Not Without My Passport - Anne Marie Lunkenheimer

Not Without My Passport by Anne Marie Lunkenheimer

Book excerpt

Escaping the Nunnery

It was a crisp sunny September afternoon. The smell of autumn leaves filled the air. I was sitting alone on the cold stone steps of the Sisters of St. Joseph Motherhouse, waving good-bye to my family. Dad’s eyes were teary, and Mother was smiling, as our 1962 Ford Country Squire pulled out of the driveway.

Where was the welcoming committee? I fought tears, and lost. On the rugged expanse of the giant wooden door, I didn’t know where to find the doorbell. I was seventeen.

The reality of being allowed a one-hour family visit per month alarmed me. No big sister to confide in anymore, no more exciting flights in the Piper Cub with my dear dad, no more sailing or water skiing on the bay in Fair Haven, or parties with my friends. I was giving up many pleasures for a life I could not fathom.

Next to me on the steps was a large black trunk containing the bare necessities I had been directed to bring with me. These were now my sole belongings. The day before, as instructed, I had given all my worldly possessions to my two sisters. Confused about what that had meant, I hoped that the roller skates and ukulele I’d packed would be allowed here at my new home. I had no idea what seven years without returning to Red Creek would be like.

Six months back, my parents had arranged a reception following my high school graduation, inviting their Catholic friends and relatives to celebrate my acceptance into the Order. Most everyone in attendance contributed to the dowry fund required by the convent, although a few came with religious gifts. Later, I discovered my family was compelled to contribute additional funds during my stay.

The reception was not a joyful occasion. I’d enjoyed the graduation beach party with my classmates at our cottage more, where we sat around a bonfire singing camp songs and telling stories, for the last time. I felt depressed after the reception but did not know how to confront my fears.

I grew up in a small country town in Upstate New York with no Catholic schools and a small mission church. On Saturday mornings, the children of the few Catholic families in town congregated there for religious instruction. Priests came and went, resulting in our limited understanding of what Catholicism was all about, including the role of nuns. Life in a nunnery was considered ‘secret business.’ The Sisters of St. Joseph came to stay for two weeks each year at our home, while we vacationed at a summer cottage on a Lake Ontario Bay nearby. I thought they were nice ladies in uncomfortable outfits unsuitable for the summer’s heat. They acted as substitute catechists during their stay, showering parish children with gifts of books, rosaries, and holy cards. I became a holy card fanatic, collecting every saint imaginable, amazed by their bravery and undeniable faith.

When I was seven, the Sisters suggested that someday I might join them in dedicating my life to God’s service. The suggestion was repeated in their letters over the coming years. ‘Our Lady’s Divine Son may be calling you to be His Bride’ wrote Sister Maureen. ‘Reverend Mother says she could place a thousand more Sisters tomorrow if she had them. Perhaps someday through you, more souls could be saved.’ This was reinforced by my mother, who agreed this would be a noble commitment. Our entire family would be proud if I responded to God’s calling.

Throughout adolescence, I privately considered a religious vocation. I was conflicted by a burning desire to experience life’s pleasures—teenage friendships, parties, stimulating travel, challenging sports, and to wear fashionable clothes. My mother always looked classy in expensive outfits and matching shoes. I was also aware of the obvious poverty in our small town and wished to live a less self-indulgent life if possible. At seventeen, I still soul searched Am I ready for such a serious choice? What if I make the wrong decision? I would have to part from my treasured boyfriend of the past three years and sensed heartbreak. He was ardent in his effort to convince me to not do this, but as the time approached, accepted. We both shed many tears.

I saw him once more before that September departure. I felt cruel. He was quiet, no words left to articulate his feelings. We sat side by side on the pier at our old cottage, in silence. He had given me a beautiful Valentine card that year, saying how much he loved me and would never take no for an answer. But there we were, no way out. Our mutual sadness felt overwhelming.

I thought to myself, with this choice I am making, I will never again have him to talk with about the joys and tragedies of daily life, nor will I ever be able to imagine bearing his children. What am I doing? Anxiety enveloped my seventeen-year-old mind.

But for me, a fantasy was becoming a reality.

A close friend was also entering a convent, of a different Order. In the weeks before my departure, I intimated that I wanted more time to think. I felt unprepared for such a monumental choice. At that moment my mother came out on the porch where we sat.

My friend stared at her for a few seconds and blurted, ‘I don’t think your daughter should go to the convent right now. She doesn’t feel ready and dreads making the wrong choice.’

‘Anne will go to the convent. It’s too late to change her mind,’ Mother declared. ‘We’ve already had her reception and paid the dowry.’ Her face was tense, her hands by her sides, curled in fists. ‘She is going and that’s that,’

I realized my mother couldn’t lose face among her friends and acquaintances. This added to the pressure I was experiencing. Could I disappoint so many people?

My friend, Barbara, challenged Mother. ‘Do you want her to be confused and unhappy?’

Mother didn’t answer. Her glaring eyes darted back and forth between my defender, and me. It was final.

The night before I left, my beloved father handed me a hand-written note. He was known for his illegible handwriting, but he had printed each letter of every word.

‘To my dear daughter Anne: It is hard to say how much I’ll miss you, words can never tell – But each day I’ll see your face before me and be so very proud to know my loving daughter is going to be a nun. When things are going wrong in business, I know I’ll have the courage to keep on trying, because I have someone helping and praying for me, because my daughter is a nun. Your wants have been few and your aim the highest, so keep on climbing, my dear. Your success there has no equal. You will never know how proud Mom and I are of you. You are with us forever… Dad.’