Letters from a Black and White World: The Making of a Nun

PART I

POSTULANT

Chapter One

Novitiate Arrival

I unzipped the pocket of my white poplin jacket and nonchalantly took out a crumpled pack of Pall Malls. Watching my mother’s reaction out of the corner of my eye, I lit one and took a puff. I’d never smoked in front of her before. What could she do? Surely she couldn’t ground me. I was seventeen, graduated from high school, and what’s more, on the way to the convent. In all likelihood I’d never smoke another cigarette the rest of my life.

Mom studied me a moment, peered over her glasses, wide-eyed and poised to scold. Instead she turned, looked out the taxi window, and commented, My, it’s going to be hot today. I tucked the lighter and the red and white pack in the outside pocket of her purse and winked at her. She raised her eyebrows and slowly shook her head, a hint of a smile on her face.

That taxi ride from the train station in St. Louis to a place called Glennon Heights, located on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, was the final leg of our journey begun in Idaho over two weeks before. My mother and I had traveled all night on the train coming from Pittsburgh where we had spent the previous weeks visiting relatives.

I dramatically referred to the time in Pittsburgh as my final farewell. The semi-cloistered teaching order of nuns I planned to join allowed no home visits. Except for going to the classroom to teach and necessary outings for medical appointments or continuing education, the nuns lived entirely within the convent community assigned to them.

Having slept poorly on the train and stressed by the heat and hustle of hauling our luggage from the train to the taxi, I slouched back on the seat and tried to relax for the two-hour cab ride. My mind flitted to my week in Pittsburgh, remembering the fun time I had with my cousin and her boyfriend. We cruised around the city, rode the roller coaster over and over at the amusement park, and went to the drive-in movies.

I relived the stressful date with Randy, a boy I’d dated on previous visits to Pittsburgh. Via an exchange of amorous letters and pictures during my high school years and his years in the Army in Korea, we fostered a long distance relationship. He called me his Idaho Potato, and once sent me a picture of himself and some army buddies in a jeep that had Idaho Potato written on the hood. He definitely had taken the relationship much more seriously than I; his dreams of the future apparently included this hot little Idaho potato.

*    *    *

The convent? What’s that mean? Randy’s sharp tone unnerved me.

It means I won’t be coming to Pittsburgh anymore. I won’t be writing to you or seeing you any more. I’m going to be a nun.

Randy lifted his arm from around my shoulders and gripped the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles white and taut. He stared out the windshield at the figures moving on the big screen.

I thought . . . His voice trailed off. I inched away from him, the chasm between us quickly becoming too wide to cross. He could not understand the whole concept of convent life and I wasn’t very good at explaining.

*    *    *

As we passed through the town of Festus, I scooted forward on the seat and scanned Main Street. There was a corner drug, a five and dime, and a movie marquee. I wondered, would I ever see another movie in my whole life?

The driver eyed me in the mirror. Only a couple more miles, missy.

I resisted the urge to holler, Stop! Let me think this over. No, I had come too far now to back out, just a couple more miles to my new life.

The half-mile entry lane to Glennon Heights, lined on either side with maple trees, provided welcome shade on that sweltering Missouri day of July 15, 1955, the day known as Entrance Day. A day bright with promise, a day clouded with misgivings.

My watch read noon when the taxi delivered us to our destination. We circled down and around the long buff-brick building and stopped at the imposing entrance. I looked up at a neatly terraced lawn, a double flight of flagstone stairs, and the massive oak and glass entrance doors. Long ago in the taxi I’d shed my white jacket, and now even my light cotton blouse stuck to my perspiring skin.

My mother, already out of the cab, jacket over her arm, and a wisp of dark hair stuck to her cheek, directed the driver where to set our suitcases. We had arrived and neither the heat and humidity nor the daunting stone stairway would deter us now.

