"So, when did you first decide that you wanted to be a nun?"

People ask me this all the time.  Those more in tune with the whole process also ask me what my discernment process was like, how long it took, and similar questions.  I love all of them -- to anyone who ever asked me something about becoming a Sister, thank you.  I get excited for every opportunity to talk about it. 

In view of that, I have typed up the whole story of my experiences thus far, for your reading pleasure and hopefully edification at the goodness of God to one little insignificant, very imperfect girl.  This will also be my second-to-last post -- I will do one more, tonight or tomorrow, saying goodbye.  And then that's it! 

Oh yeah, and still nobody has told me that I need to delete anything, so it seems like this blog will be staying around.  (I just obviously won't be updating it.)

Okay.  Now for the "autobiography."  If something is vague, by the way, it was done on purpose.  I can't reveal all my life to the internet.



I've wanted to be a nun since I was very small: six years old, to be exact.
It is no coincidence that this happened in the same year my family stopped going to the Novus Ordo: you may roll your eyes, but I know that had much to do with it.  My mother bought me a children's life of St. Therese that Christmas, and that year or the next we read a life of St. Margaret Mary as our bedtime story-book.  I guess my vocation (if vocation it truly be) came through them.  St. Therese taught me the beauty of religious life; St. Margaret Mary taught me about its suffering.  After that I devoured every saint-book I could find, especially the ones about nuns: St. Catherine of Siena, St. Rose of Lima, St. Catherine Laboure, and many more.

I continued in this sort of daydreaming desire to become a Sister for many years, until my family left Germany, where we had been living, and returned to the US, where we lived on an Army base in KS.  There were tons of other kids to play with (none of which were religious in any way), and I was nearing my teens by that point, so I sort of stopped thinking about being a nun.  It wasn't that I decided I didn't want to be a nun, but just that I was surrounded by a secular culture which simply could not stop discussing who liked whom and what they would do when they started dating, and I was immersed in it.  This state began at age ten and was pretty bad for the next two or three years.  After that, I sort of "allowed" the possibility of entering religious life back into my mind, but I still didn't take it seriously.

  Finally, one Sunday when I was fifteen, maybe sixteen, a group of Dominican Sisters showed up unexpectedly at our church.  They gave a presentation on their life after Mass, and my parents stayed (a bit of a sacrifice: we had a long drive home) until it was over.  I remember looking at the slides while the Sister spoke, and my eyes filling up a bit.  This was what I wanted.  Nothing else would do.  I fiddled around for months, and then eventually I contacted the Dominicans' Mother Superior and discussed things.  They were in New Zealand, which I admit added significantly to the attraction.  I emailed Mother Superior back and forth for a few more months, and then, having concerns about a certain policy, asked the proverbial wrong question.  She never wrote back.  I was disappointed and a little bitter.  So finally, one day I talked to one of our priests about it.  He told me that if it didn't work out, it was obviously because God didn't want it, and that for all I knew, He may have saved me much more heartache than I had presently to deal with.  That really helped me, and I waited fairly patiently for something else to happen.

Just over a year ago, finally things got moving again.  My good friend Victoria invited me to come with her to a retreat given by the Daughters of Mary in NY.  My parents gave permission, I went, and instantly I fell in love with all of it.  But of course, it wasn't half as easy as I had expected.  Again there was a policy that caused trouble, but it was a lot worse this time, and I struggled for about seven months to bring myself in line with the group's opinions.  In that time, I spent a week at the convent, and loved it even more.  I was determined to overcome the issue.  So eventually I convinced myself that I agreed with the policy, and was allowed to proceed.  I started getting everything together, filled out papers, had a physical.  Most importantly, I had to finish highschool, because my diploma was a required part of the application papers.  I spent about two months frantically writing papers and crying half-heartedly over how impossible it was, drinking tea, and taking tests with little preparation.  I finished about six months' worth of French II lessons in one month.  I'm still inordinately proud of that.

So finally, by the end of July I had everything but a letter of recommendation from our priest.  I requested that, and waited impatiently.  On August 1st, the priest came to our house to talk to me and my parents.  Long story short, he convinced me of my error in ignoring the issues with the congregation I wished to join, and recommended that I wait and pray about what I should do.  So I did.  Before the conversation, I had intended to override whatever he said, but it made too much sense, and God gave me the grace to obey His Will, spoken through His servant.  I had been supposed to enter at the end of September, so I had to call the Novice Mistress and tell her that I wouldn't be coming after all.  She is a very gentle person, and she definitely made this difficult thing easier, for which I thank her.

I started looking into different congregations.  I was torn between the vita mixta, or half-contemplative, half-active way of life lived by most of the congregations I was interested in, and the more difficult to find (and difficult to live) fully contemplative life of a Carmelite.  None of my Carmelite investigations succeeded, however, so I assume it was not God's Will. 

