Well, I did it. I threw in the habit. A few of you probably feel vindicated, and want to say I told you so. You told me that I couldn’t handle living in a monastery and perhaps you were right.
I tried, I really did but I just kept failing. I sat on the couch politely nodding my head in agreement to Russian jibberish, only to have my legs smacked because they were crossed at the knee. I was reprimanded for using the wrong coffee cup—the pretty ones are apparently Sisters Only. (Talk about civil rights. I’d launch a movement for the rights of Second Rate Christians if the whole Palestinian issue wasn’t consuming my time).
Things started to look up when Joanna, a German education major and 6-week volunteer, moved in. Being new and naïve, I thought her blunders might deflect the attention that I always seemed to garner. My hopes came crashing down upon me one sunny spring day in April.
Having finished lunch, I cleared the table, washed my dishes and was whistling a tune of victory when I heard a Russian shriek (clearly identifiable by the more alarmed nature). I turned around to see Joanna holding a cup of hot tea and Sister Natasha holding the tea pot from which it came. The next thing I saw sent chills down my spine.
Ole Natti’s face was turning red from the chin up and her finger was having a seizure in MY face. Joanna, the evidence clearly still in her hand, had somehow managed to frame me for taking the hot water! I tried to explain to my Sister in Christ that water was indeed scarce in these lands, but that the situation wasn’t as dire as she seemed to think. Of course, there was no apology when it was brought to her attention that the fault was Joanna’s and not mine. She did laugh the next day, however, when I emphatically asked permission to use the hot water. In any case, I made sure to acquire a permit for each ensuing cup of tea if for no other reason than to highlight the injustice of life in the kitchen.
That day I was certainly angry, but there were others much more troubling and confusing. Take the night of March 16, 2007. I entered the kitchen to take my daily dose of mush and mash and immediately realized that there was no room at the table. Relieved to have an excuse to take my plate to my room, I prepared to take my leave but was urged to stay. Aw, I thought, they’re being sweet tonight. Matushka, the top dawg, was usually less than sugary and I thought maybe she was just in the Easter spirit. She smiled and told me that I must stay and dine with them.
Then she pointed to my chair…a lone stool in the center of the kitchen and told me to eat there. So, while everyone else happily chatted at the table for People Who Wear Black and Officially Love the Lord, I thought about how life is strangely cruel. Just at the moment when I decided it couldn’t get any worse, they all stood up, faced me, and started singing. There I was, sitting alone in the middle of the kitchen, between the congregation and the icon to which evening prayers are sung. I began to pray too, silently asking God to start giving me warning signs for similar awkward situations.
God must have an amazing sense of humor. Just a few days later, Joanna and I were talking quietly in the kitchen while the sisters and Matushka were sitting around the table, chatting and sipping tea. Not really understanding why, we were shooed out. Ran off like stray dogs. We later were told that during dinner with Matushka, no one is allowed to talk unless she poses a direct question. We also learned that the Russian Orthodox Church doesn’t change its clocks when the rest of the world does and that whistling is bad luck.
I could have stayed, really. I was managing quite well but then an email came presenting an opportunity to live in downtown Jerusalem. Thanking God for finally answering my prayers, I moved in with a sweet Palestinian Baptist (I didn’t know they existed either) who pinches my cheeks and constantly tells me how cute and smart I am. It’s a bit like living with my Grandmother, evangelical television programming and all.
Epilogue:
I haven’t abandoned the monastery. I have a close relationship with the head nun, who has a huge heart and works more than one person should. I still drive little girls to doctor’s appointments and play beauty shop in the afternoon.
If I’ve learned anything from my time in the monastery it is this: Some people have a hard time expressing love or even recognizing it—until it is gone, that is. Sister Natasha, whose love and acceptance I pined for, told me how she felt the day I moved my bags out. “Ava, why you go? I so sad.” Since that day, my every arrival is greeted with a beaming smile and four fat Russian kisses on the cheek. And each time, I’m almost tempted to stay. But I don’t; instead I walk away and in the distance can almost see her quivering hand wiping a tear from her tired old face. It’s a shame, really. Resisting love for so long, and only realizing the truth a moment too late.
Natti, ‘ole girl, we could have been so happy together.
