“When this transitory housing we inhabit is dissolved, we know another housing is prepared for us by God, a lasting casement in the heavens not made by hand.” -II Corinthians 5:1
Sister Mary Lauren – now returned to being Edith Melum – recently sent me this photo of our convent “crowd,” that is, the original group of nuns who entered the postulancy in the fall of 1953 and stayed. The picture was taken on the day we all took final vows in 1960.
Front row, L-R: Sisters Winifred, Marlene, Mary Barbara, Francis George, Dominica, Victor Marie, Paulinda. Second Row: Thaddine, Stjephen Marie, Patrice Marie, Melany, Mary elizabeth, Nunciata, Mary Alice, Mary Carol; Third Row: Marcelyn, Marta, Marita, Edward Marie, Alexandra, Mary Edith, Janelle, Mary Pius, Frederick Marie. Top Row: Laurent, Francis Helen, Jovita, Mary Lauren, Henrietta, Charletta, Judane, Mary Henry, Marla and Mary Wilma.
Strangers looking at this photograph might not see much difference between each of the nuns. In the old religious garb, until one got to know them, all nuns seemed to look alike. But I, Edie and the other crowd members, all saw totally different personalities. Now I find it fascinating to see in the full flower of youth (most of us were in our early Twenties) the fellow travelers I have been fond of for some fifty-odd years. There, in smiling rows are thirty-three faces bound in wimples, coifs and collars, dressed utterly alike with tiny crowns of thorns on our heads to symbolize our connection to Christ.
I recalled that the crown was also to remind us of the suffering each could expect at times in taking this step. In our training, the taking of vows of poverty, chastity and obedience had been compared theologically to a martyrdom which had the same spiritual effect as baptism: our pure souls would go immediately to God should we die soon after.
One of our number, Sister Mary Elizabeth, did die soon after. One summer night, taking a walk near her mission in a small town in Wisconsin, she was struck by a car. She had been walking along the right side (which my mother Martha had always reminded her children was the wrong side) of a country road. The driver was used to traveling that road but not used to seeing a pedestrian on it, especially one wearing all black. She died instantly.
Through the years, several others of my crowd, too, have died in ways I couldn’t have imagined. One of the wittiest, most glamorous and extroverted, Sister Frederick Marie, died much too young. I remember her arriving at the convent in 1953, coming down to where our group had all gathered near the apple tree and gardens. She looked like Betty Grable, I thought, dressed in that summery green, black and gold threaded dress, her blond curls and dimples lit up by her piercing blue eyes. Several years after I left the convent, she too was released from her vows, became Jane Hoffman again (much to her mother’s delight) and married into a comfortable life style. We wrote occasionally and she seemed fine. But she stopped writing. Then I heard from her husband that she had died from Alzheimer’s Disease.
Sister Marlene, one of the youngest in the group, a brilliant mathematician, suffered an appalling death. Stationed in a rectory with two other nuns, she failed to awaken when a fire started in the house. Three bodies were found stretched out, trying to reach the door and safety, just inches away.
One death, that of Sister Mary Alice, could have been predicted – she was morbidly obese and died fairly young. I did not know her well, but I knew that those who did loved her very much. I thought of her again when her close friend, Sister Henrietta, always healthy, hard-working, and cheerful, recently contracted cancer of the pancreas and died quickly.
Sister Janelle had returned to secular life and, indeed, had married the brother of the oldest member of our crowd. I had not heard anything of the circumstances surrounding her death and have only a few memories of Janelle. I knew she was a free spirit. We sat together during choir in St. Mary’s Chapel, but Janelle always refused to sing, no matter how persuasive Sister Francis Henry, our choir director, tried to be.
Within the last few years, the two oldest members of the class had passed, Sister Jovita from Alzheimers, and Sister Mary Henry of natural causes; both were in their eighties. Mary Henry, although a cook and “homemaker” and thus by profession a stay-at-home, was nevertheless known and loved by so many outsiders that her funeral was attended by hundreds. Sister Jovita entered the convent after years spent serving her local priest. She played tennis and made “holy hours” with me and had a wicked sense of humor. During one of my latest visits to the Mother House, she was allowed to leave St. Rita’s Infirmary for a short time, but seemed perfectly lucid during that time.
My crowd lived through times of exceptional change. The year most of them had entered the postulancy, 1953, was a flowering of religious vocations in dozens of convents all over the United States, with some of the highest numbers of entrants ever recorded. But about 15 years later these same convents started “bleeding” vocations. I myself had left in 1967 and many others soon followed.
One of my very best friends who had left shortly before I did, Sister Melany, told me years later that though she found religious life extremely difficult, especially the vow of obedience, she had always been ambivalent about leaving. So when it came time to sign the papers formally asking permission to leave, she hesitated. But the highest convent superior, analogous to an Abbess, placed the pen in her hands and indicated she should indeed sign. Melany was of a feisty temperament with a cynical wit, too honest at times for the velvet manners and guarded tongues so necessary for convent peace. That she didn’t get along with a few of her superiors on mission could have been predicted. She did love many other elements of religious life – prayer, her fellow sisters and a few of her more liberal superiors. She also much appreciated the meticulousness of the life style: neat habits, clean rooms, precise explanations and predictable activities. But after she left the community and met the temptations – mainly alcohol – that she had once told me had almost destroyed her father – she sorely regretted leaving. She told me that it gradually became clear to her that she needed convent discipline to keep order in her life.
