When I approached Mother Provincial with my decision, she shushed me to silence. She reminded me that everyone has doubts from time to time. I wanted to tell her about all the things that had upset and appalled me during the past five years. She would not listen. She told me that when I made my vows in the coming summer, I would be going to France. She told me that she wanted me to see and experience where this community of nuns had its beginning. She assured me that a summer away from college studies would do me a world of good, that I would come back from a wonderful trip to France, refreshed and renewed in spirit.
I was a very immature 22 year-old at this time. I had not learned how to stand up to an authority that claimed they were “God’s Voice.” I was emotionally tied in knots. I was battling with long-standing teachings that praised the Saints of the Church who practiced “blind obedience.” They were held up as models for me to imitate to the limit. Was I really supposed to leave all decisions up to those in authority? I was in deep distress. I didn’t know where to turn for advice.
I began to doubt my own ability to discern the Will of God. Besides those factors, a chance to travel to a foreign country really intrigued me. As the days passed, I continued to struggle through my classes, music lessons, community-living and with my conflicting thoughts about taking vows for life. On one such day, Mother Provincial told me that Father Dvorschak, our chaplain, was waiting in the recreation hall to take my photo for the passport that I would need for entering France. A trip to France was very much a “fait accompli” as far as I could tell. I thought I might know what Jesus had felt when He was dying on the cross as He said: “It is finished.” I believed that the decision had been taken out of my hands. No, I let it be taken. I gave up. I would be tied for life. I decided then and there that I would be the best nun that I possibly could be. From that day on I never allowed myself to look back nor to look for excuses to “jump the traces”. This would be the way that I would spend the rest of my life. Freely, with my whole heart, I gave myself to the Lord to use me as He saw fit.
At the end of that school year of ’50-’51, I prepared to leave for France. The first lap of the journey was taken by train to Spring Valley, then on by car to Chicago where we (Sister Mary Francis, Mother Mary Edward, and myself) boarded the Air France line that would take us by hippity-hop stops to New York, Montreal, Gander, Newfoundland and finally to Paris.
Though it was now several years after the end of World War II, we could still see the ravages that that war had left on the landscape and on the lives of the people we met. We stayed several days in Paris where our Order had several convents, one of which was an orphanage for children who had been left destitute and alone after the war. I was deeply moved by all of it, especially those little children who to my amazement were chattering French like little magpies. They loved to have their pictures taken and Mother Mary Edward let me take many shots of them playing and giggling in front of the camera.
We did not get to visit any museums, or any famous historical sites and certainly no hot nightspots. We might have seen the Arc deTriomphe and the Eiffel Tower from the window of the taxi we took from the airport if the taxi driver wasn’t so intent on giving us Americans such a trilling exhibition of his driving skills. We had all we could do to hang on and keep from screaming in terror as we dodged around cars, trucks, bikes and other vehicles. Later on we enjoyed walking around Paris. The street vendors, the sidewalk book stores and art displays were quite unique.
Another unique sight was the restrooms that were located on boulevards on many streets. They were round houses that admitted both men and women. You could see the feet of each user because there was an open space from about mid-calf length to the ground in each of the cubicles. One did not sit down to answer the call of nature. You were to stand with feet apart and just let it flow to the receptacle in the ground. Thank goodness, in those days I had good bladder control and I would hold off as long as possible. We always carried our own supply of toilet paper along in our pockets because it was never supplied in public toilets or in the convent restrooms. They simply were too poor to provide this luxury.
This was one example of the level of poverty that I saw everywhere. I noted it also in the area of food, or I should say in the lack of the abundance and variety of foods that we were used to in America. After visiting the other convents in Paris, where we were, nevertheless, given a generous share of their meager meals, we left to go by train to the Mother House in Broones, a small city in northern France.
The train ride was interesting as people surrounded us, speaking French at speeds that would defy that of our best auctioneers. That is exactly what their chattering sounded like to me. I could catch a word here and there, but for the most part, I didn’t have a clue to what they were saying. Those that were traveling long distances had taken with them large loaves of bread; cheese and some had bottles of wine or cider to fend off their thirst. The train moved along very quickly compared to the ones I had ridden on each summer to Montana. The restrooms were tiny and left much to be desired in the matter of cleanliness.
