Through the Narrow Gate: A Nun’s Story. Karen Armstrong
more distressing when I grew older, I found myself searching for Him to find that peace permanently.
The seclusion of my childhood ended abruptly on the day I first went to school. I’d looked forward to it for weeks. My mother had told me enthusiastically what fun I would have. I felt important trying on my school uniform—bottle-green gym slip, bulky tie, fawn sweater, all several sizes too big for me to allow for growth. But now, as I sat next to my father in the front seat of the car, the thick Harris tweed coat felt like a suit of armour. It was a wet, dark morning, and the long journey into Birmingham seemed a trek from one world into another. I peered with difficulty from under the huge brim of my green velour hat and saw the trees straining despairingly in the wind, which blew shrilly and threateningly.
The windshield wipers shrieked as they made their jerky journey backward and forward, sloshing the rain into deep pools and rivulets.
“How does the uniform feel?” Daddy asked. I could hear the strained heartiness in his voice and tried to reassure him.
“Very nice, thank you, Daddy.” My voice seemed squeaky and came out in a rush as though it didn’t belong to me. I swallowed and felt a great lump in my throat, and when I tried to breathe my chest was constricted with fear.
My father looked at me. Pigtails stuck out awkwardly beneath the hat. My face, never very rosy, was now almost the same greenish hue as my uniform, and the sprinkling of freckles across my nose stood out in stark relief. They seemed an incongruous memento of a carefree summer.
“You do look smart!” he said. “The nuns will think you look nice! Just like a proper schoolgirl.”
I did my best to smile. The nuns. What a strange word that was! I had heard a lot about them recently. I must call them “Sister” or “Mother”, and they loved Jesus and would teach me to read. They were very kind people and I would love them dearly.
Clutching my father’s hand I made my way down the school drive. Everywhere there were little girls. But they didn’t seem little to me. Most of them towered above me. Still trying fiercely to smile, I let go of my father’s hand. I wanted him to go quickly so that he would not witness my possible failure in this frightening new world. But I also longed for him to stay, to take me home.
“Hello, Mr. Armstrong.” I looked up quickly and thankfully; that somebody knew his name was reassuring.
I recoiled. There peering up at my father was the strangest creature I had ever seen. It was covered from head to foot in black robes that formed a solid wall of musty-smelling darkness, like winter coats hanging up to dry. Glancing at the ground I saw two feet shod in gleaming black leather. Then the wall rose in perpendicular folds. No legs. Cautiously, the little girls quite forgotten as I stared in fascination, I reached out for the skirt and touched it gingerly, lifting it slightly to see whether I could discover the missing limbs. Yes, ankles. I lifted it further to see for a brief second two sturdy black calves. Then a hand reached out and deftly seized my hands, ending any further exploration, and I was pulled gently up against her. Somehow I knew that this creature was friendly. My eyes traveled up. Some way above me a black and silver object gleamed. I recognized it from my few visits to church but had never seen such a big one on a person before: Jesus on the cross, I told myself wonderingly. Then I looked up, puzzled, to the face, small and putty-colored. I searched in vain for hair. The voice was deep. Did it belong to a man or a woman? It was explaining things to my father.
“Yes, four o’clock.”
“Right, Mother, I’ll be there,” he said. Mother? A woman, then. I gaped incredulously. I looked up again at the face. There was so little of it that I could see. There was a wart, I noticed, on the top lip. Did all nuns have one?
“Come along, Karen,” and I was led away from the alarming din; this friendly “Mother” would interpret the world for me. I was safe with her.
Gradually I learned to adapt to the aggressive and turbulent life of the classroom and the playground. I learned to read very quickly and discovered the joy of losing myself entirely in books without my parents’ help. Otherwise work bored me somewhat. As I grew older and was set small tasks for homework, I skipped through them as best I could, relying on my wits to get me through. But during my time in the Junior School two incidents impressed themselves forcibly on me, setting a pattern that would profoundly influence me in the future—my love for a challenge.
The first occurred when I was eight. We had by then moved into Birmingham, and my parents decided that I should learn to swim. Three times a week we went to the strange echo-filled swimming baths where a fearsome lady called Mrs. Brewster gave free instruction. The first stages of swimming were pleasant enough, but at length it was time to learn to dive. I was terrified. The idea of falling head foremost through the air, seeing the glittering water rush to meet me, was appalling. I refused to do it, hating myself for my cowardice. At length Mrs. Brewster had had enough of my evasion. She picked me up in her brawny arms, taking no heed of my frantic kicking and screams for help, and strode to the brink of the pool. “One, two, three!” she called and hurled me head first into the water. I flew dizzily; the sinister blue water dazzled terrifyingly for a moment, and then there was nothing but a confusion of water and sound.
I found myself standing in the pool, dazed, yes, exhausted, but also exhilarated. I had survived. And I had done it. I had done it. From that moment swimming became heaven for me. A chunky child, I was altogether without physical grace, but now the water became my element. And I’d learned that to find freedom from my limitations I had to push myself beyond what I thought I could do.
The second incident centered that same year on an encyclopedia called A Path to Knowledge. It was a four-volume work that my father had seen advertised and he urged me to read a little of it every day.
“While your mind is young, you’ll learn lots of things that will stay with you all through your life. Knowledge is one of the most important things in the world. It gives you freedom.”
The volumes looked important in their dark green binding with gold lettering. Glancing through them I discovered that the best part was definitely Volume IV, where there was a lot about writers and poetry and some history, too, the things that I liked best at school. But I closed that volume firmly. Knowledge was a serious business. I had to start at the beginning and work through to the end. Dipping in here and there was a frivolity. I knew the rules of life: before you were allowed cake for tea you had to eat your bread and butter. Also the title of the work enthralled me. A path lay ahead, down which I would heroically overcome all obstacles, grappling with huge intellectual difficulties until at the end knowledge loomed gloriously. And I would do it alone.
So chapter by chapter, page by page, I dragged myself on through all four volumes. My eyes glazed with boredom, I ploughed my way through the dusty paths of mathematics, science, industry, and commerce. One evening, as I was engaged with a study of the iron and steel trade, my father came into the room.
“Oh, you’re reading the encyclopedia, are you?”
I glowed with satisfaction at his pleasure.
“What are you reading now?” he asked, looking over my shoulder, and, ablaze with virtue, I announced:
“Trades.”
“Trades?” said my father, surprised. “Do you like that?”
“Well, no, this bit is awfully boring.”
My father scratched his head, bewildered. “Then why on earth read it?”
I explained. My father looked at me as though he had spawned a monster and then threw back his head and roared with laughter. Helpless, he staggered to the bed and collapsed, shoulders heaving with mirth. Then, seeing my indignation, he explained to me how to use an encyclopedia. It was a relief to put Volume II back on the shelf and open the enticing Volume IV. But I had a lingering suspicion that I had cheated.
One thing that school did for me in those early years was to introduce me to religion. At home religion was cut down to a minimum. My father was a recent convert to Catholicism and never felt completely at home in the church. When we went to Mass he knelt