Beyond Belief (39 page)

Perhaps the sisters miss me when they sing one of the hymns I wrote or study the notes I left. Perhaps.

A
FEW WEEKS AGO
I met with several women who had read my book. We gathered in the cafeteria of our town’s Catholic college, invited by a sister in a veil and orthopedic shoes. We were a small group: three sisters, three former sisters, five women from the community, and me. I knew only one woman, from her flower shop downtown.

I was nervous about the nuns. What would they think of my tell-all tale? How could I let them know that I considered their work and their lives valuable, even though I’d turned my back on their lifestyle?

Our discussion was intense, but not hostile. One of the women congratulated me on writing such a readable book. One of the sisters interrupted: “That book was hard to read, painful.” She didn’t elaborate. Others commented on how mean the sisters in my book had been—and I tried to explain that I hoped readers wouldn’t dwell on anyone’s faults but could see how, by denying simple human pleasures to its members, even a well-intentioned system could produce monsters. Another of the sisters said, “If only you’d joined a more liberal congregation, one that believed in education.” After an hour, the sister with the veil called intermission and we broke for tea and cookies.

Round two began with one of the ex-sisters, who’d already said
quite a bit, but whose look of determination and absence of cookies led me to suspect that she’d spent the break steeling up the courage to say something important.

“There’s nothing like the life of a sister,” she began. “Nothing to equal the camaraderie, the devotion, the sense of purpose.” This woman had to be at least sixty-five, and she spoke with so much wistfulness that it broke my heart. She told us that back in her twenties, she had left the convent—more than once. A year after her first departure, she’d returned, then left again. She’d even joined a third time, determined to stick it out, but before too long the sisters sent her home, claiming she wasn’t suited for the convent. “I wanted it so badly,” she said.

I’d wanted it, too, had never wanted anything so badly in my whole life: to dedicate myself completely, to be of service, to share my life with those good women. I’d envisioned a life where each sister’s gifts were respected and nourished, where we encouraged and challenged each other, all working together for a common goal. I hadn’t bargained that two power-hungry sisters would enmesh the Missionaries of Charity in right-wing church politics, that they would substitute intimidation for inspiration, confuse loyalty with integrity, and pull the group so far to the right that I would hardly recognize it. I hadn’t imagined that my own human needs for intimacy would clash so dramatically with rules demanding the denial of every human desire. I hadn’t realized what a toll obedience would take.

I still stumble to find words with which to think and talk about my leaving. Had I failed, betraying God and my vows, or had I simply outgrown a tragically stunted community? When I left, I had the audacity to believe that God was calling me out. I’d heard the words of Jesus, “I came that you may have life, and have it to the full,” and
I knew that my life in the convent was not full.

But I’m not sure my present life is full, either. I’m not sure I even know what
full
means. I do feel freer to search for fullness and for purpose, if they’re to be found.

I want to stop chasing phantoms.

A
T ANOTHER BOOK DISCUSSION
, a woman reminded me that I’d done a lot of good for the sisters, that I’d been a positive influence while in the convent. She asked why that hadn’t been enough for me. She seemed to imply—at least in my mind—that it
should
have been enough for me.

Sometimes I think of the sisters and I get this hard, tight feeling in my chest, like I want to cry. But I don’t cry. I tell myself that crying would be foolish and ungrateful. It’s good that I left the sisters and their nunnish ways. It’s good that now I can think for myself, that I’m in a wonderful marriage, and that I’ve created communities of various sorts where people can be themselves. I feel that tightness in my chest and I defy it. I
shouldn’t
miss the sisters. I
shouldn’t
regret not having been able to tough it out. No regrets.

But I do regret.

Why couldn’t we have had it all? What stopped us from being a group where both community and individuals mattered? Couldn’t we have created something truly beautiful? Couldn’t we have been allowed to think for ourselves and make our creative contributions within that system?

But you can’t change one part of a system without affecting the entire system—and Mother Teresa had always made it clear that we didn’t enter the Missionaries of Charity to change the community, but to accept it. She told us that if we didn’t like the
MC way of doing things, we should pack up and go home, right now. That’s what she said:
Right now.
She wagged her finger at us and she told us that if we didn’t want life in the convent exactly as it was, we should go through the door—because she wasn’t changing anything.

For Mother Teresa, a sister proved her fidelity to God by accepting things as they were and doing things exactly as they were meant to be done, according to the Rules. Why couldn’t she see that living creatures grew, that as they grew they changed, that institutions only remain vital when free to respond in new and creative ways to the challenges before them?

I’ve heard that Missionaries of Charity these days, when faced with a decision, ask themselves, “What would Mother do?” I’d like to tell the sisters that answering that question will never result in more than a guess anyway, that they need to take responsibility, that they might consider asking, “In this situation now, what is the most loving thing to do, the action that will bring about the most good?”

Perhaps, when the knot in my chest tightens, I should let the tears flow. Perhaps crying is the only possible release in the face of such futile loss.

A friend who also happens to be a family therapist once told me that the hardest relationships to heal are those in which love and trauma are closely entwined.

