The Naming

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"Miss Mary Ann Cahill, you will henceforth be known as Sister Mary Magdalen of the Mother of God." Father Labonte's voice resounded down the expansive nave of Saints Peter and Paul Church, over the crowd, and up to the choir balcony filled with women wearing black and white.

My shoulders relaxed. I stepped down from the marble steps at the altar, careful not to trip on the unfamiliar floor-length robe I had donned only minutes earlier. My mind flashed back to my childhood and my favorite little nun-doll. I never imagined that one day I would look just like her.

Looking straight ahead as I approached the church pew, I could see my parents smiling—knowing the name made me happy. As custom dictated, I had submitted three choices, resigned to the fact that I might not receive any of them. Fear of being stuck with a name like Sister Cunegunda or Cresentia, or one of a litany of other saintly women buried deep in the archives of forgotten saints made me cringe. I winced at the thought of being called Sister Cunegunda forever. It could happen.

Returning to the front pew, I joined my three classmates waiting eagerly for their turn. One by one the scene repeated itself. Just as the celebration of the Mass ended, a triumphant organ recessional sounded—our cue to march down the aisle and out of the church. Every voice vibrated in song. The sun burst through tall, stained-glass windows like a symbol of God's blessing on his new, white-veiled brides. Had a white dove image of the Holy Spirit winged above us, it could have been a scene depicted in a spiritual painting. My heart swelled with emotion. Thinking it must be a sign confirming my decision to become a nun, I dismissed the concern that my choice might be an impulsive, short-lived adventure. The ceremony of receiving the habit—the clothing of a nun—marked the completion of nine months as a postulant, the first stage of my training. As a postulant, I wore a black blouse, knee-length skirt, and black opaque stockings.

Seeing my reflection in the mirror—the long black robe and white flowing veil, I liked the image—I looked like a real nun. I knew the clothes didn't automatically lift me to a higher level of holiness, but at least I looked holy. Not a strand of my mousey brown hair showed, and only a small square of my face, eyebrows to chin, could be seen. My blue eyes and Irish smile gave me away.

That June day in 1954 launched the beginning of an austere novice year—twelve months of additional training—considered to be the most challenging year of our formation to be an exemplary nun—sort of a spiritual boot camp. Acceptance for religious vows depends upon successful completion of the canonical year. Canon Law, the law of the church, required one year of strict seclusion from the outside world, meant to remove any distractions hindering a pursuit in contemplation of God. I would be tested, shaped, and molded as a piece of clay until a model religious nun was extruded.

During the ceremony, Linda, my best friend since third grade, had the same look of disbelief she'd had a year ago, when I first told her of my plans to enter a convent. After cheerleading, dating, going to movies, and athletic events together, she found it incredulous that I would choose such a life. She told me how saddened she felt seeing tears on my father's face during the ceremony. She doubted they were tears of joy.

He looked dapper in his Sunday three-piece suit. My mother, in a new beige suit, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and matching gloves, sat beside him. Mom smiled at me as I came down the aisle. I could see a mixture of pride and sadness in her eyes. She no doubt felt this bridal ceremony didn't measure up to the one she had imagined for me. The stripping of my baptismal name must have hurt also. She had waited through the births of four sons to name her only daughter.

Traditionally, when nuns received their habit, they were given a saint's name—either masculine or feminine—chosen because of a special devotion to a saint or out of respect and admiration for a parent. As a postulant, I had admired Saint Mary Magdalen for her devotion and courage in committing to Jesus. I longed to grow in love and dedication to him with Mary Magdalen as my model.

I felt holier than ever on that joy-filled day, though, only a few years earlier, I could never have envisioned taking such a path. Putting on a nun's clothing and accepting a new name signified a new beginning, a lifetime of commitment.

Setting the Dominos

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At the age of fourteen, long before my ceremonial clothing and naming day, I made a decision that set my life tumbling on a path, like a row of dominos, toward that day in June when I put on the habit of a nun. I chose to go to an all-girls boarding school for high school. To someone who, until third grade, attended a one-room country school, boarding school was an alien idea.

During the spring of my eighth-grade year, a girl from church told me of her plans to attend St. Mary's Academy, a Catholic girls' boarding school in Nauvoo, on the western border of Illinois. I found her excitement about going to St. Mary's contagious. She talked of the fun of going away to school and meeting kids from different places. I had never heard of Nauvoo, much less the boarding school, nor had it ever occurred to me to go anywhere other than Bement High School, where I would already know all the kids.

My curiosity prompted me to seek more information, like, do nuns teach there? Are there boys at the school? Though I was pretty sure of the answers, I had to ask. I mentioned the idea of a boarding school to my mother, never suggesting that I might be thinking about it. The prospect of going to high school in a new town far across the state became an exciting and adventurous idea. I did worry that sending me to a boarding school would be a major financial consideration for my parents—just seven years after our farm home and everything we owned had been destroyed.

In March 1942, a merciless tornado shattered everything in its path, including every single, upright stick of our modest country house. The funnel dropped down unannounced through the heavy rain and dark clouds. Mother screamed my name; I ran toward her as the windows clouded with black dirt. The ceiling cracked at the corner of the front bedroom where I played. In the aftermath, with rain still falling, she led me safely through a mangled mess of bricks, boards, live wires, and glass strewn across the yard. After making our way to the driveway, we found shelter in the remains of the barn until help arrived. By God's mercy, I escaped the flying debris without a scratch. She sheltered me with her body as we clung together. Mom suffered a broken clavicle, and cuts and bruises from the wreckage. The twister stripped the leaves from the hundred-year-old maple trees in the front yard. Our refrigerator lay on its side on the grass, still intact. A few dazed and naked chickens wandered the barnyard. Shards of furniture and bits and pieces of personal possessions littered the yard and pastures. A letter returned to my mother had landed miles away in a neighboring state. Except for the little rosary beads of my nun doll, found attached to a light pole, nothing of mine survived.

Many times over the years, I would wonder how I could have escaped harm...