BEGINS- TODAY before book publication
This is the frank confession of a girl who turned her face from the world for the life of a nun. Her clear young eyes saw many strange things and learnt much of pain and suffering until there came, through inner conflict; her moment of decision- the moment when she determined to leave the convent walls behind and to re-enter the outside world. She faced problems she had never dreamed of. Hers is one of the most moving and human real-life stories that WOMAN'S OWN has ever been privileged to bring you prior to book. publication.
I gladly suffer penances: from pouring salt on my
dessert to torturing myself with a knotted whip
I rebel against my vows and find the love that
was once forbidden me
Once I was a Nun
by Teresa Lightwood
WHEN I was a young girl of 16, I became a nun. At that time I thought there could be no greater joy on this earth than to live for God alone. It was only later that the attractions of work in the outside world caused conflicting loyalties to fill my heart. It was then that I was to face the most agonizing decision of my life. But at 16, I had no such fears.
We lived in Sheffield only five of us-all girls-surviving from 13 children born to my parents.
My father came from a farming family and our childhood was happy, though mine was dogged by a good deal of physical pain. I was 11 when my legs became crippled with rheumatic gout, and at 14, I had an operation which was a success, but which prevented further growth. This meant that I was never to be more than 4 feet 10 inches tall
Soon after my return from hospital my adored mother died· suddenly, following a stroke. This loss was so unbearable that for a while I would talk to myself in the street, peering hard into the faces of strange women in the hope that among them I'd find my mother still alive.
Once when I exuberantly announced how much I loved her, she had said with great simplicity: "My dear child, you will never be able to live without love." And for long after her death, so it seemed to me.
The unknown world
THIS tragedy was not the basic reason why I entered a convent. For some years, ever since the conversion of my parents to Roman Catholicism when I was eight, I had been an ardent church goer, and I had no doubt that I had a true vocation to be a nun.
The world was completely unknown to me; I had always been kept very much of a child, and I never considered that taking the veil would mean giving up the pleasures, hopes and ambitions of ordinary living.
I applied to enter a London convent, and at long last came the moment that was the gateway to the fulfilment of my deepest hopes-the moment I walked for the first time into the spacious garden of my new home.
It was a beautiful day in May, and above the long, shady broadwalk at one side of the garden the branches of lime and fruit trees meeting overhead created an avenue of colour. . .
The novice mistress received me in a room called the parlour. Within a very few days I was to sense her kindness and sympathy, but during those first five minutes my heart sank: I could feel only coldness in her greeting.
I see my 'cell'
HER opening words were: "Well, I suppose" I must welcome you." In fact, she was appalled at the prospect of a 16-year- old in the novitiate, already having what she called 'quite enough children' in the nearby school.
Seated in the parlour I was given a cup of tea, made a shy bow to the Reverend Mother who also came to greet me, and was then whisked away to the novices' dormitory and shown to my cell.
We climbed the innumerable stairs leading almost to the eaves of the building. Then the novice mistress paused for breath at the entry to a long 'cell corridor' where everything was painted a. drab brown, fanlight windows giving the place its light.
The doorways of the nuns' cells lined both sides of the corridor (it was a fairly large community with nearly 100 nuns and postulants) and one of these doors led to the novices' dormitory; where the novice mistress also had her cell.
It was not a dormitory in the orthodox sense, but a passageway where a series of Gothic arches led into double cubicles, each divided by a hardboard screen into two tiny cells.
On my bed was a blue and white checked counterpane, and a check curtain of the same material hung at the entrance; the sole splash of colour to relieve austerity. No mirrors were to be found either in this or any other part of the convent.
The mistress told me there were now 12 novices. She reminded me that conversation in the dormitory was forbidden at all times, and that no 'extras' were permitted in the cells except a change of underclothing. She added, with the first hint of a smile, that owing to my youth I would be allowed to remain in bed until 5.30 each morning instead of rising for prayers with the rest of the community at 4.45. . . .
She left me then, and I was suddenly conscious of coldness in the air despite the bright sunshine outside. A rush of homesickness enveloped me. . . .
But soon my mind switched to anticipation of the peaceful days ahead, and I looked round the cell, examining with a kind of ascetic satisfaction each item of its stark furnishings. In a moment the place was aglow with comfort and warmth.
