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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781452595962 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Balboa Press |
| Publication date: | 06/19/2014 |
| Pages: | 224 |
| Product dimensions: | 8.30(w) x 5.50(h) x 0.70(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Monastery to Matrimony
A Woman's Journey
By Mary Ann Weakley
Balboa Press
Copyright © 2014 Mary Ann WeakleyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-9596-2
CHAPTER 1
The Naming
* * *
"Miss Mary Ann Cahill, you will henceforth be known as Sister Mary Magdalen of the Mother of God." Father Labonte's voice resounded down the expansive nave of Saints Peter and Paul Church, over the crowd, and up to the choir balcony filled with women wearing black and white.
My shoulders relaxed. I stepped down from the marble steps at the altar, careful not to trip on the unfamiliar floor-length robe I had donned only minutes earlier. My mind flashed back to my childhood and my favorite little nun-doll. I never imagined that one day I would look just like her.
Looking straight ahead as I approached the church pew, I could see my parents smiling—knowing the name made me happy. As custom dictated, I had submitted three choices, resigned to the fact that I might not receive any of them. Fear of being stuck with a name like Sister Cunegunda or Cresentia, or one of a litany of other saintly women buried deep in the archives of forgotten saints made me cringe. I winced at the thought of being called Sister Cunegunda forever. It could happen.
Returning to the front pew, I joined my three classmates waiting eagerly for their turn. One by one the scene repeated itself. Just as the celebration of the Mass ended, a triumphant organ recessional sounded—our cue to march down the aisle and out of the church. Every voice vibrated in song. The sun burst through tall, stained-glass windows like a symbol of God's blessing on his new, white-veiled brides. Had a white dove image of the Holy Spirit winged above us, it could have been a scene depicted in a spiritual painting. My heart swelled with emotion. Thinking it must be a sign confirming my decision to become a nun, I dismissed the concern that my choice might be an impulsive, short-lived adventure. The ceremony of receiving the habit—the clothing of a nun—marked the completion of nine months as a postulant, the first stage of my training. As a postulant, I wore a black blouse, knee-length skirt, and black opaque stockings.
Seeing my reflection in the mirror—the long black robe and white flowing veil, I liked the image—I looked like a real nun. I knew the clothes didn't automatically lift me to a higher level of holiness, but at least I looked holy. Not a strand of my mousey brown hair showed, and only a small square of my face, eyebrows to chin, could be seen. My blue eyes and Irish smile gave me away.
That June day in 1954 launched the beginning of an austere novice year—twelve months of additional training—considered to be the most challenging year of our formation to be an exemplary nun—sort of a spiritual boot camp. Acceptance for religious vows depends upon successful completion of the canonical year. Canon Law, the law of the church, required one year of strict seclusion from the outside world, meant to remove any distractions hindering a pursuit in contemplation of God. I would be tested, shaped, and molded as a piece of clay until a model religious nun was extruded.
During the ceremony, Linda, my best friend since third grade, had the same look of disbelief she'd had a year ago, when I first told her of my plans to enter a convent. After cheerleading, dating, going to movies, and athletic events together, she found it incredulous that I would choose such a life. She told me how saddened she felt seeing tears on my father's face during the ceremony. She doubted they were tears of joy.
He looked dapper in his Sunday three-piece suit. My mother, in a new beige suit, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and matching gloves, sat beside him. Mom smiled at me as I came down the aisle. I could see a mixture of pride and sadness in her eyes. She no doubt felt this bridal ceremony didn't measure up to the one she had imagined for me. The stripping of my baptismal name must have hurt also. She had waited through the births of four sons to name her only daughter.
Traditionally, when nuns received their habit, they were given a saint's name—either masculine or feminine—chosen because of a special devotion to a saint or out of respect and admiration for a parent. As a postulant, I had admired Saint Mary Magdalen for her devotion and courage in committing to Jesus. I longed to grow in love and dedication to him with Mary Magdalen as my model.
I felt holier than ever on that joy-filled day, though, only a few years earlier, I could never have envisioned taking such a path. Putting on a nun's clothing and accepting a new name signified a new beginning, a lifetime of commitment.
CHAPTER 2Setting the Dominos
* * *
At the age of fourteen, long before my ceremonial clothing and naming day, I made a decision that set my life tumbling on a path, like a row of dominos, toward that day in June when I put on the habit of a nun. I chose to go to an all-girls boarding school for high school. To someone who, until third grade, attended a one-room country school, boarding school was an alien idea.
During the spring of my eighth-grade year, a girl from church told me of her plans to attend St. Mary's Academy, a Catholic girls' boarding school in Nauvoo, on the western border of Illinois. I found her excitement about going to St. Mary's contagious. She talked of the fun of going away to school and meeting kids from different places. I had never heard of Nauvoo, much less the boarding school, nor had it ever occurred to me to go anywhere other than Bement High School, where I would already know all the kids.
