Runaway Nuns

Matins bells rang cold and clear, but Anna was already awake and dressed, standing by the window that looked out on perfect darkness. Not even the moon lit the abbey grounds, only a sprinkling of stars, lonely in their distance. The song of a single bird, anticipating the dawn, warbled soft but strong into the narrow cell.

This landscape had become familiar over the last few days, a serene oasis of warmth and hospitality after the long trek from Nimbschen. But these were the last few moments. When the sun rose, Anna would be gone and never return.

A soft knock came at the door. She’d barely opened it a crack when Sister Clara shoved her way inside and smashed it shut behind her, wincing at the sound. She was clearly shivering, even under her heavy habit, and Anna placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her, speaking in the softest whisper, “Sister, what is the matter? Has anyone seen you?”


Clara signed that no one had spotted her, but she was clearly petrified. Anna took the bundle out of Clara’s hands and spread its contents on the bed. Two peasant dresses with aprons and veils to match. Anna began removing her habit, and Clara gave a small cry.

She rounded on her cowering friend. “This is no time to panic. We’ve made our decision, and the cart will be waiting for us at the gate as soon as Matins is finished. Do you doubt that God will see us through?” One look at Clara’s wild eyes showed that she did.

Anna’s stomach lurched. As long as Clara had been her partner and confidante in this scheme, it had seemed reasonable, even easy. But now the doubts crowded back into her mind. What if Clara lost her nerve and informed the Abbess? What if they were caught at the rendezvous? The consequences would be painful, humiliating . . . perhaps worse. Or she could keep her habit on, don a wimple, say prayers with the other sisters, and go about the day’s duties, visiting and planning and arranging things for their trip back to Nimbschen the next morning. She could return home to the only family she’d known for twenty years and the comfort of beekeeping and regular prayers. She heard a rustling and murmuring as the other sisters filed out into the cloister, making their way to the chapel.

But the birdsong came again through the open window, and it sounded like freedom. Freedom from a life of restless activity toward an impossible goal. It sounded like hope and a place where something important and meaningful might be done, and what she’d come to the convent for in the first place—spiritual learning, salvation, the approval of God himself—might be found just outside the walls of that cell.

“I am going to Wittenberg. If you wish to remain here where your fasting and penance will never end and your prayers reach no further than the roof tiles, you may stay. As for me, I will entrust my body and spirit to the Lord who has called me out of this place of silence and death.”

She sounded more confident than she felt, but she continued to disrobe and put on the peasant dress, then she covered it with her habit and thrust the apron and veil into her traveling bag. When she turned to Clara, she saw that her friend had removed her wimple and was staring at it, rubbing the crisp linen with her work-worn fingers. When she looked up, she was smiling. “Let's go, Sister.”