And Then There Were Nuns by Jane Christmas

vacation. The reaction would have been predictable. Had I said I was at an ashram, a Buddhist retreat, or a kibbutz, people would have said, “Wow.” But if I told them I had been to a Christian convent they would have said “Ew.”
    The few friends I did tell were surprised that nuns still existed and even more surprised that there were Anglican nuns. George Carey, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, once remarked that nuns were “the best-kept secret of the Anglican Communion.” He got that right, but why has the church been reluctant to talk openly about their religious orders?
    Three things became clear within a few weeks of being back in the secular world: I could no longer stay in my job; I could no longer worship in a parish church, or rather not the one I had been attending; and I had to find a convent to join and start living a monastic life.
    The weekly Sunday church service, a sort of church lite, seemed so watered down compared with the rich monastic version I had come to know. There was no room for prayerful reflection. Hymns were sung at breakneck speed; ditto for the prayers. The intercessions were particularly lazy territory. Instead of praying for the unemployed and the dying, the congregation prayed for the Queen, for the prime minister, for the Anglican primate, and for high-ranking clergy in Canada and around the world. Sure, these people need our prayers, but when your intercessions are loaded up with political and religious luminaries what place do you assign to the common man or woman? I wanted a more creative and more civic-minded approach: to pray for specific environmental problems in the town or city, for the mother who had lost her son in a gang murder the day before, for the children who were battling for their lives in the local cancer wards, for the father who had suddenly found himself out of work, for street people, and for the new immigrants to the city.
    The politicization of religion was there, all right; the prayers for peace and justice and other buzz words and feel-good notions. Lorraine would have burst a blood vessel had she been present.
    Four months later, I left my job. I teetered in a state of bewilderment; rarely had I been without employment in thirty-five years.
    As if called by a siren, I was drawn back to the convent, back to where I knew my equilibrium would be restored. The only place I knew where I fit in. A bus took me from Hamilton into Toronto and then a subway carried me north. Emerging from the subterranean jungle to the blare of street-level traffic, my legs took over, as if on auto pilot, taking me toward the convent.
    Sister Jessica was there, and she took me in her arms. So did Sister Helen Claire and Sister Sue. Yes, I do belong here.
    Sister Elizabeth Ann had contacted the prioress of the Order of the Holy Paraclete in England, and my visit was arranged. I would spend three months immersing myself in cloistered monastic life. All that remained was to book my flight and confirm my arrival date.
    From there, things proceeded with lightning speed—always a sign that you are on the right path. Incredibly, everything I prayed for was miraculously answered. I prayed that my former employer would give me three months’ severance before my pension kicked in: approved. I prayed that a tenant would be found to sublet my condo: done. I prayed that my children would get jobs and placements that would enable them to be entirely self-sufficient while I was away: granted. I prayed for a few freelance jobs to sustain me until my departure for England: check.
    Almost overnight I was emptied of everything I had known and refilled with tough, direct questions: Are you prepared to give up your life and follow Me? Can you rid yourself of material possessions and the distractions of this world and commit your life to Christ? Can you shed your ego, your vanity, your attachments and desires, and disappear into my world?
    Yikes! Would you like fries with