We made our way up the stairs and gratefully rested on the terrace landing. The scent of mimosa drifted from a nearby tree; the blossoms hung like delicate pink grape clusters. I could feel the river in the heavy air and smell it too, although I could not see it. The Mississippi was visible only from the third floor dormitories where over the next few years I would spend wistful moments watching it make its muddy way south, carrying along an occasional riverboat playing calliope music or long barges towed by slow moving tugboats.

The doorbell chimed a welcome as the heavy doors swung open. The entryway led into a large rotunda. Daylight filtered from high overhead and danced on the shiny, terrazzo floor; tiny pieces of black, blue, and white with inlaid gold formed a pattern of swirls and lines. Hallways led off to the left and the right. A bigger than life-size alabaster statue of Christ welcomed us with out-stretched arms. Beyond the statue I could see two alcoves enclosed by carved wooden cloister grates.

Two nuns greeted us. Welcome. Come in where it’s cool. I’m Mother Andrew.

Some of my tension eased as I saw that she dressed just like the nuns at school and like I would be dressed when my training there was over. She had bright rosy cheeks and when she smiled they became little red balls. I liked her immediately. The other nun wore the white veil of a novice. Reserved, yet attentive, she took our luggage without a word, placed it nearby, and stood aside ready to assist.

My mother introduced us, referring to me as Teresa. A twinge of trepidation tugged at my heart. She always called me Terry. The inevitable separation I knew would happen that day had begun. I feared if I spoke I’d bawl like a baby, so I let Mom do the talking. Mother Andrew, knowing we had come far, asked, How was your trip? And then commented, Isn’t this heat terrific!—small talk to ease the strain of the reality of what was transpiring.

We’ve prepared refreshments for you. She turned to my mother, Would you prefer ice tea or lemonade? She lightly touched Mom’s elbow and guided her down the hallway to a dining room. Teresa can change from her street clothes first, and then we’ll get her a bite. She nodded toward the novice and said, Sister.

The novice picked up the two suitcases and directed me to follow across the cool rotunda. Pulling open the French doors to the parlor, she said, I’ll help you change in here.

This parlor would become a very familiar place to me later on when given as my cleaning assignment. A mirrored wall that later became a source of trouble, served this day to expose the attire of my new life. I watched my reflection as I replaced my street clothes, piece by piece, with an otherworldly garb.

I slipped the loose-fitting muslin chemise over my head. This white undergarment served as a petticoat covering my knees and as an undershirt with sleeves extending beyond the elbow. Next I struggled with unfamiliar, long black cotton stockings that clung to my damp skin. The novice took one stocking and deftly rolled it until it looked like a cup with a soft, round rim. She held the cup to my toes and unrolled the stocking right up my leg. Presto! I snapped it onto the garter belt. I managed the other stocking in like manner, embarrassed by my fumbling. At one point, Sister’s serious face broke into a smile. You’ll get the hang of it real soon.

I then stepped into the black pleated skirt, buttoned the long-sleeve black blouse, and tucked it in at the waist. Black shoes completed the outfit; I stood covered in black from head to toe. We learned that wearing black signified our death to the world; a phrase I would hear frequently and an aspiration I would espouse wholeheartedly.

At the opportune time the novice produced a hand-me-down cape from a supply on hand and held it up to my shoulders, measuring it for fit. The collarless cape, fastened at the neck, came to just below my waist; the right length for the postulant to tuck her arms and hands under the cape and out of sight—the proper place for unoccupied hands.

To ensure modesty and avoid frivolous concern with our hair, we postulants wore a shoulder length black veil that left only our face and neck uncovered. Sister placed the veil properly on my head, tying it loosely at the back of my neck. Other than the cape and veil, I had brought the rest of the clothing with me. All additional clothes I would need, plus personal hygiene items to last six months, had been sent ahead in a trousseau trunk.

I placed my jacket, purse, blouse, blue jeans, socks, and penny loafers in the suitcase and snapped the lid shut. I stared at my reflection in the mirrored panel. An unfamiliar, anxious-looking postulant stared back at me!

