It was inscrutable to me, as impenetrable as Jack’s kissing of the cross sounded before I was a believer. When I genuinely began searching for faith, however, it was people who fervently loved God who attracted me. I can only hope and pray to become like my role models, people who have discovered, as Pope Francis said, the need to adore and announce Jesus, and share the reality of his love.
Differently Happy
My friend Liz, who converted to Catholicism after years of knowing vibrant, joyful Catholics, told me one day that her friend Sister Marie Therese “loves Jesus so much that it just pops out when you’re around her. It’s the way she talks, the way she acts—it’s who she is. I became an oblate of the Benedictines before I ever became a Catholic, due to her example.”
Like Liz, long before I was a Catholic, I noticed that some people seemed to have deeper pockets of joy than others. They were not lecturers, scolders, sermonizers, or judges. They had something I couldn’t put my finger on, something down to earth but otherworldly. They emanated a sweet fragrance that I eventually found myself wanting to breathe in.
“There is a woman in my Spirit of Motherhood group,” my friend Renee told me, “and I just love her. She is very faithