Let there be peace on earth,
and let it begin with me.
I can recall the very notes of this song reverberating through the courtyard during each morning assembly, surrounded by the red-bricked magic that shaped me for years to come. I didn’t quite understand its meaning until later, when I failed to fall asleep each night in the wake of the sweet, sweet times I couldn’t fathom were really gone. Sacred Heart Convent was the safe haven I didn’t fully realize it was until I was all too grown up for its simplistic determination in the pursuit of life.
I suppose that is the way with all the best things: you simultaneously try not to see the speed with which it slips from your fingers and fail to understand the finality of such innocence. But in the wake of my ever-present angst, I couldn’t help but look back upon the one place that really meant “home” for me, and think a little harder about it.
The world of the convent was a series of graceful events, from learning the prayers that conveyed real gratitude, to the admiration of early morning uniform checks, the decisiveness of house placements, marching band, foundation day celebrations, and a thorough appreciation of the seemingly mundane details of life. You did not have to be good, I learned soon enough; you only had to love the world you were slowly creating, and it would unfold in all your favorite colors.
The one person who transformed this school into the hopeful lounge of God’s mercy was Sister Martin de Porres, the only personification of immortality I believe in to this day. She was a uniformity of sunshine tinged with the flavor of her rosemary elegance; it still feels empty to refer to her in the past tense. I have never seen a woman so frighteningly inspiring, so discerningly strong, and yet the kindest creature to walk on my earth. In a way, this memoir is a silent whisper of love for the countless lessons her very presence filtered into my amateur view. She always said,
“A life lived for others is a life worth living,”
a sentence that has proven to be my comfort in the strangest of moments—perhaps less likely due to the impact of its genuineness and more for the extraordinary portrayal every day of her service.
Under her institution, I saw a world of possibilities: debating championships, academic excellence, the everlasting calligraphy patterns we so religiously practiced, and the subconscious learning of priceless values. Perhaps it was the way each word of the school song gave a sincere manifestation of these days: unity, faith, discipline, simplicity—a proof of which I saw each morning passing the building that featured Jinnah’s name.
The most nerve-wracking part of the whole year always culminated in proclamation day. I remember our class doing a rendition of W. H. Davies’ “Leisure”:
“What is this life if full of care,”
but the only thing that mattered in that moment was to stand in the center of the hall and pray with whatever childlike hope I had that my name would be the first to be called. Competition was a key element in the way we were raised, but the greatest was undoubtedly etiquette; each term featured us demonstrating our best curtsies upon the receipt of our report cards, a prospect that both made me excited and anxious to get it right.
Today, I associate my ability to create a romantic narrative of my years spent there with the reality of the joy I felt in that place. I carry it with me everywhere I go; I still greet everyone I meet with a “Good morning” and fold my hands behind me. I take care of those around me without judgment or expectation; I do my best to be useful. For the longest time, I could not bring myself to get bangs because it reminded me of the tiny plaits we braided our hair in just so everyone looked the same and nobody was ‘prettier.’ I recall Sister’s words from our awareness lessons, and I can only smile with a bittersweet melancholy.
Sacred Heart will always be the greatest blessing for me, and I feel content in the fact that its pink report card will be my most prized possession for life. Cor unum, anima una, with the mercy of our Lord.