Get Thee to a Nunnery

September 21, 2026

Greetings from the minor epiphany,

There are nuns, and then, there are nuns.

I will admit that throughout my life I have taken cheap shots at nuns.  I recognize how strange that sentence is without context.  My impression of nuns was forged at an early age. In my elementary years I attended St. Matthew’s Catholic School, which was largely led by The Sisters, capitalized here so you would understand the authority.  “Yes, Sister,” was almost always the appropriate answer.

The nuns were an enigmatic presence.  They wore traditional habits, heavy, full-length robes, cinched at the waist with a heavy dark rope. Each had the imposing headgear, known only to them as wimple and coif which covered their head and neck under their veil.  I only just learned that the rigid white bib across their chest was called a guimpe. I can’t help it, I wish I’d known these words in fifth grade so I could have made the Perrine brothers laugh in church.

My impression of the nuns, I am told there were eleven at the school, was one of stringent discipline.  They trained us in the rituals of the church, taught us the prayers, the songs, prepared us for our responsibilities as good Catholics.  These lessons were meted out with rigorous repetition, sharp direction, and enforced with fear of eternal damnation in the fires of hell.  And that was just for being late to assembly.

I can only remember a few of the nuns: Sister Mary Edwin, who was our principal, and Sister Marie Lenore, who seemed to be in all my classes just to punish me for my sins, which were usually inspired by one or both Perrine brothers.

The image I have of these holy wraiths is frozen in one place, immune to change by education, or even inspirational TV shows like The Flying Nun or classics like The Sound of Music, which in their own way gave me a glimpse of nuns in a different light.  That didn’t change my feelings about them.

If I ever knew these nuns were from an order, the Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I’d forgotten it. They lived in a narrow building tucked next to the playground, all part of the tiny campus of the church, rectory and school. The convent was sacrosanct, it was understood that no one was allowed to visit this space, which made it more intriguing, but we were left to imagine the inside.  Like we wondered if their hair was shaved under their veil.

So the rest of my life, whenever the subject of nuns came up, (admittedly rare) I would join in with the nun-bashing.  The knuckle smacking with the rulers, the stern ecclesiastical warnings, the chin hair, the sensible shoes, the ghastly guimpe.

It never occurred to me to wonder who they were, how they had once been girls, and somehow became nuns. I didn’t think about where they came from, or if they had family. I only had one thought regarding The Sisters and that was to stay out of their way. To be afraid of them, and later, to resent them.

Then, last year, on the other side of the world, three nuns, all in their eighties, escaped from a nursing home.  They returned to where they felt they belonged, in their convent in Salzburg, Austria.  They had been forced to leave by their diocese, who stated that the convent wasn’t safe, or sensible, for the three nuns to remain there alone.

But these nuns were gangsters.  They were sworn to obedience, but they’d also been promised something. At some point they decided it was worth disagreeing. They returned to the convent, now closed, without water or electricity, and broke in, and made themselves at home again.  Their boss, the Provost, was determined that they follow his orders and return to the nursing home. Through social media, they rallied support from around the world, got the attention of the Vatican, and pretty soon even the Provost had to back down.

I have to admit, I was fascinated by the story of these subversive sisters.  I read all I could find about them, where they came from, how they got into the nun business.  Knowing their stories mattered.  Now these were people, women who had decided for reasons beyond my understanding to devote their lives to their faith.  And somehow, at an age when they might have been most compliant, they became rebels.

This shouldn’t have been the reason that I reconsidered my feeling about the nuns at St. Matts, but it was.  I thought a little about who they might have been, what it might have been like their first year living this life, secluded from the world. Was Sister Marie Lenore afraid, worried if she’d made the right choice?  Did her friends ever visit?

Instead of retelling the myths and stereotypes in my head, I gave a little room for the nuns to be human beings.  I’ll admit the strongest images are still the old ones, but maybe softened a bit. 

What occurred to me this morning is how often I’ve caught myself looking at a group of people I don’t understand with a narrow lens, one fashioned from a little ignorance, and a lot of repetition. Maybe Sister Mary Edwin finally had a good influence on me.

Hope this finds you changing your habit,

David

This essay was written by the author and does not include Ai content.