It was not the bareness of our cells that alarmed me during those first months of life at the convent. In fact there was only joy in total acceptance of the poverty represented by the few chattels. allotted to the postulant nun: the plain iron bedstead with straw palliasse, the hard chair, the washstand and cracked basin, the square of oilcloth to guard against splashes on the wall, the small oblong of worn carpet, the crucifix over the bed and the framed picture of the nun's patron saint-in my case St. Teresa, the Little Flower of Lisieux.
Childlike wish
ONLY one thing worried me: my lack of inches. When my first convent habit was made, it was thought I might still grow another inch or two, so the dress was allowed to trail a little on the long side.
Discontented all the same, I decided to do something about it, and one night I knelt and prayed to St. Teresa, asking to be made a little taller.
Convinced the prayer would be granted by dawn the next day I was about to climb into bed, naively satisfied with the prospect, when suddenly a feeling of vast uncertainty came over me.
Suppose St. Teresa heard and answered the prayer. Suppose that I turned into a postulant of five feet two, or three, or even taller.
Imagine the entry I would make at chapel and breakfast in the morning, with my habit too short and with embarrassment writ large all over my face. . . .
Kneeling again, child that I was, I changed the plea to: "No, not any taller, better leave me as I am." I then slept, awakened soon after 4.30 a.m., went down to prayers, and thought no more about my height.
It wasn't until three years later that I pronounced my vows as a nun. Chastity, obedience, poverty. . . .
By the vow of chastity I was not only renouncing all pleasures of the flesh, but setting out to attain absolute purity and chastity of thought.
By the vow of obedience I was renouncing 'free will.'
By the vow of poverty I was renouncing all claims to earthly possessions, legacies and earnings of any kind.
Need for charity
IN the daily habits of convent life it was surprising what came under the heading called Holy Charity. One day the novice mistress chided several of the postulants for no other reason than that we showed signs of a poor appetite.
"Even that reveals a failing against charity," she said. "Remember that your heighbour at mealtimes may have an excellent appetite, yet the sight of a poor eater at her elbow might make her shy and fearful of taking all the food she needs."
For the newcomer there were many such pitfalls in the novice's training.
'Whether in eating, drinking or taking your repose, do all for the glory of God.' that was the rule on which convent life was founded.
I soon found that a good many of the laws, penances and acts of mortification were given expression at the dining table, the only place apart from chapel, where the entire community met together.
Nuns and novices sat at two long dining tables, a Superior at the head of each. After a long grace in Latin, each took her place and waited with hands folded until, at the sound of a bell, napkins were unrolled and sleeves pushed back. The meal began.
During meals, one of the nuns read aloud from a spiritual book, and from start to finish there was no word of conversation.
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As the server offered the dish, each nun took whatever slice of meat or vegetable lay nearest. To pick and choose was absolutely wrong.
To ask for anything for oneself from the server was also forbidden. The only method of obtaining a glass of water, say, or a slice of bread, was to make signs to your neighbour.
Placing one's hand palm downwards on the table was a sign for bread, touching the empty tumbler showed one was thirsty.
It was unfortunate for the one who sat next to a religious whose mind was perpetually in the clouds. All the same, any nun who failed to notice the needs of her neighbour Was also committing a transgression.
Sometimes the penalty for such absentmindedness was to stand in the middle of the dining room after the meal and accuse herself of negligence, whereupon one would be told to kiss the ground.
Willing acceptance of humiliations great and small is the aim and obligation of every nun. Doing penance in public is an integral part of the training.
Early in my novitiate there were mornings when I failed to jump from my bed at the first sound of the calling bell-sometimes I did not even hear it -and on such mornings I would go to the novice mistress and accuse myself of this fault.
As often as not my penance on these occasions was to eat my meal kneeling, either beside the table or out in the middle of the room.
Acts of penance were never spectacular. It was held that to perform great penances might lead to perilous feelings of satisfaction and self-glory. One could easily become proud of the very deeds that were intended to make one humble.
Acts of penance
MANY acts of penance involved nothing more than going without some minor pleasure: not asking for things one needed, not reading something one desired greatly to read-a letter from home, for instance; or making some enjoyable food disagreeable, perhaps by pouring salt into a dessert.
There were many others, such as kissing the feet of the Sisters. And there was also the 'discipline,' a small whip made of knotted cord to be used on oneself twice or more times each week.