I
N THE MIDST OF
struggling with the issues in this essay, I take a break to walk my sister’s dog. I’m visiting her in West Virginia, and the hills we stroll are, for me, unfamiliar territory. The dog, a Bernese mountain dog my sister calls a puppy but I call a bear, pulls hard on the leash and drags me from one side of the road to the
other. We approach an enormous tree that had been ripped from the earth in a recent storm and I feel a lump rise in my throat. I’ve been uprooted more times and in more ways than I care to count. I’ve spent decades trying to figure out what to be and how to be. I’ve lived in shacks and farmhouses, in towns and cities, have mingled with the famous and the destitute. I devoted decades of my life to a group in which I’d never really fit.

I want to belong somewhere.

The bear-dog, seemingly oblivious to my struggle, fully engaged in the adventure of a walk that has taken him beyond any place my sister had yet brought him, pulls hard and tugs me over yet another hill.

I don’t want to live in the past, caught in the pain of longing for what might have been. Here, today, I have friends who care about me, parents who don’t condemn me for having abandoned the God they taught me to love, and a husband with whom I share everything. I’ve known deep faith and deeper doubts. I’ve learned to give myself with honesty and openness. I’ve been vulnerable and strong. I’ve tried and I’ve failed and I’ve tried again.

At the crest of yet another hill, the bear-dog pauses, panting. A hawk flies overhead, dark wings unfurled against a sky that stretches over hills and valleys, and as I gaze upon that blue sky, the world fills me, fills me with a love so immense that I want to burst and spill it across the countryside.

There it is—that same impulse that impelled me into the convent in the first place—the irresistible urge to love the whole world.

As I look across the hollow, I realize that I do have a place to call home. My home is the Earth. My family has been here for generations. I don’t know everyone, but we are one in important
and mysterious ways that I may never grasp, but have experienced once again.

P
ERHAPS THE NUNS WILL
continue to chase me in my dreams and haunt me at the clothesline. Perhaps I will learn to stop resisting that. Perhaps my sisters will always be part of me. I may never know if I did the right thing by choosing to leave, but I know I did the necessary thing, and sometimes that’s all anyone can do.

Unpolished fingernails, tightness in the chest, tears, a dog panting at my side, and sisters far away and close by—for the moment, I don’t need anything more.

Acknowledgments

T
his being my first anthology, I was pleasantly surprised by how much I
loved
working with authors to help them shape their stories. So first and foremost, I want to thank the many women we’ve had contact with throughout the process of putting this book together. Both to those whose pieces ended up in this collection and the many who submitted stories that just didn’t quite fit: Thank you for sharing your sacred stories with us! I know it takes courage to speak unpopular, difficult, or partially discovered truths.

And then I must say a huge thank-you to my coeditor, Susan Tive, for working tirelessly and sharing the vision of this passion project with me. Pamela Malpas, my wonderful agent, who is all encouragement, common sense, and warm e-hugs when needed . . . Thank you! A huge “You rock!” to Brooke Warner, my friend and our acquiring editor at Seal, and to Laura Mazer, who stepped in and made my heart sparkle with her “I love this book.”

And then, there aren’t any words for how grateful I am to have a community of people around me who love me and cheer me on in every endeavor I embrace, whether it’s running a marathon or working on a book. Bill Pech, my best friend and husband, thank you. I’m grateful, too, for my pals who wait patiently for me to return to them when I’m in the middle of a project, who forgive me for missing important events in their lives or skipping happy hour so I can work. You know who you are, and you know I love you.

Finally, this project never would have come about had Susan and I not taken a nine-month course called Writing the Modern Memoir taught by novelist and really superb person Laura Kalpakian. Hugs to Laura for fostering my eye for a good narrative arc and interesting scenic depiction.

This anthology has been a gift to me because it has combined my work as a therapist with my commitment to writing. For a long time in my practice, I’ve nurtured the telling of difficult stories. Now I’ve discovered a new way to foster tellings—through helping writers do what they do: write.

—Cami Ostman

B
eyond Belief
began as a spark of recognition that was flamed by conversation, friendship, and trust. This collection represents a group of writers whose stories, generously written, strive to create new opportunities for discussion and reflection. I am deeply grateful to each and every one of our contributors. Thank you for trusting us with your stories, for your carefulness in revisiting difficult times and places, and for your willingness to share your lives.

Cami Ostman, my coeditor, deserves more credit than I can
express for listening to me talk for years about this crazy idea for an anthology even after we were told that no one would care.

Thank you, Pamela Malpas, Brooke Warner, and Laura Mazer, for your genuine enthusiasm, guidance, and support throughout the entire process of making this book a reality.

Thank you to my longtime friend Judy Moore, who listened to me (and believed me) at a time when no one else would, to Julie and Damon DeFoer for keeping me laughing when the editing would not stop, and to Paula Gilman for all the long walks that helped remind me why this project is so important.

I am especially grateful to my husband, Michael Falter, whose love and encouragement has not only brought humor and compassion to my story, but also given it a happy ending I would never have imagined possible.

—Susan Tive

About the Contributors