2 DIVINITY IN BLACK.

I had become a nun before I even got the chance to become myself, at just 17. Girls this age could only enter a convent with a bishop's permission, and it was not easily granted. Luckily, I met someone who made it possible.

Sister Rosalyn Jackson… The first time I saw her was in eighths grade and, though not immediately, knew she was my key to freedom. Oh, I will never forget the moment that archaic entity in Benedictine robes had entered our class and first laid her eyes on me.

She smiled.

And not that she didn't smile at others, no. The smile was plastered on her face the entire time of her scanning the room, kid after kid. I found it disturbing.

Seemed like she had entered not a class but a bakery, and was carefully selecting a dessert from a menu. Her light, calibrated eyes ran over curious heads, held an interval of two seconds on each student, until they halted on me. I swear they spoke: 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘈 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘢𝘬𝘦.

A breathtakingly intimidating divinity in black with a pale face, serpent green eyes and a cryptic smile, she was everything I stood against: pious, holy, confined. A prisoner in her ebony habit, a shadow that blindly followed and obeyed her invisible Master. An echo of God without a voice of her own.

And still she had snatched me away like did the demons from granny's bullshit tales, like I was, indeed, a perfect piece of cake. All because I let her think I was that cake, sweet and innocent. It was what she'd said that gave me this idea.

She'd said, a nun lives in monastic seclusion. We may never see our families, she'd said, for we are the brides of Christ, following and serving our Husband as best we can, with reverence and love. So here you go: she had me at 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴.

Through many touching letters I coaxed her into buying my 'pure' intention. I want to convert, I wrote to her. And she replied, I knew, I saw it in your eyes. She somehow, I don't know how, convinced my family to send me away, mind you, to Boston, (take that, suckers!) to Belmont preparatory school, told them I was special, called to this vocation by the Lord himself.

And while the rest of my family had bought it, granny listened to sister Rosalyn and watched my grave acting with suspicion. But she could only silently smell a rat, for her own words would backfire if she went against God's will. After all, 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘵.

See what I did there?

In late June, after my high school graduation, Rosalyn Jackson took me away with her to her monastery, 𝐀𝐛𝐛𝐚𝐲𝐞 𝐝𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞, in Quebec. It was just like she had said when I asked her about it – beautiful. The biggest brick monastery contrasting nicely against the greenest pasture I had ever seen. No joke, when I'd made my way through the cloister and first glanced at the lush grass that covered its ground I thought it was faux. And the building appeared so bright it seemed newly constructed.

But the interior left much to be desired. Some of the walls shook, some of the windows had cracks, some of the doors and staircases creaked so badly it felt as though the building moaned for help, and there was very little badly distressed furniture.

I made mental notes of what needed replacement while sister Carmel, to whom I was introduced, showed me around.

"This is our refectory," she'd say in a strong French accent, "and this is our library. And this is infirmary. Lavatory. And the chapter hall. Recreation room. The parlor," she'd gesture, "the guest chambers."

Then she showed me their chapel, a pretty thing that was separated from the main building, and though it felt ancient it looked nearly new. Unblemished cream walls, spotless limestone floor, glimmering mosaic windows, shimmering icons, polished pews. The Lord's home was clearly prioritized over their own dwelling.

There was also a barn which contained a decent amount of stock. Lambs, cows, chickens, one out-of-place goose. And a senior Bernese named Philip that had its own little cabin with ᴘ ʜ ɪ ʟ ɪ ᴘ inscribed at the top, a blanket, a pillow and a toy included.

𝘊𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭.

Sister Carmel walked me through a meditation garden. I liked it for its many flowerbeds and statues. She showed me everything within the cloister, pointed to every tree and every bench and every door. Then she escorted me back to the brick building, to the dormitory.

Impassively I scanned the tiny space I had been provided; it was no different from my room back in Harrisburg. 𝔸̀ 𝕝𝕒 𝕟𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕤𝕖 plain white walls. A wardrobe, (for a lack of a better word) with three old hangers, pressed tightly to the left wall. Far left corner – a twin bed with one flat pillow, a wool blanket and a huge wooden cross nailed above the head. Straight ahead is a tiny drawer desk with a tiny chair situated under the springline window. A corner shelf for prayer attributes. The one exception was a useless-looking installation, a hovering concrete bench, protruding from the right wall and stretching almost across its entire length. I found it weird, but whatever. 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘸, I thought.

See, my plan was to escape my family, present 𝘢𝘯𝘥 future, but I did not plan to stay in the monastery for long either, only until I had a concrete idea of how the real world worked and what I needed to do to live in it.

But two months turned to two years. And the next thing I knew I had made my novitiate vows. It wasn't so much because I still had no good plan, or, should I say, grew somewhat comfortable with the life I was currently living, but rather what held me was the friendship I had developed that had made me feel 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦.