The Pink Sisters Part 4

Note: This series of essays first appeared on Thunderstruck in 2003, recounting my experiences of 2001. 

Hours

On my first day, my first thought about chanting the psalms (after I get a little better at finding my way through the breviary) is all of the strange beauty of the melodies. We sing a cappella, in unison, in English. But the tunes, called "modes," go up and down the scale in short steps which mean (in the absence of perfect pitch) that we determine each note not so much by the overall line but by its relation to the last--is it up one step or down?

The chants are all pitched too high for me to sing comfortably. I notice, though, that as we go through a psalm there is an inexorable slide downward--there will be a tricky interval and we'll all start going flat, or those of us who can't sing very high don't hit the notes squarely.

In a regular four-week period the Pink Sisters will sing every psalm in the Bible. Two or three are sung at every Office; there are seven Offices through the day; there are one hundred fifty psalms. They are arranged thematically so, for instance, we will chant praise psalms at lauds and psalms imploring refuge at compline. It appears that Tuesday is Dark Night of the Soul Day. We chant uplifting little numbers like Psalm 88 ("You have plunged me into the bottom of the pit, into the dark abyss") and 102 ("I eat ashes like bread, and mingle my drink with tears").

But the same melodies are used on many different psalms with little regard to content. The tones are dispassionate even as the words are harsh, which only adds to their power. When it is a mournful psalm we sing, we never change the dynamic, nor grow louder or softer, nor even exhibit differences in timbre (it's remarkable, but the nuns' accents disappear as they sing, so closely do the voices match each other). It is as if we are survivors of a tragedy, speaking afterward with no affect because the shock has robbed us of emotion. When it is an angry psalm, it is as if we are holding our anger in, which just means it is so huge if we release it things will get out of control.

Before one of the Hours I start to think a strange thought. Maybe it isn't that we pray the Office at certain hours of the day; maybe the hours of the day come around because we pray them into existence. Maybe that's why we pray at quarter till, or ten minutes till, the hour. And then after I formulate this theory we sing a psalm containing the verse "I will awake the dawn." Not so farfetched, is it? We should all be thankful there are monks and nuns spread out across the globe, pushing the day on.

Silence 

The first week I am assigned to work with Kitchen Nun. I'll work with Garden Nun on Saturday and Correspondence Nun the second week. I chat with Garden Nun briefly my second day. "Do you like weeding?" she asks me. Now how does one answer that question, particularly when a nun is asking it? Anyway, I help Kitchen Nun de-fat some chicken thighs, which, apart from the "I'm wielding a large knife and am in danger of knocking all my fingers off" element, is pleasant work. She gives me instructions (all of which begin with "kindly," as in "Kindly put the fat scraps in this plastic bag"), but then we work in silence. I find the silence companionable. I have a friend who is very quiet and is much opposed to small talk. I didn't understand this aversion before, because small talk is a useful way of getting to know someone. I don't mind its absence here. Working on the chicken with a sister whose rule is silence, the sense I get is that we have forgone small talk because we have already accepted each other and we already respect each other. We're not talking because there is no need; it is a gift we give so we can each concentrate on our tasks. She does ask me about my previous experience in a kitchen, and I ask how long she's been cooking here (eight years). But just as the silence feels unforced, so does the speaking.

The silence, then, is not oppressive, and no one is seriously upset when it is broken, as it is one time when I inadvertently slam a door. Everyone just giggles.

From the end of compline to lights out at 9:30 pm is a time known as the Great Silence, when even whispered conversations in doorways are discouraged. During this time I am back in the kitchen getting things ready for breakfast the next morning. I fill the bowls of applesauce and peach slices, make the peanut butter presentable, add more butter to the dish, and fill the milk jugs that will be placed on each table. One night I am working on my tasks in the company of several nuns and everyone is bustling more speedily than usual. I take a white carton out of the refrigerator and pour its contents into one of the half-empty milk jugs. But the white carton isn't filled with milk. I've just blended the milk with orange juice. I let out a reflexive "Ew! Gross!" and the nuns dissolve in laughter, silent convulsions doubling them over.

Yes, they're laughing at me, but there's no malice in it and I take no offense. Our silent situation just lends itself to comedy. It's like nothing so much as the few minutes before a surprise party. The guest of honor is due to arrive any moment, so silence must be maintained--but each progressive accidental noise just gets funnier and funnier.

Food 

"We do not starve ourselves," Formator Nun tells me. "We have a job to do." The founders of the order recognized that nutritious meals were essential if they expected their sisters to maintain 24-hour adoration. "We have to keep our strength up."

Consequently I eat well. The breakfast tray includes the ingredients of an Elvis sandwich--bread, honey, peanut butter, and bananas. Also bagels, butter, apples, grapefruit, two kinds of cereal, two kinds of cream cheese, oatmeal, cottage cheese, peach slices and applesauce. This is standard; on solemnities or other special occasions like Sundays there may be donuts and cake. Dinner at noon is the big meal. There has been (not all at the same time) barbecued pork steaks, chicken rice casserole, egg rolls, and the best corned beef I've ever eaten. Side dishes have included rice (have to have rice at every dinner for the Filipino sisters), various potato dishes ("Germans love potatoes," one of the German sisters sidles up to me to say), asparagus, cabbage, fried fish, dried anchovies, carrots, green beans, and salad. Supper is lighter fare, with ham slices, cheese and tomatoes arranged for sandwiches.

Most of the food is bought but a lot of it comes from donations. One fellow regularly sends a quantity of food to the convent. I am in the kitchen the day one such shipment arrives--hot dogs, steaks with portobello mushrooms, a party platter of shrimp cocktail, salmon steaks.

I know that Kitchen Nun works very hard to plan meals, so I ask her, "Do the people who make food donations ask what the nuns need, or do they just send something randomly?"

"They just send something."

"So you really have to think on your feet."

Kitchen Nun's habitual expression is calm and happy, but when I mention this a look of anguish crosses her face. I've hit the nail on the head.

But they continually praise the goodness of God in giving them good things to eat. I can tell Kitchen Nun thinks His is overwhelming generosity at times, as when she buys sausages and then a big box of sausages arrives as a donation. I hear several nuns quote the verse in the gospel of Luke where Jesus talks about what will be given to those who are generous--a measure pressed down and flowing over--and Kitchen Nun is fond of saying "God will not be outdone in generosity."

In my book on the history of the Pink Sisters it is mentioned the nuns make up little poems or songs in honor of special occasions. There should be a song the next time God is generous to Kitchen Nun and two big vats of frozen treats arrive. As I scoop the contents into smaller containers I think I should be singing:

"I thank Jesus, I say 'Yay!' 
Jesus gives raspberry sorbet!"

Some of the most interesting food choices appear at the 3:15 coffee break, because the relatives and friends of the Filipino sisters are often sending them treats to reming them of home. I had a Filipino classmate in grade school so I recognize Pocky when it shows up one day--chocolate- or strawberry-coated pretzels. I share my Pocky knowledge with the elderly German nuns ("It's a chocolate covered stick. See the package? It's 'The Super Snack.'") and watch later as one shakes the strawberry Pocky package under various nuns' noses until they consent to try it. In return, the Filipino sisters convince me to eat some cashew candy with edible paper. It's the eating-paper bit I'm unsure of. "It melts in your mouth," one tells me. "It's a little like the host."

Apparently, willingness to eat the edible paper on cashew candy is part of my spiritual journey. "You have to live a life of faith!" she says. Put that way, I see I have no choice. It's delicious.

There are certain foods that exist only in a convent, because a cardinal rule of convent cooking is that you make efficient use of leftovers. For instance, faced with leftover chocolate pudding and angel-food cake, Kitchen Nun combines the two into a nice if disconcertingly lumpy dessert. At one dinner, strips of spicy chicken are arranged on pita bread with a bowl of salsa on the side. Formator Nun examines my plate when I come back to the table. "What's that?"

"A 'Fajita Pita,'" I tell her. She raises an eyebrow. I shrug. "Only in the convent, Sister."

Every once in a while at dinner Formator Nun comes back to the table with some more fruit or something, and she says, "Sister sold this to me."

At first this doesn't sound odd, but finally I ask, "If you just bought that, how did you pay for it?"

"I promised prayers."

"Oh."

She explains the nuns in the kitchen don't want an excess of leftovers so they "shop" the remains of a meal to anyone willing to take another serving. It is an act of charity, then, to eat more. If one makes the sacrifice to eat or drink a little more, graces are won and souls are saved.

The nuns discover I am fond of chocolate milk when some appears on the dinner cart as a feast day treat. So after several days, when there is just one more serving left, Kitchen Nun appears at our table with carton in hand. I think she says, "Do you want to save sauce?" She has a heavy accent and with her other hand she's adjusting the strap on her apron, which helps the confusion. I look blankly at the apron. Did she spill something and does she want me to clean it up? She's smiling at me and holding out the chocolate milk, so I just nod and smile and offer my glass. As she walks away she says "I wonder how many souls you just saved?"

Oh. I just "bought" chocolate milk. Who would have suspected souls could be saved by drinking chocolate milk? I'm starting to really like this place.

Adoration 

So how does perpetual adoration work? I ask Formator Nun after she assigns me my hour of adoration at 1:30 in the morning. What is one supposed to pray for, and more importantly, how is one supposed to pray?

"The whole idea of maintaining this perpetual adoration is for the people who can't," she tells me. "Our reason for doing it is for those on the outside who don't."

By kneeling for an hour in adoration before the Blessed Sacrament, the nuns believe they are obtaining graces, that blessings come down on the earth through their prayer. I am asked to intend my prayers--to ask God to "redirect" the graces I'm getting, as it were-in several different directions. "Pray first for the Divine Word Missionaries, the SVDs," Formator Nun says. "We are the contemplative branch of their missionary order, so our first task is to pray for them. Pray for those who are at the hour of their death right then, 1:30 to 2:30 in the morning,; for the people who are facing temptation to sin right then, also people who are sinning right then. And of course pray for all of the people who are asking for prayers." Prayer requests that come in during the day are posted on a sheet that I see right as I go in to the chapel--and they are heartbreaking. "My husband has leukemia." "My son has bone cancer." "Pray for me to get back together with my girlfriend." "Pray for me; I'm contemplating suicide."

