Visiting the Shaw Island Nunnery

I have a very distant memory of being outside late at night under the moon’s light in between some lit buildings where nuns were bustling around doing something very productive for the sake of other people. I was there with my mom and I remember thinking that night, ‘I don’t ever want to be a nun.’

I feel the same way today. My mom and I are watching a series called Call the Midwife and I can barely stand the parts where the nuns are singing prayers in their regimented lilts in a rigid formation in a cold, dark tomb of a sanctuary. I mean no offense. I’m just not called to that life.

What fascinates me about nuns, though, is that they have actually chosen to live solitary lives, albeit around other women. They’ve eschewed male companionship for life, set aside the butterflies of kissing, cast away snuggling and bodily intimacy, forsaken child-rearing and family life, and vowed that their decision will not be overturned in 30 or 60 years. One life to live, and they’ve chosen to give so much of it up. It makes me ache every time I think about it. Growing up Catholic, as a little girl, I think I assumed that the only way to ensure getting to heaven was to live such a sacrificial life. So the ache is not just for the nuns missing out on all the things that define life on earth, but for my hell-bound soul as well for not wanting to join them.

I love striking up conversations with people and seeing what makes them tick. I love knowing the whys of each person’s life choices. Since that dark, productive night, I’ve often seen nuns and beelined over to them to ask them why. All the whys I could think of. The strange thing I’ve noticed almost every time is that these God-oriented ladies are often the least approachable people I’ve ever approached. Why?

Assuming the curt nuns whose lives mine has briefly intersected need their space to not be constantly asked about their mysterious lives so that they can get on with praying and communing with God, I’ve always been left a little empty on answers.

My time finally came! I had heard that the Benedictine Monastery called Our Lady of the Rock on Shaw Island welcomed guests to stay as long as they’d like and work on the farm in exchange. Free, in other words. Room and board in a quiet, peaceful setting. Where do you ever get that?

I love exposing our kids to new experiences in life, so I was all in on this one.

We walked off the ferry with our bikes onto Shaw Island, a 10-minute ferry ride from Orcas Island. The beautiful, rural roads of Shaw are a dream for family bicycling. You might not see one car the whole time you’re out biking. You also won’t see a big store, a gas station, or a shop of any kind either. Just ocean, sky, woods, and some houses here and there. (Residents have to get food and necessities from other islands or the mainland.)

Not wanting our safe, beautiful, all-too-brief bike ride to end (20 minutes), we turned into the dirt road and parked our bikes against the monastery’s house-high stack of hay bales. No one seemed to realize we had arrived. We peeked around and listened for voices. We walked farther along the winding road until we saw a nun and a farm intern talking with someone. Standing behind them in obvious closeness, we waited quietly for a pause. No pause. Five minutes went by, the three people finally disbanded and walked away, and we stood there alone again. Hmm. My boys and I looked at each other, smiling curiously and shrugging our shoulders.

A minute later, a girl in her twenties walked up and welcomed us kindly. She gave us a tour of the main house, the dining room, the outside pond area covered in beautiful trellised plants, the large barn, and the house our room was in. She wasn’t exactly warm and smiley; it wasn’t like connecting with someone and having lively conversation. But she wasn’t cold either. Just a touch removed.

I was ready to start working! I excitedly asked what we should begin doing. I love any chance I get to have the kids learn new types of work; it’s good for them and hard labor is sorely lacking in our modern culture. Aside from folding laundry, vacuuming, and washing dishes, I can rarely drum up other kinds of work at home for them. This was our chance to earn our keep!

No, she said. We didn’t need to do anything. Just enjoy our room, roam the grounds quietly, and show up at mealtimes. Attend prayer times in the chapel too, if we’d like, but aside from that, nothing would be expected of us for the two days we’d be there. Would we like to go for a bike ride for a few hours and come back later? What? Oh no, I said. We’re ready to help out, like the website explains. After a few more tries to let us off the hook, she said okay. Meet her out in the garden. I was perplexed.

From that point on, they found roles for us to fill. Nothing all that strenuous or magnanimously helpful. But between meals we watered plants, shoveled cow manure, and did random odd jobs.

The meals were made by unseen cooks. The 20-something girl would walk in the dining room at each appointed mealtime with dishes in her hands to feed the interns and those of us staying there. She had usually made some of the dishes earlier – salads and homemade breads – and the main dishes came from somewhere else.

But where were the nuns? Oh, the nuns never eat with us, she said. Immediately deflated, I asked her why. They eat only together, away from the revolving numbers of guests each day, week, month, and year. Away from the barrage of all the same questions; away from the disturbance of comings and goings. They eat, live, and work farther up along the road in completely different residences. The only time together with them is during church. Even that is separated by nicely welded bars. Two different sections – nuns and visitors.

That’s when I realized that this whole experience is truly meant to be a hospitable retreat for anyone who wants or needs to get away from the bustle of life. It is not about communing with nuns. It’s about resting one’s soul while others take care of the basics for you. You can work or you can rest. You can read or you can take walks. You can lay on your bed all day and think as the perfect summer breeze wafts in your window and the shifting sunlight walks across your room.

Oh, I had so many questions I had to let go of. And as a mother of two young boys, resting is not something you do for a few hours, and never all day long. Oh, how I’d love to do it alone. I could rest immediately and for days on end, given the privilege. So what a tease it was to be in a place of rest and know it would not be an option.

Frankly, I was ready to go that evening, but the plan was to stay until the next afternoon. I’m used to my life and my mental and physical tools at home for rearing young minds always ready for more knowledge and movement. I have dishes to wash while they’re assembling robotics. I have driftwood to paint when they’re building cardboard race cars. I have ideas of places to go when nature adventure strikes their fancy. I have books to read to them as they’re drifting off in bed at night. But here, none of us had an important job. Nor books to read. And no big plans to sift through in our minds (Ahem. Their minds.) At least not for any longer than 20 minutes.

We were ready to do, not prepared to just be.

I was grateful for the wonderful food, the clean and homey room, and the tiny window into monastic life from attending the chapel services and observing the nuns carry out each prescribed part of each service. But I was thrilled to ride away that next afternoon, bound for the ferry to carry us home.

But if you are ever in need of a respite from the race, check it out. You’ll probably have a 180-degree different experience from ours. In fact, you’ll probably never want to leave.