Twenty-five years old and not far removed from her All-America days at Villanova, [Shelly] Pennefather was in her prime. She had legions of friends and a contract offer for $200,000 to play basketball in Japan that would have made her one of the richest players in women’s basketball.
And children — she was so good with children. She had talked about having lots of them with John Heisler, a friend she’d known most of her life. Heisler nearly proposed to her twice, but something inside stopped him, and he never bought a ring.
“When she walked into the room,” Heisler said, “the whole room came alive.
“She had a cheerfulness and a confidence that everything was going to be OK. That there was nothing to fear.”
That Saturday morning in 1991, Pennefather drove her Mazda 323 to the Monastery of the Poor Clares in Alexandria, Virginia. She loved to drive. Fifteen cloistered nuns waited for her in two lines, their smiles radiant.
She turned to her family.
“I love you all,” she said.
The door closed, and Shelly Pennefather was gone
Is it just me, or does it seem like the mainstream media is suddenly fascinated by nuns? This is such a great story. https://t.co/oKJPMygYI0
— elizabeth foss (@elizabethfoss) August 3, 2019