Reparation – a spiritual journey

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Mother screamed with horror – as I expected she would – before grabbing her inhaler. She was having an asthma attack. I felt dreadful.
“I’m suffering just like the Sorrowful Mother,” she sobbed. “All my children are going to hell and you’re no different from the rest of them. Sometimes I wish I’d never married.”
I remained quiet. I had heard it all so many times before but the difference, this time, was that I was the cause of her grief.
“You watch! I’ll be dead soon and then you’ll all be sorry you didn’t listen to your mother.”
She glanced at Dad who was drying the lunch dishes, a look of disgust on her face. She always blamed Dad for any weaknesses and shortcomings in her children.
I went to my room and closed the door. I needed to be alone. Four short years had slipped by and now, at twenty-four, I was changed beyond recognition – physically, emotionally.

It all began one Saturday morning. Having confessed my sins, none of which were serious, I was waiting for Father McSweeney to give me absolution.
“Have ya ever t’ought of becomin’ a nun, Maria?” he whispered.
His words resounded in my head as I stared at the black curtain in the confessional box. I’d just received Jesus in Holy Communion and I was feeling happy. I liked Jesus. He was a good man.
“Yes,” I whispered.
I was being polite. Actually, I only started thinking about it right then.
“Jesus needs generous souls, Maria. He asks us to trust him. Do ya trust Jesus?”
“Yes, I do, Father.”
I leant into the curtain, not wanting to miss a word, while noting Father McSweeney’s Irish accent was different from my grandmother’s – an accent that couldn’t possibly be from Belfast. So was Father McSweeney from Dublin? Or from…
“Do you love Jesus with all ya heart and soul?”
He was interrupting my thoughts.
“Yes, I do, Father.”
“That’s greet. And ya want to please Jesus, don’t ya?”
“Yes, Father, of course I do.”
“A religious vocation is a very special t’ing, Maria; a gift from God. A nun takes t’ree vows, ya know: vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Those vows will lead her on the path to sanctity. Do you understand?”
Mother was coughing at the back of the church, probably wondering why I was taking so long and, therefore, what I might be confessing. However, Father McSweeney was doing the talking and I thought he should hurry up and finish.
“Yes, Father.”
“The Church needs religious vocations to continue its mission to spread the gospel of Christ all over the world. The Church needs young women just like you.”
What was Father leading up to? He had never spoken to me like this before.
“Can I ring ya later todey? I’d like to arrange a meetin’ with ya, to discuss your religious vocation.”
My religious vocation? What vocation? I’d never seriously thought of having a vocation until that very moment. I dreamed of boys, of love and marriage, and of living on a houseboat. Someday, there would be a soundproof room in a sprawling bungalow where I could play the piano and sing opera at the top of my voice – without disturbing the neighbours.
Father McSweeney had cast out his net and caught me off-guard. Nevertheless, that was what he was meant to do, wasn’t he? To be a fisher of men? Jesus asked that of him.
He had been quite clever setting me up to say a whole lot of ‘yeses’, one after another. Did all priests operate like that in an effort to get young people to enter the convent and the priesthood? I felt slightly suspicious.
Father McSweeney absolved me from my sins and gave me some penance to recite. I left the confessional and walked across to one of the pews on the other side of the church. I knelt and said my penance: one ‘Our Father’, three ‘Hail Marys’ and one ‘Glory be’. Penance was always the same when Father McSweeney was dispensing it.
As the rest of the family filed in and out of the confessional box, I thought about the idea of dedicating my life to God as a nun. Somehow, the sacrifice, the commitment and the practice of Christian virtue seemed appealing. I wanted to do something worthwhile with my life and I realised there was really nothing stopping me. I was a believer and I loved God. I knew the only obstacles were selfishness, worldliness or weakness – and Father McSweeney was challenging me not to indulge in any of those shortcomings.
The parish church of Our Lady of Fatima in Auckland, New Zealand, was a very poor example of a house of God. It was cheap – constructed from two American Nissen Army huts dating back to World War II – and barely adequate for any kind of religious service, even in 1974. But at least the congregation wasn’t burdened with the expense of a smart, new church; at least, not then.
Neither the architecture nor the furnishings of the church offered the believer any kind of spiritual inspiration, other than a sense of poverty. A war was raging among the parishioners – to keep Jesus in the manger, or provide Him with a building more worthy of His kingly status.
