Life in a Convent

CONVENT life to some people seems cold and austere, and they see no reason for its existence. They seek no information from reliable sources either because they are not interested or because they prefer to believe queer stories. That is too bad, for the truth is more wholesome and interesting.

Twenty years ago I entered this, a typical American convent, and am still here and very contented. These twenty years have passed with a rapidity that is startling. I sometimes wonder where I was and what I was doing while those seven thousand days went whisking by. If the next twenty years pass as quickly and pleasantly, I’m likely to be caught some day before Saint Peter trying to find a second in which to straighten my scapular before answering his questions.

I didn’t enter the convent because I was lovesick; neither did I consider it the easiest way to live, fully realizing that it would be difficult to obey the will of another under the vow of obedience. I came because that was my way of showing God that I loved Him. Leaving home wasn’t easy. My life had been sheltered, carefree, and content. I was what the girls of today term ‘a softy.’ Conscious of the fact that my absence at home would be keenly felt, and also that I had little with which to impress a large teaching community, I confided my worries to the outspoken Monsignor of our parish: ‘I don’t know how to sew; or clean; or cook; or how to teach. What do you suppose they will make me do?’ He smiled as he answered: ‘Perhaps you can learn to feed the chickens.’ I’ve learned, as this wise old priest inferred, that it makes little difference what work one does, for it is all Christ’s work and that is the thing that counts.

I have no desire to serve God in any other way of life, but if I had I know, as every other Sister knows (has been taught), that dispensations can be and are granted to those who find out this is not their way to heaven. We are given several years of training in the novitiate before taking temporary vows, which are taken for three years. After that, perpetual vows are made. By that time one should be sufficiently acquainted with the life to know what is expected. Even after perpetual vows have been taken a Sister can be dispensed. Very few desire to be.

A blessing that comes in handy to everyone is a sense of humor. In a convent this gift is looked upon as one of the usual, not the unusual things, of life, for here, as in no other place, do trifling incidents take on a sense of the ridiculous. Most of the fun is not for public discussion. Perhaps the sophisticated world would not appreciate our naïve good times, but if it could I am sure it would have a better appreciation of the human and divine in our living together for God.

Let me relate just one of many incidents. Ten of us were sent to open a new mission. The parish was under a heavy debt, and so in the Sisters’ house we neither had nor expected luxuries. We had good beds, with springs that were a joy, and enough straight-backed chairs so that we could all sit down at one time. After a few months, one of the kind parishioners donated a discarded davenport. We accepted it with outstretched arms and installed it in our community room with ceremonies befitting the return of the prodigal son. This piece of furniture was lean, long, and hungry-looking, with very little padding on its many brittle bones. Its middle had a pronounced dip, while both ends remained high up in the world. Once in a great while its muscles yearned for exercise, and our comfort was broken by a sharp, unexpected jab. We named this old friend ‘Abe Lincoln,’ and one of the Sisters interested in helping ‘Abe’ keep his figure made out a chart for the proper distribution of poundage. Alas! The chart was regularly forgotten when we raced in after our six o’clock supper for our hour of recreation before our hours of study.

‘Abe’ was soon to have a companion. Another member of the parish brought us a cherished antique which she did not wish to sell. It was a highly polished, short, tightly stuffed, blue-blooded settee. It forced one to sit up straight, for the incline was steep and slippery. We named this treasure ‘Mrs. Abe’ and placed her across from her threadbare mate. Their good and not so good qualities were frequently discussed. ‘Mrs.’ demanded respect. ‘Abe’ put one more at ease. ‘Mrs.’ was shown off to company, but ‘Abe’ was sought after a hard day in school. We held family council over their new clothes, even procured a new leg for ‘Abe,’ but at last had to say a sad farewell. Foolish? Childish? Perhaps it was, but it was a wholesome sort of childishness that helped create a family spirit.