And before you object that surely there aren't enough nuns to go around, that not everybody could possibly get prayed for--Who knows if God is taking these prayers on a one-to-one basis? Is God there with an accounting book, saying "Okay, this sister prayed for one hour, that checks off, uh, let's see, Jeff Smith in Palo Alto, California"? I don't think so.

I've also heard the objection, "Why do we need other people to do the job for us? Are the Pink Sisters like spiritual plumbers, getting the praying job done for you?"

In the convent, the difference between the responsibilities of an individual and the responsibilities of a community is made clear to me. Like the nun who holds the walker and the nun who puts her hand on the elderly sister's back-the elderly sister has to do the walking herself, but others are around to assist. That's how I came to picture the hour of adoration--stepping into the breach for some other person or a whole group of people, asking God to gift them with the grace one earns by spending time in prayer. It helps. Whether it's enough, who knows? But it's better than nothing. My favorite quote on the subject is something I saw online at a site called beliefnet.com that has information on spiritual resources. Beliefnet had an interview with one of the nuns on Mt. Carmel. There is a contemplative order on Mt. Carmel whose mission is to pray that Jews stay good Jews; they are a Catholic order whose whole reason for existence is to pray for Jews to remain faithful to the covenant, which can only be a good thing. But people come up to this sister and say, "How do you feel when you pray and there is no peace?" She says "Imagine what it would be like if no one were praying."

You could say that perhaps we're all not totally down the tube just because the Pink Sisters are doing it what they do. They're the ones that are holding it up. It is a responsibility Formator Nun takes seriously. "If I read about a priest who has turned away from his calling, I should say 'mea culpa.' Forgive me. Because perhaps the reason he has left the priesthood is that I did not pray hard enough for him. We are all responsible for each other."

Butterflies 

One morning at meditation time I walk in the garden and happen upon two newly born monarch butterflies resting on bouquets in the carport. The professed sister who sits at our table at dinner had explained how it takes a couple of days for a butterfly's wings to dry after it's out of its cocoon. She gave them a spot in this sheltered carport because it looks like it might rain, and it won't help them to get more wet. They sit perfectly still on their flowers, wings together. I nudge one with my finger until it crawls onto my hand. Then it keeps opening its wings and closing them again, slowly, as though surprised to find it is able to do so.

Later I'm in the portress' office typing up library cards. It is frustrating work for a child of the computer age because I keep forgetting that on a typewriter, if you press the "caps lock" and try to hit a number, you won't get 2, 3, or 4, you'll get @, #, $. My library cards look like they're filled with comic strip cussing.

A nun appears in the doorway, her face bright as a child's on Christmas morning. "Do you want to see the butterflies?"

Correspondence Nun had placed the terrarium with three still-unhatched cocoons in the hallway so the sisters could watch their progress. The little hanging teardrop shapes, no larger than my thumb, were sea-green earlier in the week but now they are black. (Actually, the cocoons themselves have no color. The green was liquid, the black is the butterfly's body and wings.) Several nuns are grouped around the terrarium now, all watching as a cocoon is ripped open and tentative antennae poke through.

"It's coming out head first, just like us!" one nun exclaims. Then she points to the wings, which seem a lot smaller than monarch's wings should be, and the body, which seems a lot bigger. "It has to pump all that liquid which is making its body so big into its wings." The butterfly is fully grown; the wings just look small because they're folded and slack, like the silk on a closed and compact umbrella.

The nun fixes her attention on the little creature. She's pushing her breath out in bursts. It takes me a moment, but then I realize what she's doing is acting as the monarch's Lamaze coach, encouraging it with her breathing. "Push! Push!" she commands.

Later two new butterflies are sitting on a bouquet in the hall. I see a sister convince one to step on her hand, and its wings strain open and shut as it tries to maintain its balance. "I better take it outside," she says. "It's ready to fly." So I coax the other one onto my hand just as one of the German sisters walks toward us. Recently she'd said at dinner she didn't dare hold a butterfly--she seemed to think it was slimy or would bite or something--but now she's game. I let mine walk onto her finger. "It is a miracle" is written on her face. We guide her hands as she gently returns it to the flower, and both butterflies and bouquet are taken outside.

I tell Aspirant Nun about the bursting cocoon at dinner. (She had dearly wanted to see a hatching, but the butterfly came out during her hour of adoration.) Formator Nun tells us the story of a scientist who tried to help a struggling butterfly out of its cocoon by tearing a hole in it (the cocoon, not the butterfly). "But that was no good. The energy the butterfly develops to break the cocoon is what makes its wings strong enough to fly.

"So that's what formation's for. The struggling you do now will make you strong."

"So--after 2, 3 years of formation--nothing but flying from then on?"

"No...we're all in cocoons. We fly in eternity, hopefully."

Now, maybe you think Formator Nun links everything to religion because that's her job, talking to "the young ones." But they all talk like this. One day we hear the gospel about entering the kingdom of heaven through "the narrow gate." When one sister coaxes her neighbor at dinner that day to take a big piece of strawberry cake, she complains, "But Sister, if I eat too much more, how will I fit through the narrow gate?" And on the Feast of St. John the Baptist, at breakfast, we have lemon cake. One sister takes the cake server, but instead of slicing and serving herself a piece she suddenly brandishes it like a weapon, assuming the stance of a wild-eyed prophet and crying "Repent! Repent!"

I've been here now about a week. Sister Mary Gemma stops me in the hall as I come out of chapel. Sounding concerned, she asks, "Are you finding things to write about?"

I nod and put on a serious face to match hers. "We had butterflies this week, Sister."

"Oh, that's right," she says with a soft laugh. "Butterflies."

Solemnity 

At the end of my first week we begin the Sacred Heart Novena. It begins with a vigil, an evening Mass on Thursday, the day before the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart. Afterward as I work at my night position, Kitchen Nun shows me somewhat more decorative bowls I am to use for the peaches and applesauce. "And don't get out the creamy peanut butter," she says with a serious expression. "We use the crunchy peanut butter tomorrow. It's a solemnity."

At breakfast the next morning the good china is on the tables. A sign saying "Happy Feast Day" is in the dining room, and a little electric keyboard is wheeled in. After we finish prayers we all sing "Happy Feast Day To You" to the tune of "Happy Birthday" (and including an extra verse--"May the Lord ever bless you, may the Lord ever keep you...") to four sisters. Someone has also snuck in a triangle and is playing it with great enthusiasm. Afterward we all cheer and everyone shakes hands with the four, offering congratulations. We get to talk during all meals today--it's a solemnity.

Formator Nun explains Happy Feast Day to me. "When we profess, we pick a feast to celebrate every year as our Feast Day. It's not the anniversary of our profession, it's just whatever day has special significance to you. Sacred Heart is very popular."

Aspirant Nun explains further. "You can either celebrate your Feast Day or your birthday."

"Not both?" I ask, but she laughs at my greed.

Of course I am asked what my Feast Day will be when I become a Pink Sister. No pressure here.

Formator Nun's Feast Day is Visitation. She plays the organ sometimes. Once she played an uptempo postlude at Mass on that day, and she says the other nuns told her it sounded "like the theme music for the Blessed Mother's joyride."

Later in the morning I help Kitchen Nun cube apples for a fruit salad which also includes oranges, grapes, cherries and whipped cream. As I work, something is triggered in her memory. "Ah!" she says, hurrying to the pantry and returning with a container of chopped almonds. "I almost forgot nuts. We have to put nuts in the fruit salad. It's a solemnity."

Along with the good china and nuts in the fruit salad, a solemnity apparently also means scrambled eggs and blueberry muffins at breakfast, ice cream and raspberry sorbet for dessert at dinner, Trappistine caramels and assorted chocolates and cashew candies in edible paper at coffee--but my greatest surprise comes at supper.

"Soda!" I exclaim as I walk through the door. I can't keep my delight to myself--after all, we talk at meals for a solemnity, right?--but we haven't prayed yet, so I've broken the silence. The cans of A&W Root Beer look so alien on the supper cart.

"We get soda because it's a special occasion," Aspirant Nun tells me after prayer.

"It's a solemnity," I answer.

I would have thought the simple life would make one feel deprived, but I have to think again. What simple living has actually done to me is make A&W Root Beer seem like an abundant blessing, the extravagant privilege of soda something to be spoken of in reverent tones. Rarely have I felt so rich--Happy Feast Day, indeed.

Mass 

While at Mount Grace I will attend Mass 23 times in fourteen days. This is because of the Sacred Heart Novena which features an additional Mass for nine consecutive evenings. The solemnity itself is the Iron Nun Eucharist Marathon with a Mass at 7 am, noon, and 7:30 pm. The same reading and gospel is used all three times. (Thankfully, there are different celebrants, and thus different homilies.) What's worse, though, is that the reading is from Ezekiel, who has the distinction of being perhaps the most repetitious prophet ever:

"For thus says the Lord God: I myself will look after and tend my sheep. As a shepherd tends his flock when he finds himself among his scattered sheep, so I will tend my sheep. In good pastures will I pasture them, and on the mountain heights of Israel shall be their grazing ground. There they shall lie down on good grazing ground, and in rich pastures shall they be pastured on the mountains of Israel."

Three times of hearing that would make anyone punchy.

