My Love Story

I was convinced I was not nun material. What about the dreams I had of falling in love, having a houseful of children and living happily ever after? This had always been my main goal in life. Playing “house” on the steps outside our front door with broken pieces of delph rescued when they had fallen from a shelf in the kitchen. Dressing up in Mam’s apron and having a tea party for my dolls who were later bedded down in shoe boxes when it was nap time. Wasn’t this built-in preparation for the most fulfilling role a young girl could ever have or want? Wasn’t this make-believe an expression of a God given desire to love beyond self, to procreate and nurture? After all, wasn’t this what little girls were made for? Flirting and boy-chasing; weren’t these all part of the plan? What about the parties and dancing that I loved so much? The annual secondary school reunion dinner dances where the latest evening gowns were paraded? Dancing until dawn and walking home in bare feet slightly, but not quite tipsy? Never to marry? Never to have children? No more dressing up to beat the band? Simple stuff, but big to me! If God wanted me to be a nun, I had to be willing to sacrifice my dreams and say yes. Of course, I could always hold on to my dreams. I’d finally come to realize the choice was mine. I was determined to end the struggle this weekend once and for all. I would either say “yes” to God or forget this haunting idea and get on with my life. Why did it bother me so much? Most nuns I knew had entered convents much younger. Usually right after secondary school. My only sister had. No one was surprised in her case. She was very friendly with the nuns at school and strangely enough to me, she would often go back to school on weekends and over the summer vacation and visit with her favorite sisters. They weren’t too thrilled with her when she decided to join a different order. It was a missionary order. One of the things she had to bring with her was a huge metal trunk. My dad explained it was to keep the ants out when she went to some foreign jungle place. Due to unexplained health related reasons, she had to give up her dream and return home before she took her first vows. While she never shared her feelings with me, it must have been a big disappointment to her. After that she couldn’t wait to leave Ireland and immigrate to the U.S. Together with being a nun, one of the last things I wanted to do was live in America. I had seen American tourists around the city. It was easy to pick them out. They spoke very loudly. The older women usually had blued hair and wore lots of makeup. And the men were well rounded in the middle with cameras hanging from their necks. Then there were relatives who had returned for visits after being away more than my lifetime. They usually sang the praises of their new homeland putting down the “old country” with its backward ways (in their eyes). Their “songs” didn’t entice me. In fact, the reverse was true. I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in traveling abroad. I was content to live in an Irish suburb forever. I knew the kind of house I wanted. It was red-bricked, two story with a door in the middle, a nice green yard in front and lots of bedrooms for all the kids I would have someday. And I would never marry a school teacher! I didn’t know why, but as school was never a pleasant place for me, I guess I associated all teachers with my less than joyful memories. To me it was a place where I felt locked up. I had no choice about being there. I couldn’t wait to be free of it. Also, the male school teachers I had met were mostly from rural country areas and not very sophisticated. I didn’t find them very appealing. One day, when I was in the fourth grade, my teacher Mrs. Nolan sent me on an errand. It changed my life. The girl who was usually sent to the corner store to buy biscuits for Mrs. Nolan’s morning tea break wasn’t in school that day. So, I was given the task of buying a quarter pound of Kimberly Creams. They were my favorite. Rounded ginger flavored biscuits with marshmallow in the center. I knew I would be given a sample when I brought them back to class. So, when I discovered they didn’t have any at the corner store, I didn’t want to settle for second best Kerry Creams. I rushed around the neighborhood from family store to family store until I found Kimberly Creams. As I was walking back in the direction of school, I noticed something. There were other people in the neighborhood. Housewives rushing home with fresh vegetables and other groceries for the mid-day dinner. Some talking on street corners with neighbors they had bumped into. Older men walking their dogs. Preschool children were playing in their iron-fenced yards. The butcher boy was peddling his big bicycle with the enormous metal basket on the front stacked high with meat orders wrapped in white butcher paper. The overwhelming impression I had was these people were free. There was life outside the school walls during the hours I was incarcerated. Now that I was heading back, I felt more imprisoned than ever. I longed for the day I would be free. Free to do what? I didn’t know. Perhaps to make choices for myself! The Kimberly Cream helped, but it didn’t remove that longing to be free that was implanted in me that day. It continued to grow!