My curiosity prompted me to seek more information, like, do nuns teach there? Are there boys at the school? Though I was pretty sure of the answers, I had to ask. I mentioned the idea of a boarding school to my mother, never suggesting that I might be thinking about it. The prospect of going to high school in a new town far across the state became an exciting and adventurous idea. I did worry that sending me to a boarding school would be a major financial consideration for my parents—just seven years after our farm home and everything we owned had been destroyed.
In March 1942, a merciless tornado shattered everything in its path, including every single, upright stick of our modest country house. The funnel dropped down unannounced through the heavy rain and dark clouds. Mother screamed my name; I ran toward her as the windows clouded with black dirt. The ceiling cracked at the corner of the front bedroom where I played. In the aftermath, with rain still falling, she led me safely through a mangled mess of bricks, boards, live wires, and glass strewn across the yard. After making our way to the driveway, we found shelter in the remains of the barn until help arrived. By God's mercy, I escaped the flying debris without a scratch. She sheltered me with her body as we clung together. Mom suffered a broken clavicle, and cuts and bruises from the wreckage. The twister stripped the leaves from the hundred-year-old maple trees in the front yard. Our refrigerator lay on its side on the grass, still intact. A few dazed and naked chickens wandered the barnyard. Shards of furniture and bits and pieces of personal possessions littered the yard and pastures. A letter returned to my mother had landed miles away in a neighboring state. Except for the little rosary beads of my nun doll, found attached to a light pole, nothing of mine survived.
Many times over the years, I would wonder how I could have escaped harm from the tornado that day in March. Did God have a plan for me?
After the tornado tore away our home, we lived in a rented farmhouse and my father continued to farm the land. Eventually, my parents moved the family to Bement, a nearby small country town in central Illinois, similar to hundreds scattered across the plains of the Midwest dotting a grid of corn and beans.
The sudden idea of boarding school surprised them. They liked the prospect of the Catholic education, but they didn't like the thought of me going away from home. They both promised to consider the idea, even though two hundred miles across the state to Nauvoo seemed far from Bement. The $400 annual tuition, room and board had to be a consideration. Such a choice seemed extravagant when a public school stood just across the street from our home.
I waited weeks for their decision. After long discussions, they agreed to part with me for the sake of giving me a Catholic education, which they obviously valued more than I did. A new experience remained my sole motive. No doubt, the benefits of a finishing school played a big part in their decision too. I grew up a tomboy on the farm with my four older brothers, preferring to run barefoot outside to playing inside or helping Mom in the kitchen. If my parents waivered in their decision, Catholic education became my trump card, though I had yet to learn what it meant to get a Catholic education.
While I waited for their decision, I shared my plan with Linda and Sonya, my two best friends. I tried to explain the boarding school concept; they found it completely foreign. To be honest, it remained but a curiosity to me.
"What does that mean? You'd go to school there, instead of Bement? Where is it? Would you have to stay there all the time?" Linda bombarded me with questions, trying to understand. "Why do you want to go away from home? Your parents won't let you. Will you ever get home? What about Homecoming?"
Through the summer, I anticipated being back for big events, holiday vacations, and long weekends. Linda and Sonya practiced for cheerleading tryouts, and talked of new teachers and courses. I didn't expect, nor did I like, the growing feeling of being left out of the preparation for high school activities at home.
The bright spot for me became the planning of my new school wardrobe with Mom. We sat together on my little single bed cutting and sewing nametags on every piece of clothing—skirts, blouses, socks, sweaters, even linens. Required uniforms for school and for Sunday Mass should have made me suspicious of the adventure, but even that first sign of uniformity didn't dissuade me. Coordinating outfits was a fixation of mine; things had to match, but not to the point of wearing drab uniforms. Emotions swung from excitement to sadness for both of us as we talked of the days ahead. The planning confirmed my decision; turning back was not an option.
The new burgundy Packard my dad bought—an unnecessary extravagance according to my mother—had been loaded with new blue and white Samsonite suitcases and a foot locker. Linda came to say goodbye. Our lives were beginning a divergence we could not have foreseen.
Route 10, the two-lane road heading west across Illinois, unwound like a long gray ribbon passing field after field interrupted only by reduced speed limits through identical small country towns—replicas of Bement. Looking back from the rise of the bridge, as we crossed the Illinois River in Havana, I felt home and everything I had left behind disappearing. The river below wound like a chasm severing my connection to home. I sat in the back pondering my brave adventure. Mother tried to keep up a happy banter. Dad remained silent much of the trip.