Every night we have a different priest celebrating the novena Mass, each from different parishes around St. Louis. It gives us a glimpse into different worship styles. For instance, one night Fr. Stephan comes from St. Nicholas, which is on Washington Avenue downtown.He is a member of the SVDs, the order of priests founded by the founder of the Pink Sisters, Blessed Arnold Janssen. Fr. Stephan uses so much incense at Mass that afterwards I notice my habit has started smelling holy. He is an imposing figure with intricate geometric patterns in gold and white covering the front of his chasuble, his outer vestments. He looks like an African chieftain. He carries himself with that dignity. There is a lightness to him too. At the start of his homily he leads the congregation in a rousing rendition of "What the World Needs Now Is Love" until we collectively lose our nerve to continue, or we forget the words. And in the middle of the homily he stops and smiles. "I know you're not used to this, but could I ask you all to do something for me? Could I get an 'Amen'?" We oblige him. "Thank you," he says, sounding relieved. "I was once told the sermon's no good if you don't get at least one 'Amen.'" He introduces another novelty to Mount Grace at the "Our Father" when he asks everyone to join hands--"The sisters too." The little boxes which are our choir stalls do create a sense of separation. It takes his prodding for us to overcome it. But we hold hands, afterwards bowing to each other at the Sign of Peace, as we always do.

The Consecration at this Mass is what will stick in my memory most. When he sings "This is My Body which will be given up for you," he raises the host high above his head, as far as his arms will stretch. From where I stand his arm obscures his face. He is, in that moment, just two muscular arms in African-chieftain sleeves and large hands holding aloft this white disk like the sun. It is the ultimate picture of surrender, tenderness, reverence.

And, can I just say--thank you Marty Haugen. He's the fellow who wrote the "Mass of Creation" musical settings for parts of the liturgy. It's a popular choice in many parishes, so I'm familiar with his interpretations of the "Gloria," "Sanctus (Holy, Holy, Holy)," etc. But at one Mass I hear the way the whole Eucharistic Prayer, the extended monologue by the priest that surrounds the Consecration, sounds when set to Marty Haugen's melodies. Oh my word. By the time we get to the Great Amen I'm wishing there were lions around to be thrown to so I can be martyred for the Faith. It's that good.

The final Mass of the novena is celebrated by Bishop Sheridan, another imposing figure, especially when he wears his mitre. At the end of the Mass the sisters sing the Hallelujah Chorus. (When we practiced it earlier in the week sitting in the Marian Hall one sister coaxed us into following tradition-"Oh, stand up! Stand up!") I don't know if life could possibly get better than singing the Hallelujah Chorus in the chapel with the Pink Sisters, in the company of a bishop, wearing a white dress still smelling faintly of incense. I know that if I think about it too much afterward I will start to cry because it's over.

Chair Dancing 

After the Sacred Heart Novena, the sisters' schedule is back to normal, so he have an hour of recreation every evening. Mostly I spend this in the company of my partners at the lunch table. We sit in the room called the novitiate, where the not-quite-nuns hang out, and we play board games. These tend to get loud, as any opportunity for boisterousness after long stretches of silence will. (I hear a story that the sisters were playing some game out in the garden--foosball I think--and were shouting and carrying on so much that the neighbors became concerned. For the sake of neighborhood harmony, the game was brought inside.) Today, recreation is Chair Dancing Time, as it is every Tuesday and Thursday. I have a choice--I can go to Chair Dancing or watch a documentary on the end of the Inquisition. Actually what Sister says is, "Do you want to go the Inquisition?" which, when put that way, has no appeal. Besides, she's been talking up Chair Dancing so much, I want to find out what the fuss is.

So five of us are in Marian Hall, the basement meeting room, doing aerobics while sitting in plastic chairs. These aerobics are done to the exhortations of a perky videotaped instructor. I've been given paper plates--Perky Instructor has us wave these around, pretending they're cymbals, top hats, paddles, etc. as we kick our legs and flail our arms.

At some point I realize, I'm sitting in a plastic chair hoisting paper plates over my head pretending they're a top hat and doing can-can kicks. Everyone around me is a nun dressed in pink and they're hoisting make-believe top hats over their heads and doing can-can kicks too. And I'm having a wonderful time!

Maybe you'd disagree, but I think these women are about the coolest I've ever met, because they can dance the can-can in their plastic chairs wearing pink habits and be utterly unselfconscious about it. (You might ask, "Why would they be self-conscious? Nobody can see them." That doesn't matter. I know people who can be self-conscious looking in a mirror.) Some of the exercise class on the videotape are going at it with less enthusiasm than these nuns, and a.) presumably they're being paid to act perky and b.) they don't have to wear habits, which aren't ideal aerobics gear.

So mine is a fabulous evening. Chair dancing is serious exercise, too--I'm well worn out before compline. I'm imagining the Pink Sisters recruitment poster: "They work hard. They pray hard. They play hard."

Grace 

One day when I go down to work, Kitchen Nun is marinating chicken in wine. She sees me watching and laughs. "We get so many gifts from people, we get so much wine, I decided to use it in the kitchen. The sisters don't drink wine! Maybe people outside think we do, and that's why they give it to us. So the cooler was full of wine. Sister Mary Gemma gave away most of it, but I kept a little to use in the kitchen."

"What would be a more useful gift for people to give you?"

She answers without hesitating. "Money. So we can send it to the priests at the missions. We can never figure out how they survive. They're supposed to get a stipend to live on, but are their people are supporting them? Maybe where they are is so poor, they are giving everything they get to the people. Our apostolate is to support the priest with our prayers, but money helps too. So we are glad when we have something to give them. 'Cause without priests, there would be no Eucharist--they're the important ones!

"We never go hungry here. God always provides. If we could give the food we get to the priests, we would, but we can't. And we get so much here. We give it away very often, but God always gives more. That's what happens when you give things away. Sometimes we get more of whatever it was we just gave to someone else. I say, 'Lord, I just gave this away--and here you are returning it!' I always know there will be more."

She is done with her marinating and she starts putting things away in the big stainless steel refrigerators. "It's grace--it's all grace. Our life is full of grace. It is a great gift to be here. It has to be grace or we would not survive. Who knows what could have happened to me if I had not found my calling here. I could have done evil things in the world--I am lucky God picked me up and put me in the convent! He saved the world from me!" She laughs.

"And it's all prayer. Prayer is number one to me. Even when I feel like God is absent, then I say, 'Lord, it's all right. I can accept feeling you're absent if that's Your will for me right now. I accept this dryness because You give me everything. After all, if You were really not here, I would not have any strength--my arms would not move--and I would not have even my breath--there would be no air for me to breathe--I would not even exist if it weren't for You. My prayer, my being here, is what I give back to You."

I think of the yummy chicken-broccoli shepherd's pie we had for supper. "Also what you do here? Is that your prayer too?" I ask, waving my hand to indicate the whole kitchen.

She slaps the immaculate stainless steel counter. "This is my altar of sacrifice. That's why I always want to keep it so clean. There are times, you know, that because of my work, I can't be at prayer with the other sisters--when I have to pick up a delivery, for example. For times like that we have the 'Communion of Saints'--the other sisters will pray in my stead, and I will pray with them in spirit if I can't be there in person. At those times I just think, 'The present moment is my offering. God's will for me right now is to do this task. That will be what I offer Him.'"

"How did you come to join the Pink Sisters?"

"I had gotten a Master's Degree in Business Administration, and was working on my thesis--I had done all my research, everything was about finished--when it occurred to me: "When I die, God isn't going to ask, 'So what level of higher education did you reach?' So I dropped all the work on the thesis just like that." She snaps her fingers. "And I stopped going to parties with my friends--I had a very active social life, we would go to party after party--but I lost interest in that. It had no appeal to me anymore. What I wanted to do more than anything was pray."

She has classic Filipino features--a broad, flat nose, a wide, round face, skin the color of Trappistine caramels. Her whole face is lit up now. "Our life is so wonderful! It is a gift! I have had such experiences, I wish I could tell the whole world! That is the one difficulty, not being able to speak of these things to the whole world."

Leaving 

I find a window on the third floor that looks out at the highway. Most of the windows here show nothing but the garden, or else trees. I see cars for the first time in days. I am not seized by a violent longing to be in one.

I don't find it easy to remember I am still in St. Louis. I am startled by the sight of the Mississippi River beyond the highway. This convent is not part of any St. Louis I know. This impression is helped along by the questions the sisters ask me at dinner: "Is Gravois a major street? What sort of store is Dierbergs?"

It is also a place out of time. What is still valued here is no longer valued out there. This is brought home to me when I am walking in the garden, where there is a little pond with goldfish, and I come across a bucket. The bucket has a sign on it hand-lettered in calligraphy style, what I call "monk script" because it is associated with illuminated manuscripts. The sign says "Fish Food."

What is so old-fashioned is this idea of taking care with everything. The sign doesn't matter; it's just a sign that can get thrown away--but someone put her best script on it. The same principle is used on the habits. The habits are of such good quality fabric and good quality sewing that they last for twenty years. What other clothing does that? And the furniture and the furnishings of the place are wooden and well-made, sturdy, and the pots and pans are solid iron pots and pans that can last a century. I am used to the culture of built-in obsolescence; that's what makes Mount Grace feel out of time.

It occurs to me suddenly that I'm going to miss the sisters when I go. A lot. I made the mistake of getting to know them and liking them. This is something I haven't always done, even with the people I would like to like, possibly because there are people I've liked who've died. I should have known better than to get to know the sisters, knowing full well I would have to say goodbye to them so soon. Now it's going to hurt.

"Five years," an auxiliary Kitchen Nun says off-handedly on one of my last days. "You'll be back."

"I'll be thirty then."

"Ideal age."

"When did you enter the convent, Sister?"

"After I worked two years. I did accounting. Two years was enough." She grabs my arm and adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "I also did a lot of night clubbing."

"You should have some idea of what you're giving up," I say.

I tell her I have to work in radio, and she gives me a bemused look. "Uh-huh. God's ways are not our ways. Three to five years."

Our gospel that morning was the one where various people say they'll follow Jesus but make excuses for why they won't come right away. Auxiliary Nun throws their words at me in a singsong voice. "'Let me bury my father!' 'Let me say goodbye to my parents!' I was thinking about you at Mass today."

