of the enclosure to a seat in the front row of the congregation, in my direct line of vision. It had been a decade since I had laid eyes on her. She wore a very simple crown of white stephanotis on her head, and she was more beautiful than I had ever seen her—on-screen or off.

My seat also gave me the opportunity to get a close look at the women who made up the Community of Regina Laudis, all seated in the choir area behind the heavy wooden grille. One thing struck me immediately: the good-looks quotient at the monastery was very high.

The veil is presented first. I managed the steps up to the altar with no show of nerves, but when I began the backward maneuver, I could feel immediately that I had stepped on my alb. A flash of my going tail over teacup stopped me cold. Then it occurred to me to switch my weight, which released the robe from underfoot, and I was able to continue my descent without further impediment.

The three Scripture readings at the Consecration came together beautifully as a journey through life from first virginal awakening, to mature love expressed for others, to the ultimate moment when the soul is released in death
.

The Song of Songs is the text that is usually associated with Consecration because of the bridal imagery—the crown of flowers, the bestowal of the ring and the veil, the sobriety of the vows. It can be read as a celebration of human love, but there is also the love of God for His people, of Christ for the Church and of Christ for the individual soul. This emphasis must be shared with the vertical line of authority of the Father, who will ask more of the bride of His Son and also promise her more—not only a love that “no torrents can drown” but one that is itself the water of Life
.

The second reading, from John 17, quotes Christ at the Last Supper, when He is about to die. He is going to die for others, to consecrate them with His own blood, and they are not even going to understand or care. He is praying to the Father for all those in His keeping. For the consecranda, those in her keeping are her community. She is not giving her life to be alone in mystical rapture; she will be living for other people. This includes all those “in the world” who will depend on her and whom she will not abandon
.

The last reading from Revelation—always a difficult, symbolic text—foreshadows the total union with Christ that happens only at death. All union in this life, no matter how sweet, is imperfect; thus, the nun is looking ahead to that moment when the soul is released completely to be with God, and she is praying that she lives in such a way that she is worthy of that grace when the time comes
.

Each of the steps involved in the ceremony has within it an inference that becomes more intense. When I came to the time of Consecration and I was given a ring, that was very powerful. This moment is the closest a nun can come to the totality of a woman’s heart. I was saying, “I do
.”

For seven years, I had listened to and kept notes on every homily Father Prokes had given at Mass. What I received from his words contributed immeasurably to my theological understanding of spiritual growth. He had accepted my invitation to give the homily at the Consecration Mass, and I couldn’t wait to hear what he would say to me that blustery morning. His thesis, framed by the gray, wet day, seemed to be “Don’t rain on my parade.” My first thought was, “He’s giving me Broadway
?”

“Mother Dolores”, Father Prokes expounded, “took the reality and truth of virginity to the world at large by way of AP and UPI. She couldn’t care less if you are unwilling to take the risk involved in joining her parade because nothing and nobody can thwart her search for truth in God. Yet, she couldn’t care more because she desires with all her heart that you join her parade in total trust to where it will lead you, where you shall come to know yourself as a person related to a person as a member of the Body of Christ, the Church.”

The moment of prostration—lying stretched out, face downward, in a position of submission—was initially frightening. But as I listened to the Litany of the Saints sung over me, I could feel in the floorboards beneath me its rhythm amplified through my body like a drumbeat. When finally I stood, I felt sheer physical exhilaration
.

Late in the Mass—when the congregation lined up to receive Communion—I left my seat and stood next to the archbishop, where I could watch as friends received the Eucharist. I suddenly heard myself breaking in with an invitation for my non-Catholic guests to come to the Communion rail to receive a blessing. It was an unusual moment, I grant you, and it got me some flack later from a few of the elders. But at that moment I was concerned that the non-Catholics might feel left out and trapped in our tiny chapel while the Communion line moved slowly, slowly to the rail. I needed them to be a part of the ceremony, too
.

There had been the usual requests to cover the ceremony from publications and photographers, but Reverend Mother Benedict insisted the ceremony be kept private. Valerie Imbleau, who had returned to secular life and her profession as a photographer, was asked to photograph the Consecration exclusively. Her photos appeared in
Ladies’ Home Journal
, and one of them is on the cover of this book.