Although she and I had kept in touch through letters and phone calls for several years after we both had left the community, we abruptly ended our friendship. I had suspected she was developing a drinking problem when she visited me in California. We had gone to visit one of my sisters and while there we were amazed to see how much she drank, beers with chasers having little effect. After she returned to her native New Jersey, she would call me late at night, often drunk, and make racist remarks about the students she taught in a Philadelphia primary school. She would also relate stories of beer-fueled fights she had been involved in with other bar patrons. When my husband and I went to visit her one summer in Camden, I scarcely recognized her. She wore a pink halter top and pants that had once fit a trimmer figure, and looked all bloated. Her refrigerator held nothing but beer and wine; she said she never cooked. I was so upset by the change in her and embarrassed by the tenor of our phone calls that I asked a long-sober AA friend how to handle the problem. She told me to show tough love, to confront her with what she was doing. I wrote a long letter explaining what I heard and felt. The response came after several weeks. Evelyn said she had written and then threw out many drafts of her reply. The phrase that stuck with me was Evelyn calling me a sunshine friend, not reliable when things became stormy. Insulted, she ended the friendship. I later realized that I should have been a better friend and shown compassion.
Afterwards, both of us now being seculars, Evenly wrote to me at UCLA. I had begun working in UCLA’s Center for Academic Interinstitutional Programs (CAIP) and producing materials for teachers and Evelyn wrote to request certain teaching aides. So maybe she had forgiven me. For years, I had kept an eye out for her whenever I was in Philadelphia or in New Jersey. Since she had taught for many years in Philadelphia, I figured she may have spent time there during off hours. Once in the Broadway Diner in Baltimore, I saw a woman that resembled Evelyn. She looked the stereotypical way I had come to think of New Jersey women of a certain age: puffy hair, lots of makeup, cigarette in hand. She was speaking loudly and perhaps sarcastically; she and her group of five laughed lustily. But when she turned full-faced to me, I could see that the resemblance was illusory. At some point after she retired from teaching, she visited the Motherhouse. She told our mutual friends there that her visit with them and the day she retired were the happiest days of her life. They sent a picture of her to me; I could not recognize a single feature, so heavy had she become.
Still occasionally bothered by the way our close friendship was no more, I decided to send to Evelyn a copy of the photo that accompanies this writing. I wrote a note and included my email, phone numbers and of course, return address. To my shock, two weeks later I received the same envelope back. My first thought was that Evelyn was really still angry with me and was refusing to have anything to do with me. I looked closer at the scribbling on the package and made out the letter d-e-c-e-a-s-e-d. I couldn’t move at first. When I entered the house, I sat for a long while and stared at the envelope. How could this be. When did she die? Who could I talk to about all this. I went online, put in Evelyn’s name and the latest address I had for her. To my deepening pain, I found out that Evelyn had died three years previous. No one of her religious Sisters seemed to know about this. I wrote to the Mother House and could only imagine how the word was spreading throughout my crowd. I could almost hear the stories they were exchanging, since Evelyn had been the most colorful person in the crowd. Sister Winifred, who had recently been appointed head of the Motherhouse itself (as opposed to the Convent Director, Sister Louise, who was in charge of all facets, schools, college) thanked me and reminded me that they all had loved Sister Melany and were also grieving.
Although a list of those who died may sound morbid, within the religious orders, death was seen as a cause of celebration. The one who died would now have reached her life’s goal: union with God. Any mourning was mourning for oneself and for those who remained because they were now deprived of the presence of a loved one.
As I searched the faces in the photo row by row, too many memories arose, memories likely boring to the outsider but warm, rich, human and humorous to me. There, in the first row were two of my dearest friends throughout the 50 years: Sister Paulinda, who remained in the community and Sister Victor Marie, now become Vicky Tiber. Vicky had visited me in North Carolina, and I had driven through Wisconsin several times and stayed overnight with the Tibers. Like me, Vicky had a daughter and a son, her daughter also having trained in medicine. I had lived with Victor Marie in Chicago and we often recalled the momentous night before we took our vows. Both of us were hesitant about going through with the ceremony and stayed up most of the night weighing our options and consequences. We decided finally to talk to our confessor the next morning. When I, trembling, entered the confessional I was dismayed to find the confessor was the young priest whose parish I had served my first year on mission. Nevertheless I described my doubts about my vocation. The priest simply said to treat it like a temptation, the kind St. Paul called a thorn in the side, and go ahead with taking my vows. Vicki had received a similar message.
I also had several chances to visit Sr. Paulinda, who (like many in the order) had opted to change back to her given name, Colleen. She was definitely one of the sweetest of the crowd. On our trips to my home town in Upper Michigan, I occasionally stop to visit her and another dear friend, Sister Marcelyn, who together help run a parish in Marquette, Michigan. My husband and I also return occasionally to the Motherhouse in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, where my aunt, Sister Mary Priscilla, now age 94, welcomes us and broadcasts our presence over the PA to make sure we get to visit with whoever is around. It always feels as if I had never left. And in some ways, through memory, I haven’t.
Journal of a Former Nun 