When I say my goodbye to Kitchen Nun--today is my last day of working in the kitchen--Auxiliary Kitchen Nun winks at me. "Three to five years."

At least she's not as bad as the German nun who mimes tears running down her face at supper the night before I leave, calling across the tables to me "You'll leave a hole in my heart."

"Not as big as the hole all of you will leave in mine," I answer.

And in the breakfast line my last day she just stares at me reproachfully, finally saying "How could you?"

No pressure.

The Pink Sisters Part 3

Note: This series of essays first appeared on Thunderstruck in 2003, recounting my experiences of 2001.

I have a few things packed into a bag--stockings, black flats, nightgown, robe, toothbrush, Bible, Thomas Merton's New Seeds of Contemplation--and my purse. Mom points out that I might as well leave my house keys behind, since she'll be picking me up in two weeks in addition to dropping me off today. I almost don't take the purse at all. I'll have no purchases to make--why will I need my wallet? I remember how long I resisted carrying a purse as I was growing up. Now I can't bring myself to leave it. I rationalize this, telling myself that some sort of accident might happen and I'll need some ID--perhaps an earthquake? I don't examine this line of reasoning too closely because it allows me to keep my purse.

We take the highway. Mom drives and I blather on about inconsequential things. We find the convent. Mom offers to see me in, but I am suddenly shy about this. "You don't want me to come in," she accuses. I can't explain why, I just would rather I walk in alone. So I say goodbye in the car.

I walk up to the gate. I open the gate. It seems like every step forward requires a supreme act of will, like I have to command my feet to move. I can't get over how deeply weird it is that I am--of my own volition--walking into a convent. Any second now, and I'm going to bolt.

But I don't. I make it to the front door, ring the doorbell, and in a moment the buzzer sounds and I can walk in. Inside there's that other door with the little window, and there's a nun's face in the window obscured by the screen. "What can we do for you?" she asks.

I thought they were expecting me. "I'm Angela," I say, hoping this explains everything and not sure where to start if it doesn't. Luckily she recognizes the name. She directs me to the little room where Johnny and I interviewed Sister Mary Gemma.

In a few minutes Sister Mary Gemma is there too, on the other side of the grille. Two other sisters are with her and they all greet me with bright smiles. A key is produced and the door is unlocked, and then I am on the other side of the grille with them. I was expecting to feel different when I cross this threshold, like the air would turn purple. It doesn't and I don't.

First I am introduced to the one I will think of as Formator Nun, the Sister in Charge of Nuns-in-Training. "She'll show you around," Sister Mary Gemma says, and leaves me in her care.

There is a little posterboard sign in the hall when we walk in: "Welcome to Mount Grace." "That's for you," Sister tells me. But then she doesn't speak. We ride the elevator up the third floor, silent the whole time. When we reach the third floor she explains in a whisper, "We are supposed to maintain silence in the elevators and the corridors. And the stairwells. I wasn't ignoring you." She says that if I am ever in the corridor and need to tell another sister something I should walk with her to a doorway and say my piece there. Talking inside rooms is permissible.

Down the hallway we go. I'm walking double-time to keep up with Formator Nun. The doors we pass have gold-painted numbers on diamond-shaped plaques and nameplates with names on them, Sister This and Sister that, like backstage dressing rooms. Near the end of the hall the door says 21 and the nameplate has no "Sister" on it, just "ANGELA." In the old days this room would have been called my cell.

Inside is a bed, a closet, a sink, and a bedside table. On the table is a lamp, some papers and a little green card bordered with Celtic designs. "God Bless You, Angela," it reads. Sister opens the closet door and shows me three identical white dresses. "This is what you will wear. The first one will be your regular dress, the second one is your work dress. I hope you are prepared to do some work here, because now you are in the army of the Lord! The third is your Sunday dress." There is a slip, an "underdress," in the drawer by the sink. She shows me the prayer to say when putting on my habit (it's on one of the papers on the bedside table):

"Remove from me O Lord, the old man and invest me with the new man which is created after God in justice and true holiness. Grant me the grace to become like Mary, a humble servant of the Lord, and a chaste spouse of the Holy Spirit..."

By the mirror above the sink are shelves with trial size bottles of lotion and shampoo and also a little bottle marked "Holy Water." Sister takes the holy water and mimes shaking it over the bed. "Before you go to sleep, bless your bed. When you bless your bed, bless your family and friends, and ask for blessings on the Pink Sisters too." She gives me details about the daily routine--there's a schedule on my table--but it's all far more than I can absorb at the moment. Then she leaves me so I can be invested with the new man.

When I've donned the dress and wondered at myself in the mirror, I find Sister in the hall. We go to say a short prayer in an oratory, a room overlooking the chapel. Then she takes me on the grand tour, starting with the other necessary places I need to know about on the third floor--showers, toilets. I am particularly relieved (so to speak) to find the latter; there are a couple of buckets under my sink in my room, and I was afraid of what they might have been for. (They're for washing out stockings and such--my dress is to go to the laundry room once a week, but I'm responsible for washing everything else.) On the second floor is the infirmary. On the first, the chapel, the Portress (Nun-in-Charge-of-the-Door)'s room, the novitiate, which is a room for Sisters-In-Training, with a library whose books I can borrow (there are other libraries about but I am not to go into these), and the dining room. Down one more landing of the staircase is the way into the garden. She tells me, "If you want to go into the garden find out first if the dogs are loose. They might lick you to death." In the basement we see the kitchen and the laundry room.

By this time I have tried to take in much too much information, but Sister takes me back up to the Portress' room (she has door duty this morning) where I am to learn the communal prayer of the sisters, the Liturgy of the Hours--at least enough to get me through the one which will begin at 11:45, Mid-day Prayer. She fetches my stack of psalters and sits down with me to "set the books." The conversation goes something like this:

"All right, we are in the third week of the four-week psalter cycle, but at mid-day prayer of the third week we use the psalms from the second week, which are on page 794 (she sticks in a bookmark accordingly). But in the liturgical calendar we are in the eleventh week of ordinary time, so the reading and responsory is on page 1080. For midafternoon prayer after dinner we'll use psalms from the fourth week. Here's a schedule for the rest of the week--as you can see we have a memorial, a solemnity, and a feast coming up on Thursday, Friday and Saturday, and those of course will all have different opening hymns, readings and responsories..."

I give Sister a helpless look. "The Hours are the Waterloo of new sisters," she says sympathetically.

Every fifteen minutes as Sister explains the Hours and lunch and the rest of my duties for the day ("and remember to lower the seat of your chair in chapel for the psalms. One girl in formation forgot to, but didn't want to disturb anyone with the noise, so she sat down anyway on the air"), a bell chimes the quarter hour like Big Ben, and Sister bows her head and says the quarter-hourly prayer. It catches her off-guard twice, and then she types it so I can say it with her:

God, eternal truth, we believe in You

God, our strength and salvation, we trust in You

God, infinite goodness, we love You with all our heart

You sent the Word into the world as our Savior, make us all one in Him

Fill us with the Spirit of Christ that we may glorify Your Name. Amen.

"You get caught up in your work and you can forget the important things," she explains. "This prayer is a way to help remind you of God dwelling within." She hands me the slip of paper, but I'm not sure what to do with it. "You can keep it in your pocket."

"I have pockets?"

We examine my white dress. I find what seems to have been meant to be a pocket, just a hand's length lined break in the seam on one side near my waist. "There's your pocket," Sister says. I put my hand in and demonstrate there's nothing there; stuff would fall straight to the floor. "No, underneath that. In the slip." Ah. The hole in the dress is just the access for the pocket in the slip. "You can keep your rosary in there too."

The rosary is one of the elements of private prayer I am assigned to do each day. I am to spend 45 minutes in the chapel adoring the Blessed Sacrament, that is to say, kneeling before Christ, as Catholics believe Christ is actually present in the host which has been consecrated at Mass. One such host is displayed in a gold monstrance above the altar in the chapel.

In addition to the 45 minutes of adoration, I am to spend 20 minutes saying the rosary, ten minutes reading scripture, and ten minutes meditating on the Stations of the Cross, Jesus' journey to Calvary. I am also required to do 30 minutes of spiritual reading each day. Some days this will be on my own, other days Formator Nun will pick the reading for me and we'll read together, she acting as my tutor.

We talk a little about the recreation time usually held every evening after supper. While I spend my two weeks here, I won't get to do much recreating. My visit coincides with their annual novena, nine days of prayer dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. There will be an additional Mass in the evening instead of recreation starting Thursday night. But earlier in the week I will get to experience one of the more interesting ways the sisters amuse themselves.

"On Tuesdays there's chair dancing," Formator Nun informs me, her tone indicating this is a special treat.

"Chair dancing?"

She demonstrates, waving her hands side to side like a cheerleader while remaining on her stool. "Dancing while sitting down. It's very fun; the sisters really enjoy it." She giggles.

And so, armed with knowledge and breviaries, I am sent off to do some private praying before the bell summons me to the chapel for my first taste today of the Liturgy of the Hours, Mid-Day Prayer. I go first to my room to fetch my rosary from the pocket of my purse. It's a broken rosary, held together by a safety pin, but it's functional. I notice there's a holy water font just inside my door. There are holy water fonts just inside or just outside nearly every door in this place--the kitchen, the novitiate, the dining room. Also in my room is a crucifix and a painting of Mary so placed that her gaze appears trained on my bed.

I head to the chapel to adore. The corridor leaning there is lined with cubbyholes where the Sisters stash their extra books and where one can leave a message for another. Their mail is left there too--as I pass by I see one sister has gotten a letter from Germany. In my cubbyhole is a lace veil and two hairpins. The sisters wear starched cotton veils but my head is bare; while in chapel I'm to wear this mantilla. No mirrors around, though; I take a guess as to where to stick in the pins and open the chapel door.

