Rescued By Nuns

by Julia Johnson (United States of America)

Making a local connection USA

It’s funny how seemingly unfortunate events can lead to such powerful moments in people’s lives. For me, it all started with a blown out tire: my friends and I were on a 1,500 mile road trip and a few scant miles to home when we found ourselves pulled over on the side of the road in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. We called a tow truck and headed out to the middle of nowhere— Grangeville, Idaho— for repairs. Repairs that would have to wait until morning, when the necessary parts would come in. We sat in the auto-parts lobby—which felt more like a hospital waiting room than a repair store— sipping cheap coffee out of styrofoam cups and coming to the realization that there was no room in any hotel for us and absolutely nothing to do. In tears my friend Jayne called her mom. Jayne’s mom knew some people nearby who we could stay with;The nuns in the Monastery of St. Gertrude. Before her parents got married, they went on a retreat at the monastery called the “Engaged Encounter Weekend” to test the strength of their future partnership. While surprised at this coincidence (and the idea of spending the night in a convent), anywhere was better than sleeping in the sad grey lobby of Auto-zone. Sister Miriam Mendez appeared as an unconventional knight in shining armor. Seventy-one years old, short and round, she rolled up in her small grey Nissan wearing jeans and a t-shirt and a crinkled smile... and it felt like salvation. That weekend, the monastery was holding its 26th annual Raspberry Festival, and they had a lot of volunteers from across the Western United States staying with them. Nevertheless, she made sure we had a double bedroom, and as soon as we arrived she let us eat dinner with volunteers and sisters alike—with, of course, delicious fresh raspberries and homemade jam for dessert. Afterwards we chatted with the nuns and helped with dishes, and Sister Miriam showed my friends and I around the monastery. She took us to their Benedictine chapel adorned with detailed wood carvings around the altar and a painting of Mother Mary, where they pray multiple times a day. While there, admiring the statues and ornate architecture, Sister Miriam told us about the Stations of the Cross that led up into their chapel graveyard. The Stations of the Cross are the 14 events that led up to Jesus’s death and resurrection, here represented in statues. As soon as Sister Miriam finished the tour, my friends and I went on this small hike. We traversed up the hill behind the chapel and past the statue of Saint Gertrude. The path had a steep incline, making me wonder in between ragged breaths how these seventy-year-old nuns managed to make the journey every Sunday. I didn’t make a spiritual pilgrimage reflecting on the Passion of Christ that the Stations of the Cross typically calls for, but going up that hill, encompassed by forests and gardens, orchards and grazing land, the venerable chapel looming high in the background, it all sent me into a solemn reflection. I silently entered the cemetery, feeling highly attuned to my natural surroundings and my place in them. I was surrounded by the gravestones of all the past monks and nuns who once lived at the convent. All these people who had lived their lives with such devotion and simplicity—I felt a profound calm wash over me like waves on a lazy lake, and I had the sudden conviction that everything happened for a reason. My friends and I would make our way home the next morning, struck by how an unfortunate turn of events could lead to such a wonderful experience. We would wave goodbye to Sister Miriam, who we had no idea would be joining those gravestones less than a year later. We would live on, go to school, face a future unknown, forever impacted by our night at the monastery. Even now I sometimes find myself going back to that grassy hill in my mind, surrounded by old roots and human history, tasting that conviction on my tongue, that rolling peace settling in my bones.