Greetings! Monday is Nunday here at A Nun’s Life because we feature photos of real Catholic sisters and nuns.

Today’s Nunday photo is from Susan, a Lutheran seminarian and oblate of the Sisters of Saint Scholastica in Chicago. (Yes, you can be an oblate or associate of a Catholic religious community and not be Catholic!)

Writes Susan, “Once a year the women of my church make a retreat with the Benedictine sisters at St. Mary Monastery in Rock Island, IL. Theirs is an interesting story.” Sister Charlotte Sonneville, OSB, is one of the nuns that Susan met at the monastery

Sister Charlotte Sonneville is in charge of Benet House, the retreat center.  She is, in the best sens,e a guest mistress. Her welcoming face is the one that greets us each year as we arrive in the February cold for our retreat.  She is efficient and thorough, friendly and conscientious. She relays the rules of the house with an explanation and a smile, making us all feel like beloved family members who have just been away for a time.  I look forward to seeing her each year.

Sister Charlotte is originally from Moline, IL, which is right next to Rock Island, so in a sense coming to St. Mary Monastery and Benet House has been a homecoming for her.  Sixty years ago, she chose to become a nun, she says, because she “wanted to share my faith with others.”  She taught at the school and held many jobs within the order, always striving to do just that. She now sees the running of Benet House as a part of her ministry of welcoming people as Christ, just as St. Benedict stated in his rule.

Her sweatshirt says, “Lord, thank you for letting me see all the colors.” This captures Sister Charlotte perfectly, as she is someone who not only sees all the colors of God’s creation, but loves them all deeply.

To see all the photos of Catholic sisters and nuns and links to their stories, visit the A Nun’s Life Facebook photo album. If you’ve got a photo and story of a real Catholic sister or nun, check out the details on submitting your photo for consideration.

The final part of a story by Brian Doyle in Best Catholic Writing 2007 on The Sisters of Mount Angel (return to the beginning of the story)

If we are to properly honor and celebrate the legacy of such graceful and strong people as the sisters at Mt. Angel, who have bent their whole lives to the promise that love will defeat darkness, then we must march into our days with rage and song, with hammers in our hands and prayers in our mouths, and build us a new Church and a new world and a new, roaring poem, with all the grace and strength and sweet, wild magic we can muster. It can be done. It’s being done as I write these words and as you read them. These brave women bet their lives on that premise. My mama bet her life on that premise. Are we to tell them they were wrong, and the task is too big? I don’t have the courage to tell my mother such a thing, for she is a tart, tough, tiny Irish Catholic woman from New York City, and even my brothers, strapping men far taller and broader than I, quail at the thought of telling our mum what cannot be done; and it would take a far braver man than I to stand up to tiny Sister Alicia and tell her that the work she has chosen to do is a bust. She would laugh in my face, and she would be right.

So let us go, then, you and I, and forge a new thing. We do not know its shape, but we know the astounding idea at its heart, the idea that has driven the Catholic clan through two thousand years, the idea that remains, I believe, the key to the moral evolution of the human race, the idea that fell again and again from the lips of the gaunt, dusty man with starlight in his veins: love, love, love, love, love.

The End.

The fourth part of a story by Brian Doyle in Best Catholic Writing 2007 on The Sisters of Mount Angel (return to the beginning of the story)

And I stood there at the lectern, in that cavernous room in that lovely old monastery, with its cedarn air like music in the nose, the extraordinary faces of the nuns held up to me in the twilight, and I tried to imagine or articulate or conceive a world without my mother in it, and I started to cry, and I could not stop. Forty-nine years old, and still sobbing in front of nuns.

No one spoke.

After a couple of minutes I got a grip and looked out at those women, and in the sweet silence, the brilliant shine of tears flashing here and there, I saw them for who they really are. I swear I did. I was granted and vouchsafed a vision: these sisters, and all sisters, are the sinews who hold the Church together. Their prayers hold us like hands. The Church has for centuries rested on their thin, bony shoulders. They are brave beyond words and we take them for granted and we should get down on our creaky knees and clasp our hands in prayer and speak to the dust and say, “Lord, we thank you for these women; for their grace we thank you, for their sacrifices and sweat we thank you, for their hearts in which we swim we thank you.”