I have my own place in the chapel, to the far left and three choir stalls from the front. The choir stalls are like human cubbyholes, or like the sort of desk I had in grade school. There is a sort of "elbow shelf" on which to rest one's book and underneath is a hiding place for all five of my breviaries. In front of the counter is another little pocket where books can stand up. I have my own kneeler and my own seat. It is not like a pew, where one can go from sitting to kneeling and back again; there is no space for this. Instead, the wooden platform that functions as a seat is on a hinge, so it can rest against the left wall and be lowered when needed. This was what Formator Nun was referring to when she told me the cautionary tale of the aspirant who forgot to lower her seat.

I kneel and try to collect my thoughts. There is, as always, one nun kneeling on a prie-dieu ("pray-God") in front of the altar, and one other nun in the choir stalls opposite me. (There are three rows of stalls on each side, space for about thirty nuns.) When the chime at the half-hour rings the nun in the choir stall walks slowly to stand to the left of the prie-dieu. The kneeling nun rises; they genuflect at precisely the same moment; the one who was kneeling before leaves the chapel and the other takes her place before the altar.

"This is like the army," I think. "I've just watched the changing of the guard."

This, by the way, is the Pink Sisters' chief purpose--perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. All day, every hour of the day and night, there is a nun kneeling in front of the altar. My little 45 minutes isn't part of this main task force, but Sister has told me that after I have settled in to the routine she will assign me an hour-long adoration shift every couple of days.

But even 45 minutes is a long time to kneel. I lower my little platform and sit every time my leg feels like it's falling asleep. I also discover something disturbing, now that I have all this uninterrupted time to spend with Jesus--I don't know if I believe any of this.

The words of the quarter-hour prayer sound strange coming from my mouth. "God, eternal Truth, we believe in You"--do I? How about "we trust in You"? Nope, can't manage that much. And "love with all our heart"--out of the question. Do I want to be made one in Christ, or glorify God's Name? The first sounds painful and the second unproductive. I don't want to say the prayer by rote, without reflecting on the words, but neither can I in good conscience say it when so much in me is rebelling against the implications.

This is embarrassing. I've gone through sixteen years of Catholic schooling, I go to Mass every week--I'm in a bloody convent--but it seems like this is the first time the little voice has asked me, "Do you give your consent? To all of it--the little white disk in the gold sunburst monstrance being God, God not only being lovable but the only thing to love--all of it?" And I don't know what to say. It's as though faith is a trait I've enjoyed pretending to have for its counterculture value and because it's an easy way of staying on good terms with most of my family. The most I can do, for the moment, when confronted with these terrifying words "believe" and "trust" and "love," is to promise myself or Whoever else is listening that I'll try to find out if I mean it.

Little by little the chapel fills with nuns. At a quarter to twelve a chime like the alarm on a wristwatch rings and we all kneel, if we weren't kneeling already. We stand to sing the opening verse, "Oh God, come to my assistance. Lord, make haste to help me." And, bowing, "Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit." Standing straight again, "As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen." Formator Nun--who is in the choir stall behind me--had in her Liturgy of the Hours primer given me a chart explaining which melody to use for the opening verse, because of course there's a different melody every week for four weeks and a different melody for Memorials and one for Solemnities and one for Sundays. We sing the opening verse facing the altar, then we turn so that the two main divisions are facing each other across the chapel divide. We sing a hymn (using the "weekday tune," since again there is a Sunday tune, a Solemnity tune, etc.). The righthand side sings the first verse, we lefthanders take the second verse, all join in for the last, which praises the Trinity and so, again, we all bow. The Trinity is big around here.

We sit. I remember to lower the platform first, and am mightily pleased with myself, until the nuns on the lefthand side start chanting a psalm and I discover I am completely lost in the breviary. It takes me the duration of that first psalm to find my place. I'm where I need to be for the second, which makes me smile, because it is a sentimental favorite and lands in my heart like an "Every little thing's gonna be all right" wink--Psalm 40: "I have waited, waited for the Lord, and he stooped toward me and heard my cry."

When Mid-day Prayer is complete everyone kneels again, and the chapel is silent. This time is for the Particular Examen, I've been told, where one reflects on the day so far to see if one has been advancing in holiness, or not. And then a single voice begins "Have mercy on me, O God, in your goodness," and everyone answers, "In the greatness of your compassion wipe out my offense." We walk in procession out of the chapel reciting Psalm 51, the one credited to King David after he a) bedded down with another man's wife, b) had the husband killed and c) realized all this was not such a good idea. I have a little card with the psalm written out on it so I can follow along.

There are four steps just outside the door of the chapel. The elderly German nun in front of me (a quirk of Pink Sisters vocation history has ensured that most of the elderly nuns here are German, most of the younger nuns are Filipino) ascends them slowly. Her walker is against the wall at the top. The younger nun who preceded her out of the chapel scoots the walker to within her reach. Another nun has her hand on the elderly nun's back, supporting her and helping her forward.

The procession moves to the dining room, Psalm 51 ringing out in various thick accents all the way. My place at one of the tables is marked with a "Welcome, Angela" card, and after dinner prayers all the sisters start clapping for me, and then I have to go round the room shaking everyone's hand. "Welcome home," one sister says.

It's leftovers day. A fellow barbecued some pork for the sisters; we have that, roast beef, lentil beans, asparagus, mashed potatoes, rice, mushrooms, and salad. For dessert there are cheese danishes and "fruit pizza"--a pie crust topped with cream cheese, strawberies, grapes, and kiwi. That was donated too. We may talk during this meal-not at breakfast or supper, just this one, unless at the end of the before-meal prayers, Sister Mary Gemma adds "God the Holy Spirit" and everyone answers "All for love of you." That's the password.

My table includes Formator Nun, another professed sister, Correspondence Nun, who tells us about the monarch butterflies she is raising, and an aspirant, a Chinese girl from Belize who had gone through this observer program in February. She wears just the white dress, like I do, but she wears a veil. Formator Nun tends to call aspirants and novices "whitecaps" but the professed sisters' veils are white too. I like her other nickname better. She calls those in her charge "young ones."

I've just polished off my slice of fruit pizza and Formator Nun is telling me why eating too many bananas is bad for your liver when the wristwatch chime goes off again. Sister stops midsentence and everyone gets up in silence to clear the dishes, wipe down the tables, and set new dishes for the next meal. I find that if I want to help I have to move fast; my three tablemates are already distributing plates and knives and cups with ferocious speed. Aspirant Nun takes pity on me and lets me set out three spoons for her. Of course I put one on the wrong side of the plate but she corrects it for me, gently admonishing me to do better next time.

But I will not give a minute by minute account of my first day. I can give a better sense of what it is like by listing the schedule, since every day of the fourteen I spend at Mount Grace follows it.

A bell rings at 5:15 a.m. for "arising." As soon as I hear it I am to say "God the Holy Spirit, all for love of You," and then a sequence of prayers kneeling at the side of my bed:

"Mary with your loving Son, bless us each and everyone. Angel of God, I greet you.

"O Most Holy Trinity, in union with my guardian angel, I adore You. I thank You for having protected me during the past night and for the new day which you have granted me. I renew my resolutions in honor of You and offer myself entirely to You through the hands of my dear Mother Mary."

This is to be followed by 3 Hail Marys and after each: "By your Immaculate Conception, O most pure Virgin Mary, purify my heart and my soul."

At 5:45 we go to chapel for Lauds, or Morning Prayer. Afterwards there is meditation until 7. Some of the nuns stay in the chapel, others wander the halls pausing in prayer before statues of saints or icons or the plaques depicting the Stations of the Cross. Two other nuns and I usually head out to the garden. The sun is newly risen then and the mist is not yet gone. I follow the adventures of a cardinal couple; the female usually seems to be scolding the male; they chase each other around a holly tree and in and out of the garden with chortling songs. At 7 it's back to chapel for Mass. Our priest has come back after decades spent in India; he wears sandals and gives excellent homilies, most of which unfortunately I have trouble focusing on as I desperately try not to fall back asleep.

After Mass we are given a few minutes to get back to our rooms to make our beds, and then a bell summons us to breakfast. Office of Readings and Mid-Morning Prayer ("Terce"), two parts of the Divine Office combined into one, immediately follow breakfast. Then we have a morning work period, then Mid-Day Prayer ("Sext") at 11:45, then dinner, then Mid-Afternoon Prayer ("None"), and a free hour. "You are free to do anything then--except sin," Formator Nun tells me. I wonder if she expects I would be planning a drugstore robbery. It's a moot point anyhow, as is the fact that one is allowed to talk during free hour. What some call free hour others call siesta; it is the ideal time to catch up on the sleep lost by arising at 5:15.

At 2:00 a bell rings to signal free hour's end. Work and private prayer occupies the afternoon. There is a 3:15 coffee break. At 5:00 there is Vespers, or Evening Prayer, and at 6:30 supper, followed by recreation. Night Prayer, "Compline," follows recreation, small work called "night position" follows Compline (I'm assigned to the kitchen for this), and then it's off to bed. Lights out is at 9:30.

All this changes of course on solemnities, Sundays, and during the Sacred Heart Novena, but the changes are cosmetic. On Sundays and solemnities free hour is two hours long, work is curtailed and Vespers moves to 4 o'clock. During the novena recreation gives way to an additional evening Mass and Evening Prayer immediately follows Vespers.

Late in my stay I tally up the average time spent at prayer. Given each segment of the Liturgy of the Hours hovers around 20 minutes, given private prayer time, Mass, meditation, the occasional hour of adoration and extra Masses for the novena...it's about eight hours a day. 

The Pink Sisters Part 2

Note: This series of essays first appeared on Thunderstruck in 2003, recounting my experiences of 2001.

