In the Book of Psalms, King David, the rebbe of all Jewish returnees, says: “Though my father and my mother abandon me, the Lord will gather me in and care for me.”
If I take my memory back as far as I can, God is in that memory. This is strange because my family was not at all religious. My mother took us to Mass on Sundays and holy days, but my father never darkened the door of a church. Without dwelling on the details, the home of my youth was a place of fear, rage and, at times, even violence.
Yet my oldest memories are of HaShem — of God — and His goodness.
I attended Catholic schools on pure charity, and it was during my high school years that I decided to enter the “religious” life. Back then, marriage was not an option for anyone desiring to live a life of devotion. Because of the physical responsibilities of marriage, the Catholic Church had always regarded it as a less-than-holy state.
I entered a cloistered Franciscan order of nuns rather than an enclosed life, which forbids any contact with the outside world.
The initial period in the process of becoming a nun is called the postulancy. The postulant participates in praying the canonical hours, beginning at midnight, when we were awakened by two wooden blocks hit together and the cry of a blessing invoking the name of the Christian savior and his mother.
Nuns live in cells, where we had the few worldly goods we were allowed. We could have nothing to remind us of our life before the convent. During non-penitential seasons, we were allowed to write one letter a week and were given one piece of paper for this purpose.
The superior would read and approve all outgoing and incoming mail, and only approved letters would be distributed — to teach of poverty of spirit and the banishment of pride.
A weekly meeting of the entire community for the open confession of faults is called “the chapter,” a fearsome time for public confession. If a sister fails to confess her fault, another sister who knows of that fault is under obligation in charity to bring her failure before the community, where the superior gives penance.
After the period of postulancy, comes the investiture. The candidate is invested with the holy habit, given a new name (I was Sister Mary de Padua, CSSF), and a new canonical year begins.
During that first year, even though the vow has not actually been taken, the novice is under restrictions, called “enclosure.” In my order, the canonical year was 366 days long, during which absolutely no contact with the world was permitted. Should a parent die during this year, a professed nun would visit the family and attend the funeral, but the novice could never leave the community. Until my novitiate, a prospective nun was not even told of a parent’s death until the canonical year was completed.
It was during my canonical year that I began to read the Bible and ask questions of my confessor, centered around the seventh-day Sabbath of rest, Passover and the Sh’ma. The priest became very vexed with me, saying things such as “Do you think you know more than Holy Mother Church?” and “How dare you question holy authority?”
In the end, he said that reading the Bible was confusing me, so he forbade me to read the Jewish Scripture.
I did as he said, for by now if I had learned anything, I had learned obedience. However, just because I did not read did not mean that I did not ponder.
After the canonical year comes the day of vows — temporary vows binding for a period of one year, to be renewed each year for five years.
Then comes the elaborate and fearful ceremony of solemn vows. Part of this ceremony involves the professed sister’s making and wearing her own crown of thorns, which she will wear only once more: at her burial. That is when the bishop places a silver (Franciscans cannot have gold) wedding band on her finger. She is now and forever a bride of Christ.
She is complete. But for me, it was not so because the words of Torah were still burning in my heart. I had to find this God of Israel and cleave to Him.
The call of the Torah was too great to ignore. A family tragedy caused me to take a year’s leave of absence from the order, to go home and help my family. I did not return to the convent. I don’t really know why. I just couldn’t do it any longer.
After a while, I met a Catholic man who was also unhappy with the church. We agreed to marry and study the Bible to see if it was possible to live exactly as the Bible teaches: resting on the seventh day, eating only the foods permitted, keeping the holy days as described in Leviticus 23. But I still needed more. I needed a community.
We went to the synagogue and requested to take classes toward conversion. After two years of classes, we were accepted for conversion. After the rabbinical court, we went to the mikvah — my husband first, then me. When I came up out of the waters, I had this overwhelming sense of coming home, home to HaShem and to the Jewish people.
I selected the Hebrew name Rivka because the Torah says that Isaac loved Rebecca. Like Rivka, I, too, know true love. Our congregation gave us a beautiful Jewish wedding under the chuppah. We are filled with joy that we are Jews.
My husband has made my life complete. We have six children, and he gives me everything that is within his power to give.
Each time we are in Israel, especially in Jerusalem, we again have that overwhelming sense that God in His great goodness has brought us to this holy place and He brought us here as Jews.
Rivkah Hyatt is a member of the Norfolk, Va., Jewish community. This column previously appeared in The Jerusalem Post.