After one last straightening of the veil and swipe at a wrinkle in my skirt, the Novice smiled approvingly. Okay, let’s go, she said, and whisked me off to the dining room where my mother had just finished her sandwich.

The Novice disappeared and then reappeared with a sandwich and lemonade that she placed in front of me.

Reverend Mother excused herself, I’ll leave you two to visit while Teresa eats her lunch. I’ll be back shortly.

I felt self-conscious and a bit giddy in my new dead look.

Does everything fit okay? You look very nice, my mother said, attempting to ease my tension. I tipped my head so the veil swished, and tugged lightly on the cape, posing with a flippant air. Aren’t these a lovely surprise? I quipped, and we got the giggles.

I choked down a few bites, laid the napkin over the unfinished sandwich and pushed the plate away. My throat felt so tight that I could hardly swallow, even the lemonade.

The cab you asked for will be here in about twenty minutes, Mrs. Milbert, Reverend Mother announced as she reentered the room. It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I trust you’ll have a safe trip home. You both can wait here for the taxi, and then, Sister, she added, pointing toward the left, follow that hall to the stairs and down to the community room where the other postulants are gathered. I’ll see you there. With a smile and a soft swish of her long black skirt, Reverend Mother disappeared.

My mother’s goodbye hug was prolonged and her moist eyes studied my face. You’ll be alright, Terry, she whispered. At that moment I really doubted her reassurance.

You write, now, she said.

I nodded okay, unable to speak, a great lump welling up inside, strangling my voice. I’d been away at boarding school for two years, but not this far away—not two thousand miles.

Mom got into the taxi, and with one last, tiny wave I watched the taxi drive out of sight. Six months passed before I saw her again.

Twenty—three other stories unfolded on that same entrance day. Girls came from all over the US. With the addition of our class, fifty-eight girls filled the now overcrowded building; the most the novitiate had ever held. A similar influx of candidates took place across the country and into all orders of nuns.

It was the mid 1950s and America prospered. More than a decade had passed since World War II. The skirmish in Korea was over. With the rapid advances in technology and the development of time and energy saving appliances and household goods life had become easier. The new materialism of the times promoted a changing culture, families moved to the suburbs, and parochial schools and parishes flourished. Good Catholic families anticipated a priest and a nun from their many offspring. Faculty members at Catholic high schools were trained to spot and foster vocations. Hearing a personal call, eager teenagers felt honored to give their life to God. Convents in the United States boasted 130,000 nuns, a number that increased to 180,000 in the next ten years.

In this new group of postulants, some came from the same city and school and knew each other already. During the last semester at school, I had the occasion to meet the two entrants from Great Falls, Montana. I eagerly searched the room of black-clad, self-conscious postulants for Leela and Rita, grateful to see someone at least a little bit familiar.

However, even though we ate, worked, played, studied, and slept in very close proximity in the crowded conditions, I never made a friend. No one did. Like a mantra, we heard, Particular friendships are the bane of community life. From the beginning we cut ourselves off emotionally, not just from the world but also from each other, denying ourselves any individual friendships or intimacies. With the rule of silence and enforced seclusion, the denial came almost naturally, but not without pain and loneliness. Any transgression of this rule needed to be publicly confessed on one’s knees.

I started my first letter home the next day. Both my brothers still lived at home—Joe, three years older, and John, a year and a half younger. I addressed early letters to them as well as my parents.

July 17, 1955

Dear Mom, Dad and boys,

We have some time to do what we want (with prompting to write letters) so I’ll write while I can. We were told we can write as often as we want for the first month then only once a week. There are 24 postulants and 34 novices—a lot of new faces. I’m feeling kinda lost. There’s only two I know. I’ll catch on soon though.

Last night the novices square danced for us. It looked just like home. I guess I’m the first one from Idaho. There are about eight girls from New Orleans and some from Texas and they really have funny accent.

My Guardian Angel’s name is Sister Margaret Mary, from Maine. She is very nice. It’s taking a while to realize when they say Sister Teresa it’s me they are talking to.