To maintain security, Mother Irene, by virtue of her military background, got the assignment to police the chapel entrance and refuse admittance to anyone with a camera. She repeated this task at the reception for guests at Saint Joseph’s, where the freshly minted Mother Dolores made a brief appearance. Guests who wished for more than an embrace or a handshake were directed to Saint Benedict’s parlor, where she stood behind the grille for several hours greeting them.

I dutifully joined a long line to take my turn and present my Consecration gift to her—an 8 mm movie camera, for which she had expressed a desire in a letter: “The only film record we have is maybe a half dozen reels of activities like barbeques, things like that”, she had explained. “I can’t help but feel I’m called to change that.”

—
I’ve always had a great concern that new entrants to the Community have, as their heritage, some reference to what Regina Laudis is in terms of human behavior. That has been the motivation for my zealous sponsorship of documenting every facet of monastic life, which began with the little 8 mm movie camera and has continued through the technical advancements of videotaping and, now, digital recording
.

More than thirty people close to me had come to my Consecration, many from a great distance, including Suzanne Zada, who finally was at peace with my decision. Sister Dolores Marie was so happy for me that she removed her personal crucifix from her cincture and gave it to me on the spot. Grandma Hicks brought a medal that had been blessed by Pope John XXIII
.

I hadn’t seen Helen Pittman, Grandpa Pittman’s second wife, since I was a child. Helen and Grandpa had had a long and happy marriage, and I was so touched when she confided that she was beholden to Granny for making her life with Grandpa possible
.

I was glad that Pop—Al Gordon—was there. In the parlor, he asked me if we drank good wine at the monastery, and I told him of course we had wine but, unfortunately, no one knew anything about
good
wine. From then on, Pop sent every year a case of very good wine with which we celebrated distinctive occasions, and when Pop died, his brother Bernie continued the gift
.

Cyril Ritchard brought an exquisite seventeenth-century wooden crucifix from Spain. It hangs in a place of honor within the monastery, reminding me, whenever I pass it, of this elegant genius and his tender affection for a fledgling actress
.

The most unusual gift—and perhaps my favorite—came from Granny. It was a bright, multicolored jacket that she made from silk neckties snipped from the necks of her husbands and lovers over many years. Granny had begun the jacket when my mother was a child and planned it as a wedding gift for her, but when Mom married in a way Granny didn’t feel was appropriate, the jacket was laid away, to be presented instead to a future grandchild. I’ve always felt the jacket was an apt gift. To Granny it represented love. I wore it to the reception with the Community following the ceremony
.

—
It is a fabulous garment. Perhaps if I am lucky they will disavow the custom of being buried in black and put me in Granny’s coat. Wouldn’t that freak out some tomb raider in a thousand years
?

At the reception in the common room, Byron Janis kept his promise to give Mother Dolores a song. She stood facing him as he sat at the little spinet and played it for the Community. “It was my first musical child, so to speak”, Byron recalled. “It was composed at the Chateau de Thoiry in France and had words by the French lyricist Eddy Marnay, who wrote lyrics for songs made famous by Édith Piaf. It is called ‘J’aime Celui Qui M’aime’ (‘I Love the One Who Loves Me’). It was the most meaningful piece of music I could give her as she was embarking on a life of love and commitment to God.”

—
The overriding emotion I will always carry with me from my Consecration is deep thankfulness for the happiness of my family, friends, sisters and so many people who wrote to me. I felt joy in their joy of having a place in my life
.

Twenty-Nine

In 1966, the year I made First Vows, the number of religious women in the United States reached a peak—estimated at over 180,000. But that number was being depleted by a mass exodus, and the number of recruits was likewise declining
.

The decreasing number of consecrated women left many religious orders facing an unsure future—a thought that disturbed me then and one I continue to contemplate
.

Over the months preceding my Consecration, all but one of the ten dissenting nuns left the Community, which created a considerable hole in our workforce. During this period, three young women came to visit Regina Laudis
.