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Seeing with the Heart

In February of last year, without any explanation, I began to say my rosary daily. Uncle Sunny was not well, so from time to time I’d call Aunt Doris to check on him. Things got worse, and he wound up in the hospital. He still sounded good, but exploratory surgery showed a blockage that was keeping him from eating. My rosary worked harder. I now had a “reason” to pray it. Shortly after the operation, my uncle tried to go home. After only one weekend, he was back in the hospital, and there he remained until he went home to be with Jesus in April.

I know you’re asking, “What does this have to do with your conversion?” You see, my uncle and my mom, although brother and sister, were not raised in the same religion. To this day I don’t know why. I recall growing up in a Methodist household. I’ve always loved going to church, so it was not a bother to me. Each Sunday after services, we went up to Uncle Sunny’s for the rest of the afternoon. That was the best part of Sunday, of course.

On occasion we had to stay with my uncle and aunt for the weekend, and we would attend church with them. This meant going to Mass. It was my earliest exposure to the Catholic Church. I don’t recall the name of the parish, but I remember that it was beautiful. At the time, I found it too quiet, but the memory of the quiet would draw me years later. I don’t recall much about the Mass either, but elements of it remained in my mind. 

In 1973 I left home to establish my own household. When I was sure that no one in the family would come and drag me back home, I settled in. In a far corner of my mind, the memory of Mass was starting to bear fruit. There were many churches around my new neighborhood, but I wasn’t sure of their denominations. The problem was that I couldn’t read their signs: I am blind. Sure, I could have asked someone passing by, but that didn’t occur to me. Having never been in a Catholic church other than my uncle’s, I had no idea whom I should speak to for information.

As I began exploring in my heart whether I wanted to return to the church of my youth or go somewhere else, I began listening to a radio broadcast of a Mass at Fordham University. I listened without fail each Sunday. After a year I made up my mind that I wanted to enter the Catholic Church.

During this time I had the pleasure of becoming friends with a Franciscan called Brother Justin. He read to blind people at the Lighthouse. Bless his heart, he must have been on his way home that evening when I sought him out, waiting around in the lobby after he finished his reading.

“I’d like to talk to you,” I told him.

Thinking it was something that would not require privacy, he stopped and said, “Sure!”

“No,” I said, ” this is something personal!” 

He returned upstairs with me in tow. I knew that he would love the announcement I was about to give him. He was the only Catholic I knew who could help me find out how to study the faith, and he was the first person I had thought of when I came to my decision. He took me into one of the reading rooms, said “Have a seat,” and stood against the wall waiting. 

I was silent for a moment, but could not contain the joyous news any longer. “I’ve been following the Mass from Fordham University for a year now, and I’ve decided that I want to become a Roman Catholic.” I could sense Brother Justin’s smile; it will forever be burned in my heart. It felt like a big hug.

Taking the necessary information, he let me know the closest church to my home. Then the work began. For the next two years, off and on, I studied under the direction of Fr. Pitch, who was the pastor at St. Margaret Mary parish in Astoria, New York. On November 7, 1976, I received my first Holy Communion, and on November 28 of the same year I was confirmed in the Church. With my Uncle Sunny standing as my witness and my Aunt Doris most likely praying in the seat where we left her, it was a joyous day. I took the name of Teresa of Avila. I did a lot of reading on saints before I made my choice. “Teresa” turned out to be my aunt’s and my cousin’s middle name, so in some way the entire family took part.

I can’t imagine my life without God, and I can’t imagine my life without being a Catholic. It is a gift that no one can take from me or deny me. I chose to join this universal community, and in so choosing I hope I can bring the joy I feel to others, whether or not of Christian background.

There were no bells going off when I came to my decision, no flashing lights. It just seemed right. It is the best choice I have made in my life. I still say that after twenty years of being a Catholic, and I will continue to say it until the day that I die. I did it for me, and I did it because God was calling. Whatever the reason, I did it, and that was and is all that counts.

I always rejoice whenever I hear of someone who is thinking of joining or coming back into the Church. I am comforted by the friends I have made over the years, both clerical and lay. I feel blessed in receiving the Body and Blood of Christ each time I attend Mass. It always reminds me of that quiet Mass in Uncle Sunny’s church and that forever-warm feeling I got in the center of my heart.

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