Look, I am not an idiot all the time, and I know full well, all too well, that the story of the world is struggle and sad, loneliness and loss, but to my mind there just is no way to stay sad as long as there are thin, bony, brave women like these nuns, like my mom, like your mom, in the world. It just cannot be done. We cannot let ourselves despair at the greed and cruelty of the world, and sometimes of our Church, because the sisters do not despair; they fight the brambles all day and night for us, and they are lodestars and compasses and prisms and leaders of the world that will come, the world of joy and light, where no child weeps from fear, where no one huddles in hopelessness.

If we are to properly honor and celebrate the legacy of such graceful and strong people as the sisters at Mt. Angel …

Check in tomorrow for the finale of The Sisters of Mount Angel.

The third part of a story by Brian Doyle in Best Catholic Writing 2007 on The Sisters of Mount Angel (return to the beginning of the story)

Finally I gave my talk, singing and roaring, spinning stories, making jokes. I told them about barking “Point it down!” at my toddler twin sons when I was teaching them Guy Rules years ago, and about the puppy who knew a hundred words but just could not seem to get her head around the word no; and I told them about my friend Tommy, who was roasted to white ash on September 11, and my theory that every story I tell about Tommy is a prayer for his brilliant soul and a dart to the heart of the cow-ard in the cave in Afghanistan; and I told stories of priests and firemen and dads and other brave men, and ospreys and daughters and rivers and other miracles, and I tried to make those nuns and their friends laugh and cry, because laughter and tears are prayers too; and finally I concluded my burble and rant by telling them about my mama, the salt sea from whom I came.

She never turned aside a poor or hungry soul, did my mama, and she patiently taught children at home and in school for years and years, and she has the sharpest and quickest of wits and tongues, does my mama, the deft storyteller, my mother with her fingers in the deep, holy loam and skin of the earth; my mother who loves the smoky, magical theater and miracle of the Mass; my mother with the memory of twenty elephants and a mind far quicker and more capacious than those of all her children put together; my mother with a ferocious commitment to peace and justice and honest talk, especially in the political and religious arenas, where lies kill people and bleed souls; my mother who has not a jot or an iota of pious nonsense in her; my mother who thinks that the divisions among Christian faiths are silly and stupid; my mother who knows more about the New Testament than I ever will and is fond of quoting the line wherein children are told to care for their fathers even when their minds go, which used to make my dad laugh in the other room; my mother stubborn as ten mules; my mother who took all her stunning talents and bent them toward love; and my mother celebrating and living the wildly improbable message of the Christ, a message she thought could and should change the world, my mother who de-voted her whole life to the possibility of that mad idea; my mother now near the end of her time on this, God’s earth; my mother soon to sift to dust; my mother more bent and fragile by the minute; my mother whose warm, salty voice was the first thing I ever heard, and I cannot imagine a world without that grinning voice, a world without my mama in it….

Check in tomorrow for the continuation of The Sisters of Mount Angel.

The second part of a story by Brian Doyle in Best Catholic Writing 2007 on The Sisters of Mount Angel (return to the beginning of the story)

First there was a meal, of course, and before the meal were prayers, and the three nuns offering prayers were a microcosm of the monastery. One was very old and bent and grinning and calm. The second, the prioress, was tall and strong and commanding and gentle. The third was tiny and lithe and exuberant and looked to be about twenty years old. Each was terse and eloquent, and all three were funny, joking about making and selling thousands of jars of their legendary mustard, joking about the monastery’s legendary basketball team in the old days, joking about their eternal battles with blackberry brambles, which they fought valiantly even while thanking the merciful Lord for the berries—the black honey of summer, as the great poet Mary Oliver says.

During dinner I talked to all sorts of nuns—postulants and novices, sisters who had taken first vows, sisters who had taken perpetual vows. I talked for a long while with a cheerful woman who when young had been a sister at the monastery but had finally stepped away to spend her life as a teacher, yet she had never stopped visiting or supporting the monastery and in fact had been crucial in raising a million dollars for the new chapel. I talked to one young woman who was, as she said, an inquirer, a formal designation given to a woman who wishes to acquaint herself with the Benedictine monastic community on the off chance that she might join up. Each of these women was quick-witted and humorous, but there was a calm about them, a direct ease, a warm dignity that seemed to me, thinking about it later, best captured by the word grace.

Finally I gave my talk …

Check in tomorrow for the continuation of The Sisters of Mount Angel.