To give me some background on the Pink Sisters, Johnny Rabbitt gives me a pile of books. Most are slim volumes, meditations on the Holy Spirit or the presence of Christ in the Eucharist, but one is 400-odd pages with notes in German in the back: "Contemplation and Mission: Sister-Servants of the Holy Spirit of Perpetual Adoration, 1896-1996." It is a history book on the founding of the order in Steyl, Holland, and the establishing of all the convents around the world. I flip through it idly at first, unsure of where to start. That is how I discover the obituaries. Every Sister of the order who has died is given at least a paragraph in this book.

For example: "Sr. M. Bartholamaa, Elisabeth Beckfeld, b. 25.2.1906 in Bottrop (Munster). She entered in Steyl in November 1927. She was one of the pioneers of the convent in Tsingtao. At first she worked in the kitchen and then became a candle-maker. It was hard for her to leave China. In 1949 she went to St. Louis, 1972 to Austin and 1976 to Corpus Christi. In St. Louis she was in charge of the host bakery. Her health began to fail, but she was never idle. Filled with gratitude she celebrated her golden jubilee in 1980. She died unexpectedly 19.5.1981. Her ardent wish to be buried in China was not fulfilled."

The pages and pages of obituaries astound me, although I suppose they shouldn't. To eulogize every member of a religious order is comparable to writing a history of England by saying a few words about every person who lived there. A religious order is like a nation, especially a cloistered order--or not even a nation, more like a world. Nations at least engage in trade or war with each other. A cloistered order is almost entirely self-sufficient. So it seems monumental that each person who'd lived in this cloister-world would end up in a book. On the other hand, it's a young order. When the book was written, only 227 sisters had died. After getting over the shock of being given the chance to meet 227 people, I start reading the obituaries, which are unsuprisingly uniform. The name each sister took when she professed is given first (almost always an "M." followed by another name, for the majority are first named "Mary"), then her birth name, birthdate and birthplace. A few words sometimes follow about her family ("second of five") and then the date and place where she joined the order--also whether she was ever transferred to another house (as there are convents in the States, Holland, the Phillipines, India, Brazil, Argentina, and Togo) The main portion of the obituary is a report on her character, particularly her attitude to work and her prayer life, and the illness she suffered and then succumbed to, and of course the year of her death.

Two things I must say about this: few nuns die young. I keep computing their ages: 72, 83, 92, 101. And so many of them sound like wonderful people. I understand the function of these little paragraphs is not to say rude things about the deceased, but even so a high proportion of these women sound downright saintly: "On her deathbed, when the nurse asked her, 'Would you like anything?', she replied firmly: 'Jesus.'" "She could make all sacrifices for the glory of God." "A zealous, conscientious religious with love for solitude, silence, holy poverty, faithfulness to her obligations, sacrifice, and endowed with a genuine apostolic spirit."

After a few obituaries like this I find myself doing the cynical thing, searching for hints that a Sister was unpleasant. Surely some of them were! But in the vast majority of these records the same praises are sung again and again: faithful in prayer. Cheerful in nature. Humble, unpretentious.

Ironic, isn't it? Out here, it's not easy to get your death noticed. You have to be famous--and often that means ambitious, egotistical; at the very least something extraordinary had to happen to you. Yet here are 227 women who spent their lives praying, baking hosts, writing letters, walking in gardens. And each one of them gets a paragraph in a book.

I give myself permission to imagine going inside the cloister to write about it. I have to do more than imagine going in and coming back out again, though. The observer program is designed to sniff out vocations to this brand of religious life. If I am to participate, I must give serious consideration to the question of whether I might belong there for good.

What would I give up?

They've given everything. They have four walls, a garden, pink and white habits that can last them twenty years.

Think about what tangibles are truly precious to me. A certain piece of glass in cabochon shape which looks black when held in the hand but reveals deep red when held to the light. A blue plastic cocktail sword which once figured prominently in childhood adventures as my Weapon of Power. Two bits of glazed tile excavated from my back yard, detritus from a mansion which once stood on my property. And a stuffed animal I've had since I was five. It's strange to think about, but these are my greatest treasures--each of them irreplaceable and prized. If any of them were gone I would mourn their loss, and I can't say that about anything else I own; not really.

But we're not talking about loss--a fire, say, or a burglary (as though anyone would care to rob me of these bits of glass, plastic, ceramic, or plush). I would be surrendering them to live in their absence. I could give them away--I know someone who knows the value of these things and could keep them safe. This calms my mind. The same solution presents itself for my multiple file cabinets of notebooks, stories, poems. I don't need them anymore--they are already written. But I would not like to think they'd get dumped in the trash. I parcel them into bundles in my mind and assign them to different friends.

CDs and tapes--now here is a larger problem. Do the Pink Sisters ever listen to music? I have lots of nice meditative pieces. Will they let me keep my music? I could donate it to the communal library; I would not have to claim it as personal property. Ah, I'm looking for loopholes. In the tangibles department, this would be my biggest renunciation; I don't know if I'm strong enough to make it. For years piled on years I've compulsively collected songs; I hear a chord sequence unlike any other or a startling melody line and I track it any way I can. I listen to the radio for days until I hear it again and can set my recorder on it; I go to the station (lucky I work in radio) and grab the CD out of the DJ's hands (that stretches the truth, but just a little). One way or another the song becomes mine. I have thousands of them now. I listen to them to hear them for the first time and the last time and every time in between--because every song carries memories of itself, you know. They stay the same while you change, so you can return to them again and again and hear what you heard the first time, as well as what you are hearing now. And as I have spent such a very long time listening to songs, a lot of myself is wrapped up in these songs. Little pieces of me wound onto magnetic tape or written in light on silver discs.

Perhaps I could do without my music. My sound-memory is excellent; songs I know well I can hear near-complete in my head anytime I like. And I must think that anything I renounce is a gain, not a loss. Perhaps every little piece of me I have locked away into those songs will come flooding back into me once I give them up. Like the Sandman in those Neil Gaiman books (and thinking of this I am reminded I will be without my books too--but this ache is dull, not piercing)--he invested a portion of his power in an amulet, a ruby, and when the ruby was destroyed the power came back. Now on the other hand the Lord of the Rings didn't fare so well. It could go either way. What does it say in the Scriptures about what you give up you gain back a hundredfold--with persecutions besides?

So after a few days of thinking about it and talking about it I pick up the phone, and when I hang it back up again I have done the irrevocable. I have called Sister Mary Gemma and asked her if I could join the observer program for two weeks at Mount Grace Convent. Whether or not they invite me to participate, I have at last admitted a desire to examine the religious life. People will look at me differently now. Some of my friends are already upset, or nervous. What if I go away?

I am nervous too. I feel caught between asserting a course for my life and surrendering control. I am approaching this as honestly as I can. Maybe I have a vocation to this place. If so, I will not deny it. The thought sends flutters through my stomach the way nothing ever has. If I do not have a vocation here, am I just getting those sweet sisters' hopes up for nothing?

I had it wrong at first. I thought what scared me was that I'd either discover a frightening vocation or I would discover I was a failure at a frightening vocation. The sisters would not spare my feelings, after all, if they sensed I wasn't cut out for this life. And it's always depressing to hear a rejection. But that isn't it. It's that my feet are on a solid path now, with only two ways ahead. As long as a vocation to the religious life was only a vague idea, never acted upon, I thought myriad paths extended in front of me.

But in fact they weren't there. The path only appears when you put your foot onto it--imagining it or talking about it can't create it--and then it branches in but two directions--"yes" and "no." And I was the only one who could take that step. I called Sister Mary Gemma, and there the path was under my feet. What does the poet say about the man who took one step of his own? "Onlookers froze to the bone."

I'm as scared they'll accept me as I am they'll turn me down.

"It'll be the shortest two weeks of your life," Mom tells me. She was in the convent two years--it had been her dream to be a School Sister of Notre Dame and teach. She's been talking about those days a lot lately in many different contexts. I think this my-going-into-the-convent thing has kickstarted her nostalgia. As it turned out she wasn't destined to be a nun; they kicked her out and she got married and had six kids. But I think a part of her feels like she's going back in now that I'm going in. She told me once she had many, many ambitions as a child--to be a teacher, a musician, a singer, a writer, a nun. And now among her children there is a teacher, a musician, a singer, a writer. When she told me this I had a sudden frightening vision of her as Livia from I, Claudius, subtly shaping the ambitions of everyone around her, but I know that's taking things a bit far.

I need Mom's help filling out parts of the application to the observer program. It is a comprehensive form. The Holy Spirit Adoration Sisters ask for copies of my birth certificate, baptism certificate, and confirmation certificate. They want a recent picture of me ("similar to a passport photo"), a transcript of grades from the last school I attended, and a "sealed character recommendation from your pastor or from a priest well acquainted with you." I pester Mom with the questions on the Family Relations page: "How old was your mother when she died?"

"93."

"And what did she die from?"

"Put 'Infirmities of Age.'"

I flip through the application. "It says I should write up an autobiography and I should include the following: 'Whether you have savings of your own or can hope to receive financial help from your family toward a dowry. Any difficulty in this regard will not be a hindrance, provided that a candidate can meet all the other requirements.' A 'dowry'?"

"Many orders ask for a dowry. That's one of the ways they support themselves, through donations from the women who enter. The School Sisters of Notre Dame were one of the few who didn't ask for a dowry, back when I was a candidate."

There is a page called "A Brief Medical History." I am to list any problems I have ever had with my heart, lungs, thyroid, skin, eyes, ears, nose, throat or nerves. Have I had diabetes, epilepsy, depression, chemical dependency? Did I ever have surgery? An abortion?

There are essay questions. "Have you ever been married? Every been engaged or lived as married? What are your views on the married state? If you did not feel attracted to the religious life, would you like to marry? If your answer is no, explain the reasons." Twenty-one essay questions in all, and because I am perfectly willing to write about myself at great length this is my favorite part of the application. I begin to wish job applications asked questions like these, instead of about irrelevancies like the dates I started or ended previous jobs and what sort of salary I received. I think it be far more useful, and interesting for them to ask these sorts of questions: "What trait do you admire most in people?" "What trait do you admire least?" "What do you feel to be the source of your greatest unhappiness?"