Anyone who suspects that there is a certain masochistic enjoyment in this self-punishment should remember the mental and emotional climate that surrounds the nun as she stands alone in her cell with the whip in her hand.
I know that I experienced great misery and fear as I whipped myself with the knotted cord. There was no sensual glory, and I honestly think no self-pity, in this torture.
In fact, the act of penance that has remained most heavily stamped on my memory was not the whip. It was the physical strain of sitting on the low dining bench, for half an hour or longer, with one foot all the time kept raised from the floor.
For several years I never took one single meal with both my feet on the ground.
All these penances, it should be recorded, were not designed as punishments to break the spirit. They were a part of the continual striving towards the perfect life.
The day in the convent began early, and the intense cold of my cell at 4.45 in the morning was an agony that I remember vividly even 20 years later.
The first three hours were spent in prayer, meditation and Holy Mass. Then came a plain breakfast followed by the domestic and other tasks for the day, with not a second wasted. Towards evening there were two hours of 'recreation'-but our conversations together were limited by the very nature of the lives we led.
Laughter of innocence
YET for all the austerity of our life there was tremendous gaiety and laugher in the cloister -laughter free from malice, the laughter of elated innocence.
For the most part our pleasures were certainly childlike, a favourite 'game' consisting of a breathless race to determine who would be first inside the chapel doors.
Austerity always took a back seat on feast days, particularly on the Reverend Mother's feast day, and during my first year I was quite taken aback by the relaxed, simple humour and the allround levity- of the occasion. We were allowed to talk during meals, and to talk at all hours except in the cells and cloisters; and certain nuns gave a concert in the evening.
For weeks in advance all the nuns would be hard at work making gifts -sewing, crochet work, children's toys and so on-that would be displayed on a large table throughout the festive day.
It was traditional to keep all this activity a secret from the eyes and ears of the Reverend Mother, who was supposed to be filled with surprised delight by the sight of the gifts destined for schools, hospitals and churches.
The work was done only during our recreation periods and a lot of ingenuity was spent hiding the stuff from view whenever the Reverend Mother appeared. She knew precisely what was going on, of course, but on the morning of feast day, when our handiwork was exhibited, she was always obliged to pretend surprise. We in turn were always delighted by her reaction
In these first years I was happier than at any time I could remember, and because I was happy, obedience came very easily to me.
Governing the community were two remarkable women, saintly even by the highest of religious standards. The Reverend Mother was a small, hunchbacked woman who spoke her mind, stood no nonsense, possessed a rare capacity for sympathetic kindliness, and had the most childlike eyes I ever saw in an adult face.
Her Irish assistant, the novice mistress, was almost as outstanding, with her blend of severity, holiness and goodness of heart; and her selflessness reaching moving heights towards the end of my novitiate.
It was shortly after Christmas, when I fell ill. I was sent to the convent infirmarian, who prescribed what some of us regarded as the only remedy she stocked to deal with all the ills of the flesh: a large dose of castor oil.
Often enough it was surprisingly effective, but this time- it failed-for I had a severe bout of pneumonia.
By New Year's Day my life was in danger, for with sulpha drugs a thing of the future, deaths from pneumonia were vastly higher than nowadays.
Despair for my life
BUT I was not the only person who was gravely ill. Our novice mistress suffered from an affliction which had troubled her for several years, a form of gangrene in feet and hands, and it was now attacking other parts of her body.
Hearing that my life was despaired of, she prayed, offering her life to God in place of mine if He saw fit to take it.
She died the same week. My recovery began a day or two later. . Three years of noviceship passed. Then, when the time for the taking of my vows was drawing near, an important visitor to the convent brought about an opportunity that was to alter the basic pattern of my religious life.
This was an influential member of the hierarchy-a calm, capable woman who was secretary to the Reverend Mother General of our Order. I was charged with the duty of waiting on her during her stay in London.
One day, carrying a batch of letters to her room, I paused in the blossom-laden garden to examine unusual stamps and postmarks on the envelopes from abroad.
There were letters from many parts of the world, including, I remember, one from Alaska and another from Siam.
I stood in the shadow of the tulip tree idly wondering about these far-off lands and their peoples, and then, with a sudden sense of guilt and urgency, hurried on to deliver the letters. At her desk the secretary slit the envelopes and began reading. I stood by, itching to talk but fearing to interrupt.