Tomorrow we start our jobs. We write letters tomorrow too, so will write you what my job is. We have collation in 10 minutes (that’s snack time) and I want to run up to third floor first so will close.

1:30 Sunday: I found two letters in the mail file—the one from you, Mom, and one from M. Lawrence. Thanks for the chain and medals. Besides some stamps and mirror could you send my blue fountain pen? Also send me the brown Eversharp in my purse and some lead for it.

Yesterday morning we were in the chapel for two hours for the profession ceremony. It sure was pretty. The nuns that were professed are leaving for New Rochelle tomorrow.

It’s really comical the way we do our dishes after meals. We each have a little pan we keep in the shelf under the table and the server brings water for us to wash our fork, knife and spoon in this tiny pan.

We start meditation tomorrow for 15 min., spiritual reading for ½ hr., and the rosary and Stations daily. I’m glad we have prayers and duties right away so we’ll be busy.

I have things to do now so will close. Love to all who read this. Write real soon!

Terry

Chapter Two

Getting Settled

Sister Margaret Mary took me under her wing as the guardian angels were assigned to do. Her disciplined, serene manner belied the fact that two years before, she was in my shoes, an awkward, confused postulant. Patiently, over the first weeks, she guided me through the routine and rituals. I soon became familiar with the strange names given to rooms, articles, and activities, names used by monks and nuns since the Middle Ages.

We ate our meals in the refectory. We referred to the morning and afternoon snack as collation. Unless a special occasion warranted a meal or snack elsewhere, all food was consumed in the refectory, usually in silence, following customs set long ago. In chapel, I knelt to pray at the prie dieu assigned to me. Five times a day we chanted Divine Office from our Breviary, a book filled with prayers and psalms printed in Latin.

My cell occupied a six-by-eight foot cubicle in an enormous dormitory, where a bed and a nightstand assigned to me, looked just like the other thirty beds and night stands filling the length of the long room.

After saying Compline, our night prayer, we filed out of the chapel and up the stairs to our cells on third floor, to prepare for bed. Tubular frames marked the dimensions of each cell. By closing the celery green curtain panels suspended from the frames, thin walls were formed that separated each cell from the adjacent one. During the daytime we slid the cotton duck curtains open and tied them to the corner poles.

We crammed all our worldly belongings into the nightstand. Toothbrush and paste, hairbrush, deodorant, and toiletries filled the flat drawer at the top. Stacks of underclothing, nightgowns, and socks bulged from the open cupboard space underneath the drawer. We hung extra skirts, blouses, habits, and headdresses in the tall closet that stretched along the brick wall at the end of the dorm. Atop each nightstand sat a metal basin and matching pitcher. Many years of previous use marred the white enamel with chips and pockmarks

After enclosing myself in the makeshift cell each night I removed my clothes, put on my nightgown and robe, and carefully arranged my skirt and blouse on a hanger to wear again the next day. With my toothbrush in hand, I traipsed out of the dorm and down the hall to the bathroom. The room would be steamy and crowded, showers hissing and all the sinks that lined the wall occupied. I leaned against the wall waiting with the others for my turn at a sink or shower.

No one said a word. No one looked around. "Grand Silence" began after night prayer, to be broken only in a dire emergency. The pall of silence hung as heavy as the humid air, every face sober and shrouded, as if all others were invisible. A sense of the sacred pervaded the nighttime rituals and I soon found myself immersed in the silence, my thoughts centered within.

Back in my cell I’d keep check on the time as I waited my turn to shower. I turned down the rough beige spread and sat on the side of the bed. The curtain-walls undulated in the air stirred by a passing sister. I was last on the schedule for a shower, so a couple minutes before my time I hustled down to the shower room. I only had 15 minutes before lights out.

