The Missing Nuns

As I sat in mass last Wednesday morning at my children's school (They have all-school mass every Wednesday morning), I was peaceful and satisfied to see my children and their schoolfellows going through the same motions I did as a child, but I cannot ignore the gaping hole. The huge absence of nuns. The sight of nuns silently sweeping down the aisles, leading their classes into pews, veils fluttering...how did they walk so silently? I missed the sound as well. Sister Mary Bernadette never said a word. She controlled our in concert movements with a cricket --- one of those hand-held dime-store clicky things that made a sharp noise just audible enough to be commanding, yet not so obnoxious that it was out of place in church.

Click! -- We stand
Click! -- We kneel

I miss the nuns. Sister Bernadette asked all the 8th-grade girls if any of us felt we had "a calling" to God. I used to pray that if I did have a calling, that I could ignore it without making God too mad at me. My parents entertained priests in our home enough for me to see that as far as religious callings went, nuns got the short end of the stick. The priests were jovial, charming, witty, frequent dinner guests, drinking good scotch, engaging in spirited religious and political debates with my parents and their many friends. The only nuns I ever saw in our house were the ones imported from Our Lady of Grace to come after school and give my brothers and sisters and me extra catechism lessons. They brought fudge made by the cloistered nuns (Cloistered! Like an oyster!)and swept quietly out the door well before dinner time. Nuns never got good scotch and scintillating conversation.

We did have a nun-as-nanny briefly. Barbara Cook was a 19-year-old girl from England. She lived with us and took care of us after school and helped my mom in the kitchen. My mom claims she was worthless in the kitchen. But she started going to mass with us, and slowly converted to Catholicism, and very soon after that began private tutoring to enter the convent at St. Brendan's. At night we would crowd into her room and sit in our pajamas on the floor for an hour of yet more catechism lessons. I ate this stuff up. I still do, and I am grateful at least that my kids are getting the instruction and the structure, if not the fun-with-nuns.

The closest thing I have to a nun in my life right now is my friend Robbie the Valkyrie. Robbie is not Catholic, but she is a 6-foot-tall embodiment of fervent, energetic faith, an endless font of religious debate, and one of the few people who can work Christ into her everyday speech without missing a beat, compromising her own dignity or making anyone uncomfortable. If I am puzzled or in trouble or sad or even just not being very kind, she can take my face in her hands and tell me that God is loving me right this very minute and I totally believe it. She walks the walk. To my other running pal, Kathleen, she is a tower of strength with backbone to spare in the face of tiny Kathleen's doubts. And she drinks beer and swears.

Come to think of it, Robbie is better than a nun. If a nun took my face in her hands, I would get all gorked out and uncomfortable. Plus, nuns don't drink beer. Do they?