And Then There Were Nuns Read Online Free PDF

to mid-sixties, had been admitted to the Women at a Crossroads program. We entered the room weighted down with trepidation and hugging to our bosoms the thick navy blue folders that each of us had been given upon arrival. Perhaps we were all wondering whether by month’s end we would be wearing habits and clutching signed ironclad pledges to the sisterhood. Months earlier, everything had seemed so clear, and I had been suffused with a sense of purpose about this new life. Now, my so-called purpose seemed more like recklessness, as if I was about to unlock Pandora’s box and unleash something resembling that freaky scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
    â€œGood morning,” Sister Elizabeth Ann purred. “We’re delighted to have you with us. Before we go any further, let’s begin with a prayer, shall we?”
    Heads bowed and eyes closed on cue.
    â€œHeavenly Father...”
    Sister Elizabeth Ann’s calm voice flowed over my pummeled psyche like warm caramel. The tension from my secular job that had made me rigid and paranoid began to ease as Sister Elizabeth Ann’s prayer massaged my stress: joints unclenched, the Gordian knot of anxiety and fear that had resided in my stomach the last few years began to loosen, my muscles awakened, my spine straightened, and my ears began to detach themselves from my shoulders. There was a time, years earlier, when I had been able to cavalierly deflect the slings and arrows of the daily grind and clamber over the walls of my self-doubt. But the projectiles in the form of daily humiliations at the office had become harder lately; the arrow piercings to my self-confidence, deeper. The emotional armor I had forged was supposed to be temporary, but over time it had welded itself so tightly to my being that it was what now held me together. With every syllable that Sister Elizabeth Ann uttered, the armor started to loosen, and it felt so good that I had to restrain myself from emitting a loud “Ahhhhhhh!”
    With head still bowed, I cracked open my eyes to check out the others in the group. We had all been sent instructions about what not to wear at the convent: no sleeveless tops, no shorts, no jeans, no skirts above the knee, all of which deep-sixed about 80 percent of my summer wardrobe. Some of the women had their own interpretation of the dress code, deciding that “no sleeveless tops” did not mean no sleeveless dresses. Shawls or light sweaters were layered over these or brought along in case objections were voiced.
    Sandals had been given the all-clear, thank goodness, but as I scanned everyone’s footwear, I inwardly gasped: I was the only one with nail polish on her toes, or rather the only one wearing a shade that was the color of hellfire. Sparks might just as well have been shooting from the tips of my toes and devils doing the can-can with their pitchforks.
    My face flushed. I tucked my feet under my chair and hoped no one had noticed. A few weeks later, when I upended the bottle of nail polish, I noticed the name of the shade: Friar, Friar, Pants on Fire. Not the best choice for someone hoping to embrace the life of a contemplative nun.
    I returned to Sister Elizabeth Ann’s prayer, but my mind had the attention span of a three-year-old.
    The morning sunlight from another torridly hot summer day slashed through the vertical blinds and splayed itself in long, straight fingers of gold on the beige Berber carpet. My mind bubbled with a gazillion questions: How hot is it outside? Will we have any of our sessions outside? Did I pack sunscreen? How old is this convent? Do nuns miss sex? What was I thinking when I put on this garish nail polish?
    Then, with the inconsequential questions out of the way, the Big Question stormed to the front of my thoughts, hands on hips, and blared, Excuse me, but what in hell’s name are you doing in a convent anyway? My brain erupted into a vision of flashing red sirens, shrieking alarms, and