I married a fellow lapsed Catholic. In him, I see certain positive traits that I attribute to a Catholic upbringing: goodness; service; a sense of moral clarity. Catholicism stays with you whether you like it or not. The Hail Mary is a muscle memory that comes to me in times of trouble. I say it reflexively when I’m scared, or late, or when I hear an ambulance siren. But my feelings about the church have remained over time, only intensified by the sexual abuse crisis.
And yet, seven years ago, I found myself glued to an episode of “The Oprah Winfrey Show” about young women joining a cloister in Ann Arbor, Mich. In a world full of options, they had chosen to take vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, relinquishing both their free will and their iPhones.
I was reminded then of a story I had heard in my own family, about a woman who, in the 1970s, joined the cloistered Abbey of Regina Laudis. Her name is Mother Lucia. She’s the sister of my aunt’s best friend. For years, my aunt had been telling me that the two of us should meet, that we’d really hit it off.
I couldn’t imagine what I’d have in common with someone who had spent the past four decades in a convent. But I kept thinking about nuns, and reading about them. In 2012, as working nuns were becoming the quiet heroes of a crumbling church — advocating same-sex marriage and contraception, even as the Vatican continued to dismiss both as sinful — I wrote to Mother Lucia.
She invited me to come for a parlor, a conversation held through a wooden grille. We talked for two hours. I learned that she was a lover of Shakespeare with a Ph.D. in English literature from Yale, who had first visited the abbey seeking peace, community, social justice. I liked her instantly and admired her. Before we parted ways, she invited me to return for several nights.
During my stay, we followed the Benedictine motto “Ora et labora,” pray and work. Because the nuns are meant to be silent for most of the day, they can’t always communicate with visitors directly, but they find their ways, slipping guests notes after Mass. Often the plan for the particular work of the day is communicated to a guest by a tiny note slipped into her hand.
When you work with the nuns, they talk. I gardened with an older nun as we discussed the fate of bees and the films of Judi Dench. I rode around on a John Deere Gator with a nun in her early 30s who wore a novice’s white veil, as well as a nose ring. She wanted to join the abbey as soon as she graduated from college, but hers was a modern hindrance — a cloistered nun cannot have debt, and she had student loans to repay.
The abbey’s inhabitants include a former movie star, politicians, businesswomen, artists of all kinds. Some came in reaction to a moment in time that defied understanding — the assassinations of John F. Kennedy and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the Vietnam War, the acquittal of the police officers who killed Amadou Diallo.
Right now feels like one of those moments to me. And so I sometimes dream of throwing off the trappings of our troubled world and joining them. The fantasy is not strictly female. With each horrifying news story lately, my husband has taken to asking, “Is it time for the abbey?” We talk about living in the (nonexistent) caretaker’s cottage, raising our son up in fresh air, far from the evils of corrupt politicians and Pornhub.
It’s Christmastime again, and I feel the longing most acutely now. At the abbey, even the smallest act is considered an act of devotion, so that every dish washed or loaf of bread baked takes on heightened importance. I couldn’t have understood this as a kid, arguing with the parish priest. But I see it now. There is something powerful about being in the presence of faith when you yourself are doubting.
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