After four hours, the Packard rounded the final curve into the small town of Nauvoo. A four-story, dark brick building loomed high above us on the right bank of the road. It looked ominous, like a correctional institution. My stomach churned. I relaxed at the sight of a sign directing us to turn left toward St. Mary's Academy. We pulled in front of a brilliant red brick structure, with St. Mary's Academy carved in stone above the double-door entry. Girls my age streamed in and out of the building.
The Academy campus looked grand. Towering golden trees shaded picnic benches in the yard.
Veins of sidewalks connected several buildings. It reminded me of a mini-college, both awesome and intimidating.
The commitment I made that day set in motion a future I could in no way have predicted. The tumbling domino dots were connecting to a new path.
CHAPTER 3First Commitment
* * *
I jumped out of the Packard, straightened my blue corduroy skirt, buttoned the matching vest, gathered my little red shoulder bag, and joined my parents walking up the wide sidewalk toward the double-door entrance.
Inside the large foyer, we lined up with other parents and freshmen girls waiting for the principal, Sister Rose. A rotund nun wearing a long, black robe and flowing veil, stepped out of her office to greet us—her image filled the doorway. For a moment, when she moved toward me, I feared I was about to be smothered in her bountiful bosom. She took us into her office to formalize the enrollment. The scene looked incongruous—a small office filled with not only her presence, but a huge mahogany desk where she held court. My parents sat in two small chairs facing her. I stood. She had plump, rosy cheeks made even plumper when she smiled. Gold-framed round eyeglasses magnified crinkles around her eyes. Her smile was warm, but her authoritative stature gave me the feeling it would be best not to cross her.
After performing the obligatory show of welcome, she ushered us into the hall and dismissed us with a nod, a half smile, and a "You'll like St. Mary's, dear," indicating our time was up. She turned to my parents, "So nice to meet you. We'll take good care of her."
As she spoke, I could see her looking beyond us, reaching her hand to the parents of the next newcomer in line. The warmth and charm repeated with the next student. My parents, both more familiar with nuns, may have felt her graciousness genuine, but I reserved my opinion. I felt it best for me to make a practice of staying out of her way.
It's possible I misread the message. It could have been my lack of confidence, a left over from my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Golden. As the lone Catholic kid in my Bement class, I felt singled out for being Catholic. I understood the meaning of discrimination before I knew the word. Though I had permission to attend Mass before school on First Fridays, she never missed a chance to reprimand me for my tardiness. I learned to keep a low profile. As time would tell, I found it best to be scarce around Sister Rose also.
My first introduction to nuns dimmed my enthusiasm a shade as Sister Rose passed us off to a senior in charge of taking freshmen to the second-floor dorms. In North Dorm, brown, iron bunk beds stacked along the walls in front of the windows stifled natural light. Identical, almost thread bare, pale blue spreads covered each bed. Dark wood floors added to the gloominess of a room that could have fit the description of a European orphanage. Small, three-drawer wooden stands separated the beds. I could see a single iron bed tucked in one corner by the door, covered with a white bedspread. A white canvas-like curtain drawn around it hung on wooden poles. In spite of the meager surroundings, I felt an excitement and readiness to explore. I hadn't yet begun to miss my little room at home.
Sister Scholastica, a small, thin nun, flitted around the dorm smiling nervously trying to make us feel comfortable, though she looked anything but comfortable in her role of responsibility. With so little of her face showing, I couldn't decide her age. Her skin, though wrinkle-free, had a dry and pale look making her seem old. Like all the nuns, she wore a long black robe, black veil over a white band across the forehead. A pleated, white, saucer-shaped fabric hung under her chin and around her face. Sister Scholastica, as Prefect, had responsibility for all things related to freshmen in the dorm. She claimed the single bed in the corner with the white spread. I had never been quite so close to a real nun before, and never did I expect to sleep in the same room with one. Sleeping so close to a bunch of freshmen couldn't have been her favorite duty.
My parents hovered around me, in no hurry to leave. Mother helped me finish unpacking and settling into the dorm while Dad visited with other fathers in the campus yard. Eager to explore and meet my classmates, I was ready for my parents to go. The adventure had begun.
Mother's eyes glistened with a threat of tears. She hugged me, reluctant to let go. "Don't forget to write at least once a week." I promised. Dad squeezed me tight, concealing his tears as he climbed into his new Packard. I wondered if he had bought the new car to impress other parents and the staff , sending the message that he could afford a new car and send his daughter to the fine school. No doubt Mom suspected the same. They began the four-hour trip home without me. I choked back the lump in my throat and went to look for new friends and explore the school and campus.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Monastery to Matrimony by Mary Ann Weakley. Copyright © 2014 Mary Ann Weakley. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
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