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The Culmination of a Journey

Since I come from a long line of Protestants that includes ministers going back generations, and was taught in my youth that Rome is the “city built on seven hills,” the odds were certainly against my ever becoming a Catholic.

My father’s parents spent most of their working lives in China as Presbyterian missionaries. My father, who became an organist and choir director, and my two uncles, who became ministers, were born there. In my childhood, my grandmother took me under her wing and became my spiritual mentor. I remember walking to her apartment from elementary school once a week for a Bible lesson and lunch and later, as a teenager, studying the book of Acts at her bedside in the nursing home.

When I was growing up, church was part of the week’s normal ebb and flow. My big sister and I sang in my dad’s children’s choir along with at least fifty other kids. Our church was a thriving suburban Presbyterian parish with lots of families and lots of activities. In those days it seemed like everyone went to church.

When my father left his job as an organist to teach music, our churchgoing habits changed. My parents would drop me off at a Presbyterian church downtown, after which they’d head to the Episcopal cathedral, where they’d enrolled my younger brothers in the men and boys’ choir. My teenage sister had strong connections with the church my father had left, so she continued to attend services there.

When I was a high school senior, my dad resumed work as an organist and choir director, but this time at an Episcopal church. We attended the requisite classes and were confirmed. All these years later I can remember vividly the priest making a point of explaining that “virgin” simply meant “young woman.” Apparently it was important that we didn’t mistake Mary for an actual virgin.

I ended up going to a Catholic university because it was the only one that offered the degree I sought. Most of my fellow undergrads were Catholic, but I have no idea how deep their faith ran or if they attended Mass regularly. I went to church now and then, and liked going when I did. In retrospect, I realize I’d never been told that I was supposed to go every Sunday. And I’d certainly never heard the phrase “holy day of obligation.”

Episcopal period

After moving to New York City, where I started my first job and married soon after graduation, I went to church pretty regularly. By that time I’d come to appreciate the liturgy of the “high” Episcopal church I attended, and I especially loved the sacred music offered to God by the men and boys’ choir. But if I missed a Sunday, I didn’t feel guilty. And I never thought of it as a sin.

My first (childless) marriage ended when my husband finally confessed to a longstanding affair, telling me he didn’t love me in the right way and couldn’t remain married to me. Our divorce felt life shattering. Racked with anxiety and feeling that my world had fallen apart, I took a leave of absence from my job and went home to my parents. I prayed and cried and read the book of Job, which I found strangely comforting.

Returning to New York, I went back to my old job, a new apartment, and a different life. Going to church on Sundays felt especially important then, and I’d usually go back again in the afternoon for Evensong. I eventually married the wonderful man who’s been my husband for twenty-four years, we moved to the suburbs, and I started searching for a church.

Our town’s Episcopal church was a disappointment. I heard sermons about Nicaragua from priests who expressed embarrassed scorn for their own maleness and whiteness. I watched a Christmas pageant whose visitors to the manger included a “single mother” and a “handicapped child.” The final straw was being handed a photocopied hymn to “Mother God.”

So one gray Sunday morning I traveled to another town and walked into the Episcopal church, only to find it virtually empty. The priest excoriated the meager congregation, because this was the day of the annual parish meeting and so few had come. I would later learn that he and his live-in male partner had AIDS and died not long after. In retrospect, it was part of the long decline of the Episcopal Church. Moral relativism (or perhaps, more precisely, immorality) and political correctness have weakened it, along with so much else.

An uninspiring Mass

Another Sunday morning my search took me to a nearby Catholic church. I knew I wouldn’t be able to receive Communion, and I could hardly believe I was doing it, but I decided to attend Mass. Perhaps if I’d chosen another parish things would have turned out differently. It may sound harsh, but I felt no sense of awe, hardly a sense of worship. The ugly modern architecture was the antithesis of inspiring; the poor guitar strumming was hardly recognizable as music, much less sacred music; and it all felt just plain flat. I walked out discouraged, sure that Catholicism wasn’t the answer.

My quest continued until I found a “continuing Anglican” parish. It had no ties to the Episcopal Church, and there I heard the gospel—the actual gospel!—preached with intelligence and vigor. My Anglican priest introduced me to the sacrament of confession, and I felt weight lifted from me. It was from him that I first heard that it was an obligation to attend Mass every Sunday—yes, even on vacations—and about holy days of obligation.