There is, of course, a serious side to religious life that isn’t at all humorous. Take the vow of obedience. My will has the nine lives of a cat. I keep on trying to drown them all, painfully or painlessly, but I’m still, after twenty years, at the trying stage. Because I do try, I feel that blessings have come not only to me but also to my loved ones. Sorrow was surrounding my home. On the advice of others, I asked our kindly Mother Superior for a transfer from a distant mission to one of many much closer to home. She listened and then replied, ‘Sister, considering such and such’ (and her reasons were logical), ‘I think you’d better return to Mars’ (or a place that seemed to me to be about as near as Mars). The refusal was perfectly just. I realized that people in the world constantly accept like decisions as part of life’s discipline. Nevertheless, it was with heavy heart that I turned to my Friend in the Tabernacle and asked Him to ease the sorrow at home. He kept me in suspense for a time, perhaps so that I’d better appreciate the answer when it came. For relief did come, and distance played a part in the accomplishment of my request.

It isn’t always easy to live in harmony in a community. We are really only a very large family, each Sister with a personality different from that of every other. Members of families have their own peculiarities. No one is perfect. That so many individualities, gathered together from various environments, of different nationalities, old and young, sick and strong, and of all levels of education, can come together and live peaceably within close quarters, year after year, confirms one’s belief that God in the Blessed Sacrament embraces us all.

There is a wholesome serenity about old nuns, and many live to be very old. My grade-school teacher wasn’t young when she taught me. After these many years she isn’t any younger, but she is still quite active — not teaching, but sewing and praying. After her day’s work she settles herself with a book. Often she greets me with ’Get me a good story — not a love story, or a historical thing. When I want history I won’t get it from a novel. Don’t you know any good mystery stories?’ From her huge assortment of trifling treasures she recently fished out a yellowed paper, a penciled drawing of herself. Years ago she had demanded it from me, the artist, who was supposedly writing spelling at the time. She is a typical old nun, who is content to spend her remaining days praying for you and for me, and mending community pillowcases.

In community life we do many things together throughout the day. We pray, eat, and work by bells. There is a bell for rising, others calling us to Mass, to the recitation of the office, rosary, meals, and at night a bell for silence. At certain times during the day we are supposed to keep silence, not a silence that forbids any necessary conversation, but one that discourages small talk about the unnecessary trifles which often absorb much of one’s time. It is queer how often happenings that seem very important at the moment dwindle down into almost nothing when just a few hours fill in the space between the event and the narration. Most of us need the slight restraint that silence holds. Then, too, there is a peace about silence that seems to bring God closer to our work. People who have sought relaxation in the vast open spaces have spoken of the feeling of being close to the Almighty. I wonder if it is the vast open space, or the calm, quiet listening in expectancy, that creates the impression.

Our meals are plain and plentiful, but not served in a fancy manner. Outof-season dishes are not to be expected. There is a sameness about institution meals which makes us more delighted over the little surprises of a ‘feast day,’ so when a festival day appears on the calendar and ushers in its special treats, we more than do our duty.

In my youth I insisted that the breast of a chicken was the only piece I could eat and not suffer untold anguish, and so I always received white meat. Now the only pang I have is one of joy when I place between my teeth any part of a chicken, tough or tender, young or old. My digestive system was, and still is, very good. It has not changed, but my demands have. Pancakes served to our large group, for instance, differ in lightness, warmth, and size from those served at your small family table; but, breakfast over and no pancakes remaining, I feel sure that both groups are equally well satisfied. Breakfast itself is soon forgotten in the preparation for the oncoming day.

My twenty years in the convent have been contented years, with many happy memories. I hope that my twenty or forty coming years will be undisturbed. Perhaps a religious persecution might rise within America. I sincerely hope not. I’d much prefer to feel sure that my last days are to be spent in my peaceful convent home, and, when my death comes, that I shall be surrounded by my Sisters singing that beautiful prayer, ‘Salve Regina,’ which is our ‘Nunc Dimittis.’ For the future I turn to God and ask for strength; for the past I turn to Him and say ‘Thank You.’