Those first weeks phrases from our night prayer rippled through my mind as I waited to shower. May the Almighty Lord grant us a peaceful sleep and a perfect end, we’d prayed. Just what does a perfect end mean? I wondered. Some of the images were downright disturbing. Be watchful! For your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, goes about seeking someone to devour. Resist him, steadfast in the faith. I missed kissing my mother’s sweet-smelling cheek and saying, G’night, God bless you. And I missed hearing Dad say, Good night, Tootsie, God bless you. Don’t forget your prayers. I would whisper to myself a soft, timid, "Good night, Mom and Dad," and concentrate on the gentler phrases of our night prayer. Keep me as the apple of your eye, and, Lord, send your holy angels to watch over us.

I listened to the sounds—footsteps, muffled movements of clothing, shoes thudding to the floor, drawers closing, curtain rings scraping on the metal frames and the thunk-thunk sound of the swinging double doors as the sisters came in and out of the dormitory on their way to the bathroom or shower. After lights out the sounds quieted to breathing, sometimes a light snore, a creak of bedsprings when someone changed position. An occasional wistful sound of a foghorn carried up from the river heightening the stillness.

Night after night in July and August we lay uncovered in the torpid night air, the curtain walls slid open so the air would circulate. Brilliant flashes of lightning webbed across the dark sky, cracking and arcing, lighting the dorm with momentary incandescence. I’d never seen heat lightning before. Unable to speak because of the grand silence, I watched, awestruck, my body rigid with fright. As the hot air rising from the earth cooled in the night, the spectacular fireworks ended and sleep finally became possible.

As the nights got colder and the heat was turned on, we fell asleep to the knocking, clanking and gurgle of the radiators that lined the length of the outside walls.

When the bell sounded in the morning, I slipped on my robe, took the pitcher from the nightstand and scurried down the hall to the bathroom. Holding the pitcher under the arched faucet I filled it with fresh, warm water to fill the basin. Then I hurriedly washed my face and brushed my teeth, slipped on my clothes, folded the bedspread and sheet to the foot of the bed, and dashed to chapel, leaving the used water and the airing bed to deal with after breakfast.

Between the rising bell and Mass, we had only twenty-five minutes. After a few weeks, I got so adept at this ritual—a speedy splash, brush, spit, rinse, dress, and dash to chapel—that I’d be the first postulant in chapel. In fact, it became a challenge to me and I felt disappointed if another sister was already at her place when I arrived. I think from the very beginning I needed to stand out, to be a little different. No matter how insignificant the act, to be best or first, kept me, at least in my own mind, from getting lost in this homogenous cluster of look-alikes.

Five days after arriving, I wrote the second letter home, beginning by telling my family our busy schedule, giving little explanation of the terms that surely sounded strange to them.

July 21, 1955

Dear Mom, Dad and boys,

Thursday afternoons we have no classes but we do have silence, so I will write now. Ordinarily we have games and such on Thursday afternoons but now that it is so hot we eat early (5:30) and have our games in the evening.

Here’s the schedule as of now. Rise 7:00, Mass 7:25, Office 8:00, Breakfast 8:30, Occupation 9:15, (The postulants for now, meditate for 15 min. between breakfast and occupation but later on we’ll meditate before Mass with the novices), Conference 10:15, Free from 11:00 until dinner at 12:30. In the afternoon we have recreation right after our noon meal then singing, Office, collation at 4:00, Points on Meditation from 6:00 to 7:00 and Supper at 7:00. Evening recreation is from after supper until 9:00. Lights out at 10:00. We don’t have any classes till Sept. Thank Heaven. This heat is terrific!

Our day was planned from rising at 7:00 a.m. to lights out at 10:00 p.m. Reverend Mother gradually added daily prayer rituals. Besides our scheduled meditation, Mass, and Divine Office, we needed to find time in each day to pray the Rosary, make the Stations of the Cross, make a 10 minute visit to the Blessed Sacrament, make short visits to the Blessed Mother Mary, and to the foundress of the Ursulines, St. Angela, whose statue graced a homey niche along the chapel wall. Requirements also included a half-hour spiritual reading and a half-hour afternoon meditation.

