Catherine McAuley lost her father when she was five and he was all she knew of Catholicism, but it was enough to begin a journey back to the Catholic Church as an adult. The lecturer asked what we remembered from before we were five.
"Sunshine," I said, and someone made cute noises to indicate that I was cute.
"Oh, you looked up and saw the sun?"
"My mother was sick and the curtains were always drawn, but they were thin white curtains, so when the sunlight came through it gave everything a warm yellow glow."
Then everybody was solemn and that wasn't what I meant at all.
The lecturer had worked in the Middle East decades ago, one of only two American nuns in the area. I wondered if the second American might have been a woman from my parish, and it was, and everyone was astonished and pleased at the coincidence, and the lecturer asked for contact information so that she could reconnect with the other American.
The nun assigned to help me through the Liturgy of the Hours sometimes forgot to help me. I would flip and flip and flip through the pages, trying to guess which area the reading might be in. Then she would suddenly remember I was helpless, and show me the correct page number, and I would flip madly to the proper place. Afterward, it was time for the Sisters to practice a song, and they let the visitors stay. I picked up the songbook which opened automatically to the right song; Sister opened her book and flipped and flipped and flipped. So I showed her the right page in my book so that she could flip madly to the proper place. Then she bent down and couldn't sing anymore because that was too funny.
And we ate and ate and it was all very good; the Sisters made most of the meals. I met a nun who looked like a benevolent female Schwarzenegger who seemed very puzzled and a little peeved to hear that there were some nuns who didn't like to use the term "Bride of Christ."
I liked everybody very much and I didn't go back.
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