At the height of a family crisis, I asked what I could add to my daily prayers, and he suggested learning the Hail Mary. He explained that Mary could intercede for us as she had done at the wedding at Cana. And, much to my surprise, he told me that the Blessed Virgin is just that. We remain friends to this day, and I hold him in the highest regard. I’m not sure he realizes that he helped pave my path to the Catholic Church.

Attendance at my Anglican parish was light—twenty people on a good day—and that never felt quite right. I had hopes that the continuing Anglican movement would come together and thrive, but after I had been there for twelve years it still hadn’t. However, I’m not sure that explains the restlessness that I began to feel. I prayed and prayed for guidance. And three separate times I happened upon references to Catholicism, in different ways, in different settings, that seemed striking, and somehow significant. The third time felt like an actual “I should’ve had a V8” smack in the head, and I finally got it. I’m grateful for God’s persistence and patience, because up until that moment, if anyone had told me I would someday become a Catholic, I would have laughed.

Annulment: a stumbling block

A friend recommended a priest in a nearby city, and I began to meet with him. He was kind and welcoming. But one night during this process it came to me in a dream that I had to tell him that I’d been married before. It had never come up in conversation, and it never occurred to me to mention it. He was reassuring about the annulment process, but friends told me otherwise.

So I stepped back, deciding I needed time to think and pray about this wrinkle. What would happen if I left the Anglican Church but wasn’t granted an annulment? What if I could never be received into the Church? Would I live in a kind of limbo?

Then one day, out for my daily walk, I ran into my neighbors, Catholics in whom I had confided what I was going through. They’d just come from Mass at another church nearby and raved about the sermon they’d heard. I recognized the priest’s name and realized I’d been introduced to him years before. He was a former Anglican priest, married, who’d become a Catholic priest under the pastoral provision established in 1980 by Pope St. John Paul II. Somehow inspired by this, I decided to call him and set up a meeting.

And from there I never looked back. Perhaps it was our common Anglican heritage or his calm and steady manner. But without hesitation I decided to start the annulment process with the goal of becoming a Catholic. I also began to receive instruction in the Faith.

Making the application for an annulment was not easy. Looking back through the file of paperwork I’ve kept, I see that I filled out my first form in November 2010 and received the certificate of nullity in February 2012. There were missteps—like applying in my diocese before being informed that the application had to be made in the diocese where the marriage had taken place or in the diocese where my ex-husband currently resided. There were difficulties—like finding witnesses who knew us both at the time of our marriage. My sister, who would have been my first choice as a witness, had passed away recently, and my parents were both suffering from dementia.

It was no small task tracking down people with whom I’d not had contact for decades, including my ex-husband, who’d moved abroad. But there were blessings, too—like the priest from the New York tribunal who comforted me as I wept my way through our interview. It wasn’t easy recounting painful memories I’d long ago put to rest, but his demeanor was like that of a loving father. That was a gift from God.

Understanding now what Catholic marriage means, I don’t think getting an annulment should be easy. The decision by a tribunal about whether to dissolve a marriage or not should be treated with all seriousness and gravity. But I also think there are probably ways the process itself could be made more efficient.

Inclined to faith

I was finally received into the Church at Easter Vigil 2012. It felt like the culmination of a journey, not a rejection of the past that had led me there. I’m especially blessed to have been led to a parish that attaches importance to the beauty of the liturgy. The music is soaring, magnificent, and performed for the glory of God. I think of my late father often during Mass and hope that, if it’s possible, he’s hearing it too.

I don’t doubt that prayers and intercessions by him and my grandmother and my Protestant ancestors helped guide me to this place, my spiritual home on Earth. I look forward to the day I join them as part of the “cloud of witnesses,” praising God forever in my heavenly home.

The older I get the more I think that some people are simply more inclined to faith than others, that for some it comes—and stays—more easily. Maybe I’m one of those lucky ones. I’ve never not believed, never had a crisis of faith, even through various crises of life. I’m humbled by that blessing and deeply grateful for it.

A few months ago I traveled to attend a Mass with a priest, a monk, believed by many to have a special gift of healing. When my turn came to be blessed by him, a feeling of complete and perfect love suddenly overwhelmed me. It was as though I’d been given a glimmer of the depth and breadth of God’s love for me. I walked away weeping with a joy I wanted everyone to experience.

At a recent Mass at my church, the priest told us that God rejoices over each one of us. That is the message the Church is meant to convey to the world—to spread the good news of Jesus Christ—and to give every single one of us the chance to know God’s perfect love for us.

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