There always seemed to be enough free time in between scheduled events to accomplish these responsibilities, but I needed to plan well and not waste a minute. We never interrupted or delayed one another because talking was not allowed at any time other than assigned recreation times. However, if for any reason prayers were missed or neglected, we confessed this failing to Reverend Mother on our knees.

There was a purpose to filling each minute of our day with something to do. On the practical side, it kept us busy with no time to feel homesick. However, the hours of prayer and the silence accomplished another important goal in our formation. With no one to talk to except God, we developed the personal relationship with God necessary to being a good nun. From the very beginning of our training the vocabulary of a spousal relationship was used. We were being prepared to be a Bride of Christ—an awesome goal for an idealistic teenager.

My letter continues:

I am the youngest around here, by three months, and they do most everything by rank. I’m last in line in the refectory, chapel, dorm and to get a shower. Tues. is washday. I swear I’ve never seen so many clothes. It’s laundry for about 70 people and now when it’s so hot we change underclothing everyday. We all help with laundry. My job is folding and sorting. I see the reason for all those nametags the nuns sewed in everything. And in the morning I’m assigned to the peelers for an hour after breakfast. There are about eight of us who peel everything needed for the day like potatoes, carrots, and onions. A girl from New Orleans says it’s the most appealing job around here.

Sister Margaret Mary’s index finger pressed to her lips, signaled a time of silence and my question needed to wait. Comments, especially silly remarks that in my uneasiness I tended to make, were either ignored by her or, along with the signal to be quiet, she scrunched up her dark eyebrows, saying, without words, that’s not appropriate. But during recreation time no question seemed unimportant to my patient guardian angel, and in the beginning I had many questions.

What does Reverend Mother mean by guarding your eyes? Where do I put my dirty clothes? How many days do I need to wear these socks? Hiding her amusement, hands in motion, Sister good-naturedly answered, her French-Canadian accent often slipping out.

Watch the clock and when it’s ‘a-boot’ time for the bell, gather up everything that goes in your cubby, then you won’t be late, she advised me after observing my last minute arrival to class. This advice proved helpful because, if one were late to a scheduled exercise or class, the infraction needed to be acknowledged by kneeling at the door and kissing the floor.

Other infractions called for the same humble act. For instance, any correction of any kind at any time from Reverend Mother, such as, Sister, don’t swing your arms, called for a drop to the knees and a kiss to the floor. I found this quite unnerving at first, seeing the novices kissing the floor and usually rising red-faced with embarrassment. But no matter how hard I tried to model the proper postures and perfectly keep the rules, I too, soon and frequently, crumbled to my knees kissing the floor with all the others.

Our cubby was one of the small, wooden, built-in lockers along the wall of the Community Room. This large room, located on the first floor, was where we recreated, studied, read, wrote letters, worked on projects and folded clothes on washday. It was a center of activity and the lockers a focal point in our daily lives. In them we kept our writing paper and pens, books and notebooks, and our sewing basket with supplies for mending or darning the inevitable holes in our socks. Also stuffed in the cubby was the bulky, black crocheted shawl that served as a coat in cold weather.

The postulants and novices were not the only residents of the novitiate. Reverend Mother had a staff consisting of the Assistant Novice Mistress, Mother Frances Claire; the cook, Sister Gerard; and Sister Mary, a retired nun who spent her day doing much needed sewing and mending. Also living there were eight Professed nuns who staffed the local parochial school in Festus. Their area of the novitiate, on second floor north, was strictly off limits to novices and postulants and though we ate the morning and evening meal in the same dining room, we never exchanged words.

Professed nuns are those who have made their profession of vows and as such are full-fledged nuns. Any contact with the postulants and novices was discouraged. Our formation was to be guided and directed solely by the novice mistress.

