Meeting God's messengers on the road to faith

When I consider how many messages the Lord sent me over the years, I see that my soul must have been like the thorny ground in the parable of the sower. Unlike Mary, who quickly heeded God’s messenger, I was deaf to His promptings. It took decades for a tiny seed of faith to take root in a heart overwhelmed by worldly cares and distractions.

I grew up in Eastern Kentucky – a land of bleak hillsides bordering the roadways, the scarred rockface on either side giving a severe countenance to the land where plain white crosses adorned churches, and Jesus was largely invisible. In these churches, the pastors often shouted their sermons, and people rushed up the aisle during altar call to rededicate themselves. The raw emotion inside the church walls matched the rough landscape outside. I had very little exposure to the Catholic faith.

A Seed is Planted

My home life reflected the often-harsh Appalachian culture. My Dad disappeared into glasses of Scotch most nights while my mother’s mercurial moods played themselves out. Still, my mother was among the first of God’s messengers to me, planting the seed of Catholicism in a very Protestant world with stories of the happiest days of her life at the Catholic nursing school she had attended.

As a young newspaper reporter, I noticed the messengers becoming more insistent. I covered religion and social issues for a newspaper near Pittsburgh. I wrote about many Catholic topics, including World Youth Day — the annual gathering of young people from around the world with the Pope.

I was humbled by the devotion of these Pennsylvania Catholics who traveled hundreds of miles to see Pope John Paul II in Denver. I traveled with 300 teens from Pittsburgh to cover the big event, where the joy was palpable. It wasn’t just the joy of teens on a once-in-a-lifetime trip; it was also the devotion and sacrifice of the youth ministers acting as chaperones, and people from all over the world sharing in a beautiful celebration that I didn’t understand. It was a little like walking past a restaurant on a cold night and seeing a happy family at dinner, laughing, talking, and praying. Not a member of that family, I walked on.

But back in Pennsylvania, I kept meeting them – these messengers. One was a young Ukrainian Orthodox man who painted icons in his spare time. Another was a portly, second-career priest and former salesman who brought generosity and good humor to the life that had chosen him, in which he was finally a purveyor of a commodity no home should be without – Christ and His Church.

A Move to Memphis

Still, I wasn’t Catholic. No, I had just gotten engaged to my long-distance boyfriend, and we decided to move in together. I did marry this boyfriend not long after we moved to Memphis, and we have been married for many years.

It was in Memphis where I met the Catholics who changed my life forever – credible witnesses of the power of Christ in the lives of average people. One day, in Sacred Heart Catholic Church in Midtown Memphis, I received a string of blue, macramé beads that I kept in my car’s glove compartment. This simple length of rope, along with some basic prayers, began to reprogram a mind conditioned to fear and reaction after growing up in a home marked by mental illness and alcoholism.

It is a rope I have held onto in the days and years since. The Catholic friend who gave it to me, and those who have come before and after, made a real difference in my journey to faith. This shows me the power of personal example and friendship on an individual’s path to conversion.

God sent me so many faith-filled Catholics over the years, but I had to be ready to grasp the lifeline when it was thrown to me and allow myself to be pulled into a life of faith. Of course, the string of blue beads was a Rosary. The Blessed Mother guided my first steps into the Church.