In September, I visited the Sisters of St. Thomas Aquinas in Arizona, threatening everybody that I was going to dislike it.  I told the Sister in charge all of my problems, and she gave me some advice.  At the time I had little emotional investment in this congregation, but I decided "with my brain" that I should enter there.  Sister recommended that I enter as soon as possible, so I planned to try for the beginning of November.  I came home and told the priest, but he had other ideas.  He wanted me to visit one more convent before I made any more rash decisions.  Of course, when my plan was met with opposition, the convent in Arizona became the most desirably place on the face of the earth; but I could see that Father's plan was prudent, so I acceded with a rather bad grace and began attempting to contact a small Dominican congregation in Michigan.  Finally, with some help from Father, I got a hold of a Sister by phone, and blurted out that I was interested in their convent and could I visit and when, please, Sister?  (I was trying to get the thing over with.)  She told me that I had to write a letter and do things properly.  Annoyed, I wrote the letter and waited complainingly for an answer.  In the meantime, I contacted a wonderful group of Italian Sisters by email, and was just about ready to fly over there to visit.  When I tried to seriously plan it, though, I found that it would take too long, and when I asked the advice of the Sister in charge in Arizona, she recommended that I stay within my own country, and choose what was practical over what was exciting.  She was clearly right, and I agreed (a bit tearfully) and waited for the Dominicans' letter.  It finally came, and for a time we corresponded by snail mail -- just to find out, in the end, that they do not have visitors' accommodations and they would not be accepting postulants until  the end of August 2014.  Frustrated, I informed the priest and begged that he would allow me to dispense with this third visit.  I had found out that if I wanted to enter with the Sisters of St. Thomas Aquinas, I had to do it by the beginning of January.
Then commenced another month of waiting.  I was getting nervous, because it was almost December and I had no word from Father.  At long last, on December 6th he visited us again and granted his permission.  He added a stipulation, though: I was to visit a certain couple of Sisters in Boston, not to join, but just to "see," saying it would prove useful sometime.  I obeyed happily, not caring what I had to do as long as I could get to Arizona by January 6th.  I started buying up postulant's clothing and getting ready, and I successfully made that Boston visit...gracious, I think only two weeks ago.  I believe I learned much, though it did not go the way Father was imagining, and I gained the prayers of two very holy Sisters.  I'm sure that God organized it the way He did for a very good reason, and I am content.

Now I'm becoming a postulant, God willing, in a matter of days.  I bought the last supplies I needed a few days ago. All I have to do is give my flight information to Sister, wait three days, and say goodbye to my family.

This chapter is almost over, but the story's got plenty more chapters to go.  While I feel certain that this is my vocation, I have learned from experience that God's ways are not ours, and He may require me to leave the convent, for a different one or for the world.  If that happens, I will try to accept it, but for now, this is my path. It is more beautiful than anything else I could ever have imagined, and I am very grateful: to God, to my family, to the priests and Sisters who have guided and prayed for me, and for all of you who have prayed for me as well.  God bless you all.

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Star-searching

Do you understand how blessed we are to have something so beautiful as starlight?  Besides the presence of Christ in the Blessed Sacrament, nothing in common experience so brings home to me the glory and grandeur of God as a starry sky.  Of course, you can see the stars as nothing special, if you're so disposed -- small white dots in a seemingly random pattern against an expanse of dark -- or, worse still, you might never look at them at all.  There is, however, something about these little white dots that never fails to entrance you, if you pay attention, even if you know nothing of the staggering science behind them.

Stars have always fascinated mankind, it seems.  We fashion them into constellations and weave them into stories, we name them, study them, watch them -- sometimes we even attach an unlawful power to them.  They inspire poetry and lend their beauty to prose and painting. They're sprinkled through music, from beginners' piano pieces to great compositions.  For heaven's sake, one of the first nursery songs a baby learns is about the beauty and mystery of a star!  Better yet, stars fill the psalms and prophecies of the Bible, praising God and illustrating His promises, leading the Eastern Kings to the newborn Christ in Bethlehem.  Stars seem to have always caught peoples' imaginations and inspired their creativity, and I think it's fascinating. 

I can see some now, actually, glimmering through the skylight.  Some are faint and far-off, but a few are burning bright, so near that it seems I must be able to catch one, if I climbed just a little way into the sky.  I'd pass above the housetops, above the treetops, to a high silver peak in some distant land, and then maybe, just maybe, I could stretch out my hand and close it over a star.  It would be hot and pulsing, terribly bright and whiter than diamonds and snow and winter sun at midday.  Or perhaps it would be frozen cold and hard, like all the brittle jewels of the earth combined, and more precious than even the most prized of them: a sky-jewel, fit for the crown of the Queen of Heaven and Star of the Sea.

How about it, then: will you go star-searching with me?


*all images via tumblr*
 

Novels and Why I Won't Write Them

I was told today that I should write a novel. I have absolutely no expectation of doing anything of the sort, but I do rather miss the thrill of writing, the feeling of a story flowing out of me and onto the page, sitting in one spot for hours and then emerging from the screen like a diver coming out of the sea. My writing is an uncertain and undirected thing, but, no matter its flaws, it can be so vivid to me that I think it actually happened. I have, while doing something completely innocuous, had an image flash through my head which I could not place, and after trying to remember for some while when it happened, realize that it was simply something I imagined for a story. 