I'd like it if someone came up to me every five years or so with this list, and I had to think about it often, and compare my answers then to my answers now: "What are your hobbies and favorite recreation?" "Do you have many friends?" "In what ways are you like your father?" "In what ways are you like your mother?"

I get the news in a letter from Sister Mary Gemma a few days after I have mailed in my forms. I've been accepted. I'll go into the observer program in a month's time. I get a list of items to bring ("A comfortable pair of shoes [need not be black], robe, nightgown or pajamas, night slippers..."). The list is very short. I am chagrined to discover I'll be expected to wear pantyhose, or "stockings" as they are called on the list. I hate wearing pantyhose. What's the point of going into a convent if you still have to wear pantyhose? It reminds me of my classmates at my all-girls high school who'd spend an hour applying makeup every morning. Who were they trying to impress?

The list reminds me of just how much I'll be doing without--not the life-altering renunciations, the petty ones. The telephone: no spur-of-the-moment chats with my friends Reiko and Jamie. The Internet: I'd better expect bucketloads of spam in my email inbox on my return. All-hours access to the refrigerator. Mountain Dew. Watching "The Simpsons." Renting Johnny Depp movies. Lingering over the daily paper.

It's noise, most of it, honestly. An inability to sit still. There must always be something to distract me from--what? I've never stayed in one place long enough to find out. And the prospect of not having all these distractions frightens me perhaps most of all. That, and the way I imagine my identity will be stripped away. I've been doing a weekly radio show for seven years. This last week I was informed my show had been cancelled. I had never realized, until the moment I didn't have it anymore, how much of my identity I had bound up in it, in the ability to say "I'm the host of The Eclectic Mix." And while I'm in the convent, so many other self-markers, while they won't leave me, will become irrelevant: Daughter. Sister. Aunt. College graduate. Writer.

No one's actually asked me, "So what made you decide to go into the convent?" which I find a little strange. Maybe everyone's just scared of what I might say.

Here's the answer to the unasked question: Two years ago I was at a dinner party in Ireland with a small group of people from three different countries. By what I can only call a miracle, the evening was joyous, exuberant, even silly; everyone was gracious, companiable, generous, as friends of long acquaintance are, though we'd just met a week before. This is what heaven's like, I thought. I know people who think heaven will be dull, but I don't understand this point of view at all. Heaven was eating homemade Mexican food and squealing at European MTV and having intense heart-to-heart discussions with near strangers. It was not dull.

I've thought a lot about what made that experience as rapturous as it was. When something like it comes along, as I told a friend recently, it's like there's this seam that starts to split, a rent in what you were thinking was the real world, and light from the real Real World comes flooding in. It happened to me again with a different group of friends in a long car ride. There had been tension and hurt feelings, but as we talked through them a giant peace descended; I felt the tearing and the flood of too-bright light, and I laughed and cried at the extravagance of it all. It's tough to put into words, obviously. "Joyful" fits both experiences well.

And "joyful" is a word Johnny Rabbitt uses a lot in regard to the Pink Sisters. I've met a few of them now. He's right. They don't just smile--they beam.

Heaven is what I'm after. I've come to know you can get a little taste of it; you can learn to look. You have to be with those who trust--not neccessarily in heaven, but in each other. The dinner party happened because a girl in Dublin trusted enough to open her home to new friends from three countries. The car ride revelation happened because when my friend was hurt, she trusted me enough to unburden her soul. I think about the convent and I see a tribe of women trusting in each other and in God. That's why I want to be in there. 

The Pink Sisters Part 1

Note: This series of essays first appeared on Thunderstruck in 2003, recounting my experiences of 2001.


Johnny Rabbitt's office at radio station WRTH is filled with bunny-related objects. Actually, the studio itself features a giant stuffed Bugs Bunny, a rabbit in a vest and top hat, toy rabbits in toy cars, plastic carrots, and the like. His office is almost subdued in comparison, with more emphasis on his books on local trivia and mementos of his decades-long radio career, but still rabbits abound. There is a soft cuddly example of the taxidermist's art perched atop a file cabinet. I have stopped by the station to pick up my paycheck and have found Rabbitt's office open. I decide to sneak in and surf the web on his computer--Hotmail has been threatening dire consequences if I don't dump a couple hundred K's worth of messages from my inbox. Surely Rabbitt isn't around on a weekend, I think. All the offices were open; the cleaning crew is at work. But as I confront the agony of deleting precious email, a thick-spectacled shadow looms in the doorway.

"Angela! Hey, listen, fate may have brought you here. Are you a good writer?"

"I'm a great writer, Johnny." 

"Oh good, oh good. Would you like to help me write something?"

"Sure! What about?"

"The Pink Sisters."

My heart honestly leaps at the thought. I know very little about the Holy Spirit Adoration Sisters except that they wear eye-catching pink habits--not subtle pink, mind you; vivid pink like cotton candy, like the last color anyone who doesn't really know nuns would expect them to wear. I say "doesn't really know nuns" because pink would be perfect on some of the nuns of my acquaintance--the giddy young Vietnamese sisters at my church, my high school math teacher who cursed like a sailor--but I know the stereotype calls for a more sober hue. I know why these nuns are called "Pink Sisters" and I know they are cloistered. I know they prayed for good weather when the Pope visited St. Louis in January of '99, and that the temperature jumped up to 68 degrees during his visit. I know a woman who visited their convent and described to me the hospitality and the wise eyes of the Superior. I know and feel their mystique, the curiosity anyone feels about women who go in through a certain door and make a promise they will never leave. But I have never gone to their convent myself. I've always meant to but never have. I suppose I'm afraid they'll bite.

Still, things happen. Rather a lot of things have been happening to me lately. They are strange things. It feels as though words are being spoken to me just at the threshold of hearing, so I hear one phrase and then another one a little while later and then I must piece together the whole meaning. Not long ago I heard a bit of a psalm in an unexpected place-a U2 concert. It was Psalm 116, and the verses were "How shall I make a return to the Lord for all the good he has done for me? The cup of salvation I will take up, and I will call upon the name of the Lord; my vows to the Lord I will pay in the presence of all his people." And then the same psalm, the same verses, I heard again in the expected place, at Mass. It felt as if a point were being made and underlined. And yesterday--yesterday I read a prayer telling me to visualize mercy as an ocean. I marked the page with my fingers and closed my eyes, but I couldn't do it. My mind shrank from the image. Is mercy something to drown in? What sounds less life-threatening? Ah, I thought. Sunlight. Mercy I'll picture as radiant warmth. I went back to the book and discovered the rest of the prayer used no ocean imagery at all, but spoke only of "rays" and "light," and as I read the sun broke free of cloud--yes, it really did, and if it had happened in a movie the audience would shake their heads in disgust at the melodrama, but that's just the way things happen sometimes. Or quite a lot, lately, as I said.

So Johnny Rabbitt asks me to write about the Pink Sisters, an order whose official title is Sister-Servants of the Holy Spirit of Perpetual Adoration, and I've been intrigued by the Holy Spirit lately and wear a dove round my neck in His honor but chiefly because it is a symbol of a song I love called "Grace" and now I discover the sisters' place in St. Louis is called Mount Grace Convent. Little things. They can either be understood to be pointing toward a deeper meaning or not. They are clues that I am on the right path or they are meaningless coincidences. They are words spoken at the threshold of hearing, able to be heeded or ignored. I don't ignore them; it suits me to think the coincidences pile up for a reason. Next I suppose I must decide--is whatever's causing this malevolent or benevolent? If I were a conspiracy theorist I'd start shaking but as I'm just me I shrug and call Him melodramatic.

Oh--and there's a radio show I want to do--that's also called "Grace," as in "Amazing." My radio work is my connection to Johnny Rabbitt, but I'm not pursuing radio as a career single-mindedly. At the moment I have a music biography soon to be published, and as I work on that anything that might take me out of town (such as a job as a DJ in some small market, say, Truth or Consequences, New Mexico) is on hold. And yet the work I'm doing on the bio at present is of the thumb-twiddling variety, waiting for others to proof the book and print it. Thus it so happens that when Rabbitt needs someone to help him write about the Pink Sisters, I have both great curiosity about the subject and nothing but time to work on it. Meaningless coincidence, of course.

In a few days The Rabbitt and I take the highway to North St. Louis to interview the Superior at the convent. Some of the streets here have names I know from a lifetime spent on the South Side--Grand, 14th--but others are entirely unfamiliar. We pass a park much like any park I've driven past before. The houses are brick, and of a similar style to houses in my neighborhood. It gives me a strange sense of displacement. This is landscape I know and do not know, a mystery; I feel as if any moment we'll turn a corner and come to a well-known landmark. Then I will know where we are. But this never happens. I have been to the North Side before--but not often. It looks shell-shocked, bombed-- Belfast or Sarajevo in miniature. We'll pass five intact buildings and one that is boarded up, yet it's the boarded-up buildings that define the mood here. I realize this is what my neighborhood must look like to outsiders. There, too, there are nice houses and burned-out ones, but because I live there I think of life as the prevalent mood, not death. Here it is different. 