Foreign missions
SHE looked up, surprised to find me still in attendance, and I blurted out my hopes. I had often wanted, I told her, to go out into the world of the foreign missions, and I begged her to tell me about the work performed abroad.
In matter-of-fact tones she began painting what seemed to me an inspired picture of of the missionary's life. My boldness grew and I announced yet again that for a long time I had been overwhelmed by an urge to work in the mission field.
There was a moment's silence while she gave me a cool stare. Then she asked: "Why do you wish to serve in this way?"
I reddened, considering how to make her believe in the worthiness of my motives.
"Already the Lord has given me so much," I said. "All the years I spend here are years of receiving, and I believe I am now ready to give Him something in return."
Again she smiled, "And what do you imagine you will be giving?" she asked.
"To leave my convent, family and country is the biggest sacrifice I can think of making," I said.
She nodded slowly, but made no comment. I had a sudden tweak of conscience as I left the room, for whenever in the past I had mentioned the foreign missions to our Superiors, they had always insisted I could not be spared and said that all such longings must be sacrificed for the good of the community.
A few days later, however, my spirits soared when I learned that the secretary had taken my outburst seriously and had passed on my request to the Reverend Mother herself. With it, presumably, went the, secretary's recommendation that I might be spared for missionary work abroad.
At all events it was not long before I received a letter from her declaring that I should prepare for departure to Siam as soon as my final vows were pronounced. The prospect of an altogether new life of love and satisfaction was spread before me, and I looked forward to it eagerly.
However, I also felt a touch of fear. For six years my sole excursions outside the garden walls in London had been occasional, usually painful, its to the dentist. I had never read a novel, and, cut off as I was from films, plays, radio and books, I was as innocent and ignorant at 22 as a child, I was quite unaware of the everyday conflicts and emotional problems which fill most people's lives. . . .
The Reverend Mother escorted me as far as Dover. I was on my way to the convent of Tournai, in France, where I would meet my travelling companion, a nun from Holland. When we reached Dover, the Ostend boat was waiting. My goodbyes with the Reverend Mother were brief, with few words and no visible emotion.
It was after dusk when I lowered myself from the high French train at Tournai railway station. To my relief there emerged from the darkness an elderly, wrinkled nun, who called my name. We shook hands, and she conducted me to an ancient car in which the Dutch sister who was to be my travelling companion was already installed.
It took us several days to reach Marseilles, staying at various convents on the way, but eventually we embarked on the ship which was to take us to Singapore.
We were quite a colony of nuns on the ship-11 Little Sisters of the Poor apart from ourselves-so we were soon accepted as" part of the community.
Colombo night club
ALTOGETHER the voyage was a stirring prelude to the life ahead. It gave me an appetite for sightseeing which, before long, was to involve me and my Dutch friend in what must be as odd a situation as any experienced by a pair of nuns: an unplanned evening in a smoky Colombo night club.
During the voyage we were befriended by a Javanese businessman and his wife, and when we reached Ceylon they invited us to join them in a day's tour round the capital. We accepted.
We wandered the streets in the afternoon, besieged by smiling, rowdy boys constantly demanding baksheesh. By evening we were all very hungry and when Mr. K., our Javanese friend, suggested dinner at an unpretentious-looking restaurant in the centre of the town, we gladly agreed.
It was quickly apparent, once we were inside, that this was no ordinary restaurant; there was a garish cocktail bar along one wall, a band playing jazz from a platform in a recess, a square of polished floor left clear for dancing. . .
The Dutch sister gave me apprehensive looks. Just as dismayed, I smiled weakly. It was hardly a proper place for two young women from a strict religious order!
Strange company
MR. K., oddly unconcerned with his guests wearing full religious habit, startled us yet further by suggesting a drink at the bar before ordering our dinner.
I explained firmly that in our habits we would be distinctly out of place perched on high stools. "Yes, of course, how stupid of me--we will sit at a table." he said, with a casual air of understanding, as if the absurdity had only just struck him.
Heads were already turned in our direction, and even though the table was in the most secluded corner of the L-shaped room, we were the centre of attention for quite a time. By then it was clear we would have to see the thing through. I asked for lime juice for myself and my companion,
On the crowded floor the dancers were a varied lot. Some were smooth and easy; others ill-matched, lacking all grace and often merely comical. None were more awkward, it seemed to me, than the couples who were dancing cheek to cheek-a form of romantic display, it should be noted, which I had never seen before!
