According to the Rule of St. Benedict, those who wish to become monks must be persistent. Entrance into the Holy Order is not immediately granted. Perseverance is expected and required; the man’s “appropriateness” is assessed through contact with the community over a period of time.
Such was my quest to become a Catholic. I knocked and kept knocking, despite the obstacles placed in my path.
Although there were Baptist preachers on both sides, my family was not religious. My maternal grandfather and his family were Catholics from Belgium who stepped off a boat at Ellis Island. The family left the Church after settling in Washington State. I brought them back to it.
My mother did what I think she saw as her duty to give us a smattering of religion by dressing my sister and me for Easter Sunday and sending us to services at a Christian Science church. I still have pictures of our smiling, round faces in our pastel organdy dresses, shiny Mary Jane shoes, and flower wreaths atop our heads.
I must have been around five or six years old when Grandma gave me a plaque with a prayer written by Mary Baker Eddy, founder of Christian Science:
Father, mother God,
Loving me,
Guard me while I sleep,
Guide my little feet up to thee.
Certainly, this was not a Catholic prayer, but it told me of God’s love. It hung on the wall by my bed for a number of years. I have carried that resin-encased plaque with me throughout my life.
One Sunday morning, when my sister hopped in a car to go with a young friend and her family to an Episcopal church, I asked my mother: “What’s an Episcopal church like?”
“I think it’s like Catholic,” she said. In my young mind, it registered at that moment that the Catholic Church was what other denominations should be; it was the barometer by which other churches should be measured.
Searching in Europe
In 1958 my family moved to Europe when my father accepted a job as a psychologist with the U.S. Army Dependents’ Schools. He was initially ordered to Karlsruhe, Germany, but when we arrived in Frankfurt, we found his orders had been changed, and we were rerouted to Orleans, France. We stayed in a hotel until our apartment was ready. The hotel sat on one side of a town square near a tall, proud statue of Joan of Arc on a horse, brandishing her sword in one hand. She became significant in my life many years later.
Of my own volition, I looked for and found a small group of Christian Scientists from the nearby Army base who met to study the Bible and Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures (the central text of Christian Science). After about three meetings, I was left feeling dissatisfied, wanting something more, not sure yet where the pull would take me. I never returned to the meetings.
During our stay overseas, we took advantage of holidays and vacations to travel. Easter vacation 1959 found us in Rome. We stayed at a Catholic orphanage (perhaps also a retreat center) near St. Peter’s Square. I don’t know why I wanted to or remember how I knew anything about it, but it was very important for me to go to the Square for Easter Vigil. My determination was rewarded when Pope John XXIII walked by as he greeted people.
As I think back on those moments, I remember the crowd being very thin compared to the masses I see now anywhere the pope goes. Little did I know then that I was in the presence of a future saint. Encountering this vicar of Christ has remained one of the most memorable and significant moments of my life.
Catholics friends, Catholic churches
In the fall of 1959, we moved to Karlsruhe, Germany, where we lived for three years—my last years of high school. It didn’t take long to notice that most of my friends were Catholic and attended Mass every week. The small chapel in our Army village stood as an ecumenical edifice serving a variety of denominations.
I went to church with my Catholic friends once or twice. I was fascinated with how they made the sign of the cross and that they had real wine instead of the grape juice served at the Protestant service. I remember being awestruck when a friend told me with wide-eyed fervor about Lourdes and our Lady of Fatima.
In my junior year, I became acquainted with a young Army wife named Judy. She had been married a short time to a West Point graduate. At the time I met her Judy had been an airline stewardess and a runner-up in the Miss Texas beauty pageant. She was gorgeous, and I surmised the reason she didn’t win is that she was only about 5’3” instead of the standard-winner height of between 5’8” and 5’10”.
Judy and her husband, Tom, were devout Catholics. I often observed her walking to Mass on Sunday dressed to the hilt, Army base or not. She usually wore a suit and a hat. I admired her greatly. I lost touch with Judy over the years and wish I could have shared my reception into the Church with her.
I couldn’t resist the call of the Catholic churches in many of the places we visited, from Notre Dame to the cathedral in Florence, Italy. While sightseeing in Florence, I left my family for the inside of the cathedral. My mother found me kneeling in prayer. She bent down next to me and whispered: “What are you doing?”
“Praying,” I responded. She said, “Oh,” and walked away. I sensed a Mona Lisa smile on her face as she walked back outside. The smile was not so much in appreciation of finding me in prayer as it was that she simply thought I was being cute. I was slightly offended then, but now I understand that my sweet mother really never understood the religious part of me.
Marriage and divorce
When we returned to the U.S. and San Diego, I was alone socially. I had lost touch with everyone I had known before we left. I tried school but found a job instead. I rented a room at the YWCA, which was two blocks from my work. Every Friday, the Y sponsored a dance in its auditorium. I met and dated quite a few young men during that time. I liked one particular young sailor, a fun dance partner, but after dating for a short time. I decided it wasn’t right.
A couple of days after ending that relationship, I received call from a Catholic priest in whom my former boyfriend had evidently confided. The priest’s voice came literally screaming through the phone, informing me that I was going to burn in hell. I was dumbfounded. I had no idea why this priest was so angry. I could only imagine what he had been told.