At the Broones station, a quaint little old Frenchman met us and ushered us to his very battered car. He loaded our luggage aboard while he chattered persistently, his face lit up with a toothless grin. Since we could not understand most of what he was saying, Mother Mary Edward translated when she had the opportunity. The gist of his monologue was about his love of America and Americans because they had liberated France from the Nazis. Americans would always be welcome here he told us. (He would probably be amazed at some of the attitudes of the French in this day and age.)
On our arrival at the Mother House, a whole delegation of nuns was waiting to greet us. There were many, many nuns there for the summer retreat. They had come from Belgium, Flanders, England, the Islands of Jersey and Guernsey and many other places in France. Naturally, they all spoke French fluently except for Sister Mary Francis and me. I was already lonesome for the good old US of A.
The other young nuns of our profession group were happy to meet us. They would giggle outright at our timid attempts to speak French. They said they loved our accents and we, in turn, told them we loved their accents whenever they tried to speak English, which they often did, as they were eager to improve the English they had been required to learn in their schools.
The Mother House was large and well kept despite the ravages of war. I don’t remember much about where I slept, ate or received the daily lessons that were to prepare me for my final vows. I do remember the chapel that was not anything out of the ordinary except for some very unexpected dwellers that could be found there no matter where I knelt. These little critters were tiny little fleas that loved to hop around and land on every praying body that came to worship.
When I asked about this annoying phenomenon, I was told the little old men and women who came from the part of the convent that was reserved as their rest home carried the fleas there. I wondered why their quarters could not be cleaned or fumigated until those little buggers were dead. I had not gone through a war like they had, so I kept my mouth shut after that. However, I did not make peace with the fleas nor did they with me.
Sister Mary Francis and I would often walk around their spacious grounds while saying our Rosary or praying the Office. When we finished we would moan to each other about our hunger pangs. We were not used to their meager meals. If we happened to pass by an apple tree with a bough weighed down too heavily with fruit, we would kindly relieve it by stealing a couple of apples that we stashed away in the deep pockets of our habits to be eaten later when no one was around. We did love the marvelous bread that was served without any spread each morning along with chicory flavored coffee but the servings were very small.
On an occasional feast day, a tin of tiny candies was passed around during our recreation period. We noted in wonderment that each nun took only one piece. They would smile and exclaim about what a treat that was. Sister Mary Francis and I would later laugh and wonder what those nuns would think if they could see Americans devour a whole Snickers bar at one time. This was definitely a change from our usual way of life.
Often we would help weed their huge garden. I remember the extremely large beans that we picked from tall trellises upon which the vines had been trained to grow. One day we were asked to help bring in the hay from the fields. I really think the local nuns thought we Americans would be quite useless but Sister Mary Francis, who had been raised on a farm, left them far behind as she piled the hay high on the waiting wagons. I didn’t do so badly either but Mary Francis was the heroine of that warm day. An ample supply of cider was on hand to relieve our thirst. It was quite potent and before long the whole group was laughing, singing and having a great time as load after load of hay was harvested. I was glad those French nuns had to readjust their opinion of us. We were not the wimps they had thought we were.
However when it came to walking, we found we could not compete with them. We were invited to accompany the Provincial Superior as she made the rounds visiting several convents in the area. She thought it would be a great opportunity for us to see the countryside and to see what their convents were like. We walked from convent to convent. At each one, a very small luncheon was served complete with several glasses of wine or cider. This was definitely different from any customs I had seen in our American convents. They told us that wine and cider were available and used at all meals because pure water was very hard to obtain in most communities.
When we finally had visited the last convent, we started home. By this time both Sister Mary Francis and I were a little tipsy because we were not used to drinking and then walking in the heat of the day. We kept asking how far we still had to go and Mother Superior would answer with a smile, “It just around a couple more bends in the road.”
She lied. It took hours for us to get back to the Mother House. We both had blisters on our heels by that time. We were never asked on such an expedition again and I was not disappointed.
Soon it was retreat time and the final preparations for taking our final vows. I was told that on my return to the States, I would be teaching third, fourth, fifth and sixth grades in Oakes, ND. This little town was only 16 miles from my parents’ farm) True to the promise I had made to myself that I would never again question my vocation, I took those vows willingly and I gave myself joyfully to the Lord on September 25, 1952.