Driving the Nuns

I grew up in the days when nuns wore habits and traveled in pairs. As a young girl, I became particularly knowledgeable about nuns because my great aunt, Sr. Mary David, was a Religious Sister of Mercy. Every holiday or on Sundays since I was a wee tot we would visit the convent . The nuns knew me very well. Over the years observing the nuns I acquired the unspoken insight that the nuns didn't drive. The nuns relied on generous souls to transport them. I never understood how these carpools were arranged, but I did know one result was an unexpected drop-in visit at our home on Saturday mornings.

On these Saturday mornings I might be found lounging around the house, with my radio on, teen magazines spread around the floor, and my hair in rollers. Suddenly  my mom or sister would shriek, “the nuns are here." Somehow my aunt and a travelling companion had found someone to drive them for a drop-in visit at our house on a weekend morning.  I knew at the first darkening of the door step, my aunt would declare, “I want to see Rita’s room." With the one minute warning from when the car was spotted in the driveway until the nuns reached the door, I would dash around my room frantically pulling up the bed covers, sliding extraneous clutter under the bed, opening the shades, turning off the radio, and flash a final, panicked glance around the room for any tell-tale hints of inappropriate belongings (like misplaced underwear). My reward was Sister’s announcement, “your room looks good." Then the nuns were happy to sit and visit awhile.

A few years later I became better aware of how life in the convent was arranged, especially when a ride was needed. I was a budding new driver myself. My parents let me have the family’s second car for special events. This car was a classic 1955 Pontiac. One Saturday morning Sr. Mary David called, asked for me, and directed that I was to pick her up at the convent at 1:00 p.m. I was to drive her to the hospital to visit the sick. My teenage thoughts were, “What if I had other plans?” Fortunately, I knew better than to question the request. Obediently, I promptly arrived at the convent  as the chauffeur-of-the-day. Immediately my aunt and another nun came out the front door and climbed into the back seat of the car.  I really felt  like a chauffeur then, as  my teenage friends would at least sit in front when I drove them.

I knew my driving privileges with Mom and Dad were on the line with this driving trip. A report of my driving abilities would be a future topic of conversation among my parents, my grandma and Sr. Mary David. With the two sisters visible in my rear view mirror, I turned every corner carefully so as not to shift them around in the back seat. I stopped slowly at every stop light and pressed gently upon the accelerator so as not to go too fast. My hands gripped the wheel of the car until my knuckles were white. Finally, with the nuns safely deposited at the curb of the hospital’s front entrance, I exhaled a huge sigh of relief. Suddenly Sister turned around and leaning into the car from the curb, said “be here to pick us up at 3:00 p.m.” Which I did, of course, with great efficiency.

My reward for chauffeuring the nuns came later that week when the report filtered through the grapevine that “Rita was a good driver and didn’t scare the nuns with her driving”. 

Things have changed now. Many sisters dress like the rest of us; they drive their own cars and vans and live in apartments. I treasure the memories of my insight into the mysterious life of the Religious Sisters of Mercy. My own children have never known the white-knuckle fear of transporting God’s holy ladies!