My first cabaret
DINNER was slow, with long intervals between courses, and with our coffee came a dull cabaret, performed by tawdrily- dressed girls with fixed smiles.
At the end of the evening we did our best to assure Mr. K. he had given us an interesting interlude. But later, when we reached the ship, the Dutch sister and I hastily agreed that in our letters to our respective communities it would be wiser to make no mention of the episode!
One week later, at Singapore, we left the comfort and stability of our passenger liner for a small, grubby ship bound for Bangkok.
On the fifth day out, exactly a month after leaving Marseilles, we reached the Gulf of Siam. We sat on deck enjoying the sun and watching I the scene change as we went up the Chao Phya River.
It was strange and very beautiful. There were thousands of palm trees, houses growing on stilts by the water's g,ed' and temples with fantastically coloured roofs.
Soon the palm trees gave way to factories, and the waters grew muddier and busier. Here there were hundreds of small craft, most of them propelled by a lone figure standing with one leg slung carelessly over the rudder as he wielded the pole.
When we reached the docks of Bangkok I saw the familiar shapes of two nuns waiting on the quayside. As we stepped ashore, one of them-the Reverend Mother of our new convent home-held out both hands, welcoming us to Siam.
Welcome to Bangkok
IT was the custom, the Reverend Mother informed us, to pay our respects to the bishop and receive his blessing before going to the convent, So, when landing formalities were over, we headed for the centre of Bangkok.
Despite, the heat, which made my robes hang heavily and my headdress limp, I was immediately thrilled by the hundred and one unfamiliar sights of the city of klongs, those traffic-busy canals that give Bangkok its special character.
For one encounter, however, I was totally unprepared. I remember how I stopped and shaded my eyes from the sun as they rested for the first time on the half-naked figure of a woman in native dress.
At that time, women and girls throughout the capital still wore the pah-nung, a trouser skirt consisting of about four yards of material wound tightly round the body, draped between the legs and fastened high at the rear. In front it covered the knees, but the thighs were revealed at the back, and above the waist there was nothing.
With my rigid code of convent modesty behind me-a code which forbade the nun even to undress in the presence of another sister-the sight of this woman, naked to the waist, talking casually with a young man, was disturbing to say the least.
Success with Siamese
TRUE, it was not long before the beauty of these graceful olive bodies began to impress me. But on that day, cluttered as I was by bony stays, a long-sleeved shift and serge petticoats, I failed to appreciate them.
Our visit to the bishop had an air of unreality following this incident, and it was hard to keep my mind on what he had to say.
But he said one thing that gave me a sense of determination. "Learn the Siamese language," he advised, "so that you understand the needs of the people for whom you will work."
By way of a start he then 'pressed a pack of cards into my hands. They were not, let me add, playing cards. These were a children's classroom aid -a series of coloured cards bearing the letters of the Siamese alphabet. With their help I was to become gratifyingly proficient at the language in little more than three months.
The Bangkok convent was located in a narrow, dirt street with a canal on each side. The long, low white building, standing in a garden of green circular lawn and tall flame trees. gave a misleading impression of gracious living which was banished the moment we stepped inside.
We arrived just as lunch was about to begin. In our honour, conversation was permitted, but my own contribution was monosyllabic, for I was limp with the heat, appalled at the dirt and depressed by the poverty of the cellar-like dining-room. Very soon I was also made apprehensive by the sight of a lizard that dropped from the ceiling into the already unpalatable food.
In any case everyone spoke French, of which I had little knowledge, so the antics of the chin chocs, as the lizards were called, remained the most vivid memory of that first meal.
My heart sinks
LIZARDS were everywhere, running up and down the walls and across the ceiling, every now and then losing their foothold; but nobody showed the slightest concern or took much notice of them.
My starry-eyed picture of the missionary's life was already being shaken; and there was worse to come.
My heart sank when I learnt that, besides the lizards, mosquitoes and other insects, I must be prepared for snakes, frogs and toads of terrifying size, and ferocious chameleons as big as young cats which looked like crocodiles with the snout missing. Too late I asked myself seriously whether I was cut out for missionary work.
Next week: Sister Teresa faces the terror of thunderbolts and earthquakes. and fights for her life in a strange village.
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