When we arrive at Mount Grace, Rabbitt first points out a high stone wall. "Behind that is the Sisters' garden," he says. The wall encloses a space as large as a downtown city block. We turn a corner and across the street we see the house of the benefactress of the convent, a still noble mansion. We arrive then at the chapel and the front gate of the convent. The building itself seems familiar--tall, red brick--not as sprawling as stately old City Hospital (another old St. Louis landmark though sadly one that has been crumbling for years), but I think City Hospital in its prime must have been kin. I am reminded too of my sturdy grade school, St. Thomas of Aquinas. Later I find out this convent and that school were built at about the same time--1935. This, in my unlearned opinion, was one of architecture's last great eras. I have compared the Pink Sisters' convent now to a hospital and to a school. It has the bulk and sober facade of an institution. Most modern schools and hospitals seem featureless; they slide out of memory. Older institutions have their noble purpose stamped in their masonry. All of the convent's bricks appear to have been perfectly placed. Its beauty is in the parts adding to a whole, like the cells of a beehive. The roof supports and the gutterspouts are not overly ornamented but their lines are graceful. All the windows are new. It is the survivor of a tradition, a sign that not all things pass away. I think at first it looks out of place amid the rubble and ruin of the North Side. Then I realize I've got it backward. The ruin is the interloper, this is the native inhabitant. In fact this sense of long history brought into the present is the mark of all the true beautiful places here.

I understand this better as Rabbitt talks of Crown Candy Kitchen and Mark's Hardware, two old businesses that have held on to the North Side while others fled. Stepping into Mark's, he says, is stepping into the past. "There are boxes of supplies in the storeroom stamped with dates from the 1800s," he says. "And the lightbulbs in there are the real old-fashioned kind, with the two long wires inside and no frosting on the glass."

I get the impression nothing in North St. Louis is new--there's so little infrastructure, no incentives for construction. But at Mount Grace, this appears to me virtue, not hardship. Newness is overrated. Here is elegant sturdiness, a red brick sanctuary for a way of life more than a thousand years old--for although the Congregation of the Sister Servants of the Holy Spirit of Perpetual Adoration has only been around a century or so, there have been cloistered contemplatives for much, much longer than that.

If you like, you may trace a path back from the North Side of St. Louis in the 20th century to the Egyptian desert in the 3rd. That was where a man named Anthony went to live as a hermit after hearing the gospel passage, "If you would be perfect, go, sell all you have, give to the poor, and follow me" (Matt. 19:21). He said, in essence, "all right," and went to live by himself. This made him a very popular person. Others went in to the desert to see what he was up to out there, he taught them his simple ways of work and prayer, and so from the desire to be alone came the whole Christian tradition of religious community life. (That is why words like "monk" and "nun" and "monastery" have a contradiction at their heart. Today they are used in the context of life lived always in the presence of others, but they all come from the same root as "mono"--something that stands alone). In the centuries afterward groups of people would come together to pray, work, and live together in varying degrees of separation from the world.

Cloistered contemplatives like the Pink Sisters have separated themselves about as far as you can get, which is illustrated to me when Rabbitt and I ring the bell at the convent entrance and are buzzed in to a small wood-paneled room. There is a door opposite us, and in the door is a window with a metal screen. The face behind it is hard to see. The voice belonging to the face directs us to open a door to our right into a parlor and to wait there for the superior, Sister Mary Gemma. The parlor is divided into two by a grille made of transparent plastic in an open weave, like a herringbone pattern. When Sister Mary Gemma comes and sits on her side she reaches through and shakes our hands, but that is all the closer we can get. It's not exactly like visiting someone in prison, but it's not unlike it either. My immediate sense of Sister is of an affable woman, prone to quiet laughter and gentle expression. She is the public face of the convent, the rest of the 24 sisters here are more or less anonymous, though they all take turns welcoming visitors at the door. She has email, reads the newspaper, takes phone calls through much of the day, and conducts tours (though "tours" is a misleading term, since most of the grounds are off-limits to the non-cloistered). Having to stand as she does between two realities that don't have much in common, she comes across as neither otherworldly nor worldly. She reminds me of nothing as much as the well-loved owner of a locally successful family business.

In the course of the interview I ask Sister, "Let's say a woman comes to the convent and says, 'I think I may have a calling to your way of life.' What do you do?"

She answers, "We'd meet with them a few times and then just talk about it and ask them questions and lead them to kind of open themselves. If they think that they very possibly could have a vocation to this way of life and we see that it also is a possibility we have them come and live two to three weeks with us. We call that the 'observer program.'"

 After the interview, when I'm back at home, I start to think about this. I could interview Sister Mary Gemma for days but no matter what she says I'd never get the sense of what it's really like behind that grille. And I want to know. Sitting in that parlor listening to her, I found myself getting obsessed with that barrier, the seeming arbitrariness of it, the way it is both flimsy and absolute.

Maybe writing about the Sisters will give me an excuse to break through the barrier myself.

Book.

A few years ago, I was going through a difficult time.
The details of the difficult time don't matter much. The good thing was that I had people around who loved me and supported me in what I needed to do to get through it.
I didn't know what I needed to do, but I kind of had a sense. I heard about a place where one could have a silent retreat--which was important because an element of what was difficult about that time was that it was noisy. I was taking in a lot of stuff and had no place to put it.
On that retreat, something happened to me. My difficulties didn't all disappear at once or anything like that. But something happened, something that worked a transformation.
The story of that time, the journey I ended up taking, and what that journey held for my life was not something that I could talk about directly. I still can't address it head on, which is why this post is so choppy. The only way to get at it was to tell a story.
So, I wrote a story. The funny thing is that the story I ended up writing was about telling a story. It was about taking something that is inside of you and letting it live in the outside world, where it may have a life you did not plan for it to have. Storytelling is risky that way.
I have no children of my own, but the story also turned out to be about raising a child. It also turned out to be about a lot of other unexpected things. Storytelling is surprising that way.
I recently found out there's a website that lets you publicize a creative work if you want to invite people to help you release it into the wild, as it were. It helps musicians raise the money to release their own CDs, directors to create their own movies, and authors publish their own books. The story I wrote--which is called, of all things, "The Story"--has had much help along the way already from people encouraging it into existence. I would like to take the step of getting it out in the world more, so I am going to make it into a book, and I'm going to ask for help getting it published.
I've recruited a talented young illustrator, so part of the cost of publishing will be her fees--to be put toward her college fund.
Watch this space. I'll be announcing more details soon.

About where I work: Peaslee Neighborhood Center

I was reminded recently that I have not written an update in a while, particularly about my new job, which is Administrative Assisting at Peaslee Neighborhood Center. Peaslee is a non-profit with a unique history. I love telling the story of Peaslee because it is about seemingly overwhelming odds and the incredible tenacity of those who challenged the odds. I'll quote from the "Peaslee-for-the-People-Project," a well-photocopied paper in the file cabinet here:
"In the summer of 1982 the Cincinnati Board of Education closed the doors of Peaslee School. That corner at 14th and Sycamore in Cincinnati's inner city had served the education of our neighborhood children for over a hundred years. An old school building had been torn down several years before leaving a vacant lot and a small, modernly equipped, newer annex we called Peaslee Primary...
"The school stood vacant for fourteen months...We felt that the loss of the school was connected with the beginnings of loss of the fabric of the neighborhood.
"But our neighborhood, called Over-the-Rhine, had faced losses before and the people who were hit would rebound to fight harder next time. Those fourteen months proved to be such a time...
"Parents who had fought for the school, community supporters, our Over-the-Rhine Community Council, and our neighborhood development corporation pulled together to work out a proposal for usage of the school and an offer for purchase. After negotiating back and forth (over six months) with the School Board we came up with the agreement that the community would put $15,000 cash down and be given one year to raise the remaining purchase price of $225,000 plus that year's maintenance cost. We envisioned a building that would belong to the low-income community and be used as an educational and cultural center for our integrated neighborhood. Community control of this building would also help to stabilize the low-income housing around it. But the $240,000 plus price tag made that look like an impossible dream. We knew our real work had just begun...
"Our community has an average annual income of $6000/year per family. One person in our group sat down and figured out how many people would have to donate $10 to achieve our goal. I think that's when the $225,000 price tag really began to hit home and we began to realize that we'd have to get outside our community for financial support and explain what Peaslee was and could become for us. We'd have to convince 22,500 people!
"One thing that helped was...we drew up a tentative timeline so that we could see how much we would need to have raised by March, then by August, etc. This helped set goals along the way and broke down the enormous sum to smaller attainable amounts...
"The fundraising committee was made up of about six core members. We decided to meet every week for a business meeting then follow with a work session. The business meetings were times to discuss ideas, divide up tasks, and keep in touch. For the work sessions we'd invite more people and do things like fold brochures, prepare bulk mailings, and write thank you notes. We wanted to have a large-group meeting inviting more citywide supporters every six to eight weeks. We were able to do this about three times and it was helpful for us to feel the broader support, as well as to have fresh ideas and new contacts...
"With the help of the development committee we put together proposals for several foundations. A great breakthrough for us was a grant support of $25,000 from the Greater Cincinnati Foundation. This grant legitimized us with the more conservative Cincinnati Business Community. From there we were able to get a listing from the Chamber of Commerce giving us business addresses and pre-addressed labels. We sent out word about our grant and asked each business to contribute $100. Because we had been able to keep our project in the media, both through newspaper editorials and television coverage of events, the businesses began to adopt us as a 'community working to improve itself' and that increased their monetary support...
"During our fight to keep the school open we had met radio, television, and newspaper reporters. We renewed those contacts with the media during this campaign by inviting them to events and press conferences. For example, on Martin Luther King Day we were able to get into the building and held a 'Clean Up/Fundraising Kick-off,' where we invited neighborhood people to come straighten up and mop down the building and read Martin Luther King's 'I Have A Dream' speech...
"As our last two months closed in we had to meet and assess where we'd come and how far we had to go...At this meeting we decided to approach the School Board, present the details of all we had done toward earning our money, plus all the positive things we had done toward education aside from Peaslee (work in other neighborhood schools, support of the tax levy, development of the Education Task Force at our Community Council). We were able to tell them that we were confident that we would have $200,000 in cash by the deadline...Because of our community's hard work and broader community support we were successful in having the purchase price reduced to $200,000 plus the maintenance costs...
"On December 14, 1984 we were able to turn over $209,239.13 to the Cincinnati School Board and received the keys for Peaslee School."
Dream the impossible dream.