Even the nuns from boarding school I had attended made no contact during my years in the novitiate. I repeatedly ask my family for any news of them as I had become close in my preparation days. Until I learned that contact was not allowed, their apparent abandonment baffled me. I felt angry and frustrated that at school they lavished attention on me, then it seemed, once they got me here in this foreign land, they forgot all about me.

Our orientation was only partially a responsibility of our Guardian Angels. During our first weeks, Reverend Mother met with us as a group several times a day, setting our schedule, adding duties and activities, teaching us what meditation was all about, explaining the rules, gradually initiating us into the routine of daily formation. The deference given her by the novices gave her an aura of being somewhat unapproachable. However, I was soon assured she was most gracious and caring. Her motherly manner was comforting; her rosy cheeks often formed those red balls that attracted me at our first meeting.

I received frequent letters from home at first. My mother would write, sometimes a hurried, brief letter so as not to miss that day’s post, sometimes a piecemeal letter interrupted periodically, no doubt, by having to tally up the purchases of a customer. I could hear her relating news of me to all who asked, and many regular customers to the Mom-and Pop grocery store my parents owned, knew me well and would ask.

My letter ends with an assurance to my parents that I’m doing all right, listing the positive aspects of my new life, acknowledging that I missed them, and admitting to feelings of loneliness.

I love it very much here—the quiet, the beauty of the building and grounds, the Mississippi, the sister postulants and novices, the chapel, Reverend Mother, the foghorns and barges we can hear at night, the holiness of everyone.

Everything is wonderful except the loneliness.

I’m glad you arrived home safe, Mom, and everyone is OK. Give my love to all the nuns at school. I sure miss them. You are all near in thought and prayer.

Hope you aren’t having any trouble running the store without me. Ha!

I will have to sign off now I only have 3 min. Write soon. I miss you all. God love you

Terry

Chapter Three

Goodbye World

Oh sure. Sister Terry, Gerrie mocked, smiling and nudging me with her shoulder.

No really, I’ll be leaving in July.

Gerrie stepped in front of me and studied my face for an instant. Her lips tightened. No! she shouted and pushed me hard on both shoulders. I stepped back to keep my balance, then turned and ran a ways down the sidewalk. Gerrie ran after me, grabbed at my sweater, jerking and twisting on it. Instinctively I fought to get free, thrashing and slapping at her. In the scuffle the band on my watch broke and it fell to the ground. Gerrie snatched it up.

Give it to me!

She pitched my watch into a nearby flowerbed, Go get it yourself and don’t ever talk to me again! She stomped off toward her house.

I retrieved my watch and walked slowly back to school, bewildered by my friend’s reaction. My best friend, we did everything together, told each other our secrets, double dated, and made plans for the future. She wrote in our junior yearbook, Just think in one year we’ll be on our own in Spokane. We’ll really be living then, won’t we? I can’t wait until we get our red convertible and really cruise the town in style.

I guess my announcement ended those dreams. I had not been upfront with her about my plans to enter the convent. For months I had avoided telling her. Understandably the news shocked her. Gerrie, of all people, knew I was not the good girl one would expect of a prospective nun. In fact, she could tell tales that would curl the nuns’ hair.

We made up within a few days, but like a hairline fracture in a precious vase marring its quality, the brawl spoiled the fun, trusting friendship we had shared the past two years.

Before the school year ended, I told only a few other friends about my plans to enter the convent. I worried later that my brother John would need to explain my absence to the friends and classmates who asked. I thought he would be embarrassed or scoffed at, saying such a preposterous thing as, Terry’s in the convent.

No one else responded as angrily as Gerrie when they heard my plans. Some showed skepticism, and with a wide-eyed expression, commented, Really? Others expressed good wishes for my happiness, and a few didn’t know what to say. My non-Catholic, good friend Sheila, assumed that going to the convent was like going off to college and that I’d be back for vacations and semester breaks and we’d run around again. She wrote to me and so did Gerrie and a few other friends, but as the months passed and they never heard back, they wrote less and less. Only my family and my God Mother, whom I called Mrs. Potter, continued to write regularly.

In my letters