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I am 67 years old. I am a nun. Two months ago, the Mother Abbess told me I was going to be transferred to a nursing home for elderly religious sisters in County Mayo, not far from Knock. She told me gently, with kindness. But I understood what it meant: they no longer believed I could recover. They were sending me there to die. For more than twenty years, I served at the Poor Clare convent in Galway. For more than twenty years, I rose at four in the morning for prayers. I baked bread, made devotional items, answered prayer requests and worked for the community. And now all I had left was a wheelchair and a place in a home for women who could no longer do anything for themselves. Before religious life, my name was Margaret O’Connor. I was born in Ennis, County Clare. At 22, I married Patrick, a bus driver. We had one daughter, Aoife. In 1997, when I was 38, Patrick was killed in a road accident on his way back from Galway. A lorry crossed into his lane. I was left alone with my twelve-year-old daughter. I worked in a food-processing factory outside Ennis. Twelve-hour shifts so Aoife could have an education. My back was already hurting even then, but I kept going. What else could I do? In 2003, Aoife left home to study in Galway, and I entered the Poor Clares. Father Michael, my confessor in Ennis, had said to me: “Margaret, you have given everything. Your husband. Your youth. Your health. Go to Our Lady now. She is waiting for you.” A few years later, I took my vows. I became Sister Mary of Hope. Years of service followed. First in the bakery: kneading dough by hand, standing for hours beside the ovens. Then in the garden: on my knees, in cold, rain and wind. Later in the religious craft room: bent over delicate work for ten hours a day. My back always hurt. But I offered the pain to God. I thought it was my cross. I never complained. Then the cross became unbearable. Four years ago, during the winter of 2022, I was carrying a box of candles towards the u