But I cannot write a novel. I am not humble enough. I would want it to be real and fantastical, beautiful and painful, true and subtle. And if it fell short (which it inevitably would), I would give it up in frustration. I do not even know that I am capable of writing a worthless novel. My imagination is very useful for scenes and impressions, but I cannot sustain it for the length of a book. I cannot draw the reader in and capture him or her, not letting go until the last page. At least, I do not think I could. We never really know what we're capable of, do we?

I am much more comfortable with nonfiction. Nonfiction, whether it be about facts, or ideas, or feelings, is limited and safe. If I write about myself, I am limited by what I am; if I write about an event, I am limited by its duration; if I write to inform, I am limited by what I know. Fiction is an an endless expanse of nothing just waiting for someone to take some of it and craft it into a limitless variety of details and personalities and storylines. Perhaps fiction is simply a higher art than nonfiction. When God created the world, He created, in a manner of speaking, a work of fiction. That is not to say that it wasn't (and isn't) real: it's as real as anything material can be. But insofar as God created something where before there was nothing, something detailed and linear and complete, with original characters and plot and settings, He created a novel – a beautiful, terrible, fantastical fairy tale. And all the tales that came after are simply shadows of the one real story – the story that each and every one of us, from Adam to the Apocalypse, is part of. And that is why novel-writing is beyond me: it is too large and terrifying a task for my puny talents. I shall stick to writing about novels (among other things), for the present, and perhaps, in five years, or ten, or thirty, I may find myself capable. Or perhaps not, and that's all right too. Novels are not the only form of beauty we humans can create. There are so many, and we must each simply find which one is meant for us.

All images via tumblr.

Character Letters - June Edition

So, for those of you who don't know, Rosamund Gregory over at Shoes of Paper ♥ Stockings of Buttermilk (formerly A Wanderer in the Shadowed Land) has a monthly feature called  Character Letters, where one has a character write a letter based on certain prompts.  It's a lovely idea, and I meant to do it last month and didn't get to it.  I nearly didn't get to it this month, either, but I was determined, so here goes.

Nora isn't really a letter-writing kind of girl -- more because she hasn't got anyone to write to then because she doesn't like letters.  The theme for this month's Character Letters was villains, but Nora's story  (entitled, by the way, Coffee-Shop) doesn't really have a villain, per se.  It may yet, but it doesn't right now.  You see, Nora creates her own villains.  Mental villains, that is.  She's kind of her own enemy, and I don't mean that in a dramatic dual-personality kind of way.  She just has tendencies she must fight against and circumstances that are against her, like everyone else.  So her "letter" is a diary entry. 

I did try to write it out by hand, but you see, Nora's handwriting is quite different from mine, and I'm not much of a forger.  So I shall just describe it.  Nora writes in that funny half-cursive, half-print style, where some letters are cursive and joined together, while some are just and print as print can be.  Nevertheless, she isn't a careless person, in writing as in everything else, and her handwriting is quite neat and very small, with a tendency to be rather vertical.  It is not pretty, but hasn't got any obvious faults. She dots all the i's and crosses the t's with short, straight lines.  She likes to use pens but usually confines herself to pencils because they are more economical and can be erased if necessary.  Nora writes in a neat brown-covered journal with a key and lined pages.  She uses the key because she feels it's bad enough to have her thoughts and emotions down permanently on a piece of paper without making it accessible.  She wears the key as a necklace, and finds that to be very romantic and heroine-like.  The girl would never confess to something so silly, though.

Without more ado (though that description was ever so much fun to write):

 April 12, 20--

I am miserable.  I've finally owned it to myself.  I'm lonely and awkward and boring and bored.  The fact that I am miserable just makes me more miserable, too.  I guess that's ironic.  I should be grateful, you know.  I have a job that pays for me to live comfortably enough, I haven't any mortal illnesses, and nobody hates me.  But nobody really likes me, either.  Well --- that's not true either.  Nobody thinks of me enough to like me or dislike me.  I'm not the noticeable kind.  And as for my job, it may pay enough to live on, but I have to continue it constantly in order to live.  I shall never be able to go to college, at least not till I'm too old to want to.  I will be stuck in this dreary life for a long time yet, with no happiness apart from library books and the coffee-shop five blocks down.  I wish that awful car crash had never happened, oh, I wish so hard I feel it must bring them back!  But that's stupid.  They're not coming back.  And it isn't like me to be so emotional.  I must stop this.  But I am so very tired and overworked and just all-around miserable.  I'm very alone, just like in the rhyme: "I care for nobody, and nobody cares for me". 

All right.  I'm going to try and get over it.  My lunch break is over, I've got to get back to work.  And I can look forward to the coffee-shop this afternoon.  I'll think on that.

 - Nora Grace

Okay, I'm sorry it's rather depressing.  But you see, this takes place the day the story begins.  When Nora goes to the coffee-shop this particular afternoon, she meets someone (after an uncharacteristic display of strong emotion) who --- oh, but to tell more would give too much away.  Spoilers, sweetie!