My Faith wasn’t dependent on inspiration from cathedral ceilings, stained glass windows or marble statues. My Faith came from within: from my heart and mind, my Catholic upbringing, my maternal grandmother and, most especially, from Mother.
Father Eustace McSweeney, Father Flanaghan Lynch and Brother John, the three Capuchin monks who administered the church, were new to the parish. They had only recently arrived in New Zealand from Ireland, and we had just moved into the neighbourhood and joined the parish, too. They had impressed us with their fervour and prayerfulness from the very first Mass we attended. Their homilies challenged us to be more authentic, more committed to Christian values.
The monks wore traditional long Franciscan robes, with bare feet and sandals. During the six weeks of Lent, leading up to Easter, they shaved the crown of their heads in a tonsure and grew beards, as symbols of sacrifice and penance. Their body fat visibly reduced due to fasting. Such displays of religious fervour among the clergy of Auckland were extremely rare, if not unheard of, and we watched in awe.
As Dad drove us home from church that morning, I gazed out the car window, thinking about the conversation with Father McSweeney. The more I pondered, the more I realised I wanted to make the ultimate sacrifice too, and give my life to God as a nun.
As the car turned into our driveway, I decided to share my news with the family – the news that I had a religious vocation – and after breakfast seemed like an appropriate time. There was no need to make a fuss during the meal. I was a bit like Dad in that respect. I liked peace and calm. Physically, I was like Dad too, tall and lean. Mother, on the other hand, was a petite woman, with a curvaceous figure. Her once blonde hair had darkened and was going grey but her diminutive size and soft colouring could be deceptive. I didn’t look anything like her.
Wholemeal toast and homemade marmalade didn’t taste quite as delicious as usual that morning. My life was about to change dramatically but I knew I was ready for change. I was more than ready. I was twenty years old and still living at home, still being treated like a child because Mother took her responsibilities as a parent very seriously. She was making sure my brothers and I were leading Catholic lives and that we didn’t fall into “dangerous occasions of sin”, as she put it.
We weren’t allowed to go flatting before we got married and we most certainly weren’t allowed to stay out all night, lose our virginity or experiment with sex in any way. In fact, the word “sex” was never used at home. Mother’s favourite words were “abstinence”, “self-denial”, and “squashing the appetites of the flesh”. And I believed every word she said.
While we lived under our parents’ roof, we had to obey all the rules of the Catholic Church as well as Mother’s old-fashioned ones. We recited prayers in the car every morning on the way to Mass and back. We said Grace before and after meals, the Angelus at noon, and the Rosary after dinner. We fell asleep each night muttering a collection of prayers that Mother had taught us from a very young age. We obeyed the Ten Commandments and the Six Commandments of the Church, and we practised charity and all the other Christian virtues, even donating our pocket money to missionary priests working in Africa and India.
Furthermore, Mother gave many of our possessions, including the television and radio, to poor migrant workers who had arrived in Auckland from the Pacific Islands. Apparently, their needs were greater than ours.
When Dad and my brothers, Damian and Joe, finished eating breakfast and left the dining room, I saw an opportunity to speak to Mother on my own. I wanted to talk to her first. She was my mother and I loved her dearly.
She was loading the dishwasher as I stacked the dirty dishes on the orange Formica bench of the servery.
“I think I’m going to become a nun,” I said, avoiding eye contact.
Outside, the water in the swimming pool was shimmering softly in the morning light. I stood there, staring.
Mother didn’t answer. Had she heard me? My family wasn’t very good with words, myself included. I had to fill the silence, quickly.
“Father McSweeney spoke to me in confession this morning. He thinks I’d be a good nun.”
Mother stopped loading the dishwasher. “You, a nun?”
She was fidgeting with her yellow and white checked apron, neatly tied at the waist. I picked up the butter dish and marmalade, walked around the servery and into the kitchen, into Mother’s zone, and opened the fridge.
“Yes! Why not? You’ve always encouraged us to do everything for God.”
She couldn’t argue with that statement. I put the butter and marmalade on the top shelf and closed the fridge door before turning to face her.
“But not a nun,” she said.
“What’s the big deal?”
“Eddie! Come here!” she called to Dad. She sounded anxious. I hadn’t expected that. I walked back into the dining room and continued clearing the table, wondering what to say next.
“You’re meant to be a mother,” she said. “You’re a born mother. Of all my children you’re the most suited to becoming a parent.”
That was news to me.
“From the time you were a little tot you’ve always helped me around the house.”