After listening to his tirade, I hung up the phone, shaking but knowing I had done nothing for which I should burn in hell. I still wanted to be Catholic, but I hoped not all priests were so angry. I had a long journey ahead of me.
Within a year, I met and married a young man who was just finishing his service in the Navy. In a rush, he courted me, and we were married in Columbus, Ohio. I began attending the Presbyterian church where we were married and where I was baptized several months afterward. I didn’t have a driver’s license at that time, so I was dependent on my husband for transportation. It soon became clear that the man I married was not at all interested in going to church and was admittedly not a Christian.
I gave birth to my son ten months after our wedding and soon after began working for a company located next door to the Episcopal cathedral in Columbus. I spoke to a young priest there to arrange baptism for my son. I also invited the priest over one evening, hoping he might interest my husband in attending church. It was to no avail. My marriage ended three and a half years after it began. It shattered me, but I moved forward, trying to imagine a new life for my son and myself.
A new life
My parents sent me back to San Diego into the care of my grandparents. I quickly found a job and began attending an Episcopal church, remembering that mother had said, “It’s like Catholic.” I attended an inquirer’s class (the equivalent of RCIA) and was confirmed later that year.
Over the next fifteen years my attendance at church services was sketchy. My desire to marry again resulted in a combination of poor choices and disappointments. Then I met a man when I was out dancing one Friday night. I loved to dance, and he did too. We had fun, and he was good to my son. I was surprised to learn his family lived less than a block from my mother’s home. Was this preordained?
During the year and a half we dated, we spoke about marriage frequently. Needless to say, we faced a big problem: I was divorced and had a child.
I worked hard to find a priest who could help us find a way to marry. My ex-husband refused to cooperate with an investigation, and I was informed there was nothing more I could do. My fiancé finally admitted he wanted to go back to attending his church. Of course, this didn’t include me.
I was heartbroken once again, but after several months I learned to accept it. Then he appeared on my doorstep two months later and said we should just go to Las Vegas to be married. But I had moved on emotionally.
I made an appointment with an Episcopal priest to discuss my frustrations in finding a good relationship. He looked me straight in the eye and said flatly: “You’re focused on the wrong relationship.”
That admonition hit me as blunt truth. It was at this time that I realized there had been a lot of God in my experience but very little Jesus. It was a turning point for me. My life truly changed when I began praying to Jesus. I observed small miracles. If my prayers weren’t answered in the way I hoped, the reasons eventually became clear. I began to trust absolutely. In difficult situations, I often ask Jesus to hold my hand.
An Anglican Benedictine oblate
I transferred from one Episcopal parish to another, usually because a priest left. One priest resigned and became a deputy sheriff; another favorite retired. One priest was too arrogant. I found an Orthodox Anglican parish where the altar was still positioned against the wall, where people bowed their heads at the name of Jesus, and where many prayed the rosary. I stayed for many years, serving as Sunday school director, lector, and ever-willing volunteer. I loved it. It felt Catholic.
Through this Anglican parish, I became acquainted with two other entities: the Episcopal Sisterhood of the Holy Nativity (SHN) and Prince of Peace Abbey, run by Catholic Benedictine monks. A small contingent of SHN was in residence at a Santa Barbara convent. I spent my first two retreats there, which were “heavenly” and so peaceful.
I thought about joining the Sisterhood as I drove back to San Diego after my second retreat. The answer I discerned was “Not yet,” “Not yet,” “Not yet.” I decided instead to become an associate to the Sisters (similar to being an oblate). I studied and was received.
My Anglican parish held a retreat at Prince of Peace Abbey each year. Gregorian chanting by the monks, the rustic Stations of the Cross along a prayer walk, the down-to-earth food, and the silence were (and are) magnificent. Again, I fell in love with the peace.
I left being an associate to the SHN when I discovered I did not have to be Catholic to become a Benedictine oblate. I studied under the most holy Fr. Abbot Claude Ehringer. Shortly before he died, he told me and others that he would be praying for us in heaven. What a great blessing!
Legit at last
Like a light coming on gradually, it dawned on me that I should investigate whether or not I should become a Catholic. I called the Catholic church nearest to where I lived. It was just being built, but I noticed there was an office, so I called and left a message. I heard nothing.
I called another nearby parish, St. Elizabeth Seton, and began RCIA there in summer 2006. It was there I was received at Easter Vigil 2007. My first Catholic confession was one of the most difficult things I had ever done. I’m quite sure I will never do another like it—I twisted, turned, I cried. I knew I had to confess the worse of my sins, and I did.
On Easter Sunday 2007, I attended Mass at Prince of Peace Abbey, my second Eucharist as a Catholic. Afterward, I stood in the doorway of the abbey’s reception hall feeling like I needed to let someone know that I did not take Communion illicitly. The monks had known me as an Anglican, but now I was legit!
I saw the current abbot, Fr. Abbot Charles, walking toward the hall, and I could hardly contain myself. I spread out my arms with joy and exclaimed: “I’m Catholic! I’m Catholic!”
I am Catholic. I am home. The gifts of my journey: peace, mercy, love, kindness, joy, and grace. Thanks be to God!