“So?” I shrugged.
“Eddie! I need you!” she called again. “Where are you?”
“I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. It makes perfect sense to me,” I said.
A minute or two later Dad strolled into the dining room. He was smiling, which was usual for Dad. Damian and Joe followed him in. They had overheard the conversation and seemed mildly surprised – perhaps even pleased at my news.
The conversation about my religious vocation continued on and off throughout the day over cups of tea and plates of food. As the hours slipped by, I waited patiently for Father McSweeney to ring me, as he’d arranged, but he didn’t. Feeling a little deflated I went to bed at 9.45pm.
An hour later Dad woke me – Father McSweeney was on the phone. Never having had a private conversation with a priest before, except in confession and that didn’t count, it seemed very odd to talk to him, especially since it was so late.
By the following morning, Mother had had twenty-four hours to think about my religious vocation.
“What on earth is Father McSweeney doing, ringing my daughter so late?”
She was annoyed but that wasn’t uncommon. Her question was directed at Dad. I explained that he had apologised for ringing so late. He had been delayed in a meeting that had continued too long. It wasn’t his fault.
“I’m the mother of this family. I know what you’re meant to do in life, my girl! Why is this priest interfering in my family?”
No one answered. I looked over at Dad. Usually I tried to follow Dad’s example of calm and moderation, but I was a girl, too, just like Mother. I identified with her – with her intense emotion. Occasionally Dad got frustrated with me and threatened to send me to my bedroom but, on that particular day, I felt composed and focused, despite the nervous excitement swirling inside. Considering the importance that religion had in the family, I found Mother’s objections unreasonable and hypocritical.
Moreover, the spirit of self-sacrifice was very alive in our family. Mother’s first husband was killed during World War II, on Anzac Day, April 25 1945, only a few days before the war in Europe ended. Overnight the young bride became a solo mother. Four years later she married my dad, a veteran soldier of the same war. Dad knew he was lucky to have survived five long years in the infantry, in campaigns fought in North Africa and Italy. He marvelled at his good fortune, thanking God for protecting him when all his mates had been killed.
Throughout our childhood we were reminded of that war, of that loss and sacrifice. Mother was anxious to keep alive the memory of her first husband for the sake of her first born, and for her own sake, and our sakes. We were a family of eight, with three girls and three boys. I was their youngest daughter.
Dad’s own stories of that war were never-ending. The millions of flies, the constant digging of trenches, the shell shock, the shrapnel, the fear, the brutality of hand to hand combat, and the exhilaration of fighting for a just cause. He recalled the good times, too, such as yachting on the Nile, leave weekends in England, and the chance to visit his father’s family in Northern Ireland. The spirit of sacrifice and service was deeply embedded in the psyche of every member of our family.
“Your grandmother never encouraged any of us to become nuns,” Mother said. “She thought the nuns were bad-tempered and uncharitable.”
“Well, I won’t be bad-tempered or uncharitable,” I replied. “I’ll be a happy nun. I don’t understand why you’re so upset. I thought you’d be pleased. You brought us up to give of our best and to give our best to God. I’m following through on that training.”
Unlike some Catholic families, we had no proud history of religious vocations. Dad’s family were ‘Sunday Catholics’ and even Mass on Sunday was skipped, without a qualm, if something else was on. But religion played a vital role in Mother’s family, even though her father had converted to Catholicism only after the death of his baby daughter. Barely able to contain his grief, he consoled himself with the thought that he could be reunited with her in heaven one day. And, if a change of religious affiliation could effect that dream, then, so be it.
I looked over at Dad and tried to read his face.
“I’ll boil the kettle,” he said, stroking his greying beard. “Who’s for coffee?”
“Yes, please,” Damian and Joe shouted from the lounge.
“No, thanks,” Mother said.
Mother had breathed God’s love into every cell of my being from the moment of my conception. I knew I loved God. I was a believer. Also, I was available. I didn’t have a boyfriend at the time – my heart had taken a beating two years before, and I was far from carefree when it came to romantic attachments.
Over the next few weeks, I informed the extended family of my decision. Some, like Mother, expressed apprehension. They knew quite a few nuns who’d been damaged by years of psychological abuse at the hands of their superiors. Of course, I didn’t understand. I had no experience of such things.
With support from Dad, Damian, Joe and Father McSweeney I remained committed to the idea of a religious vocation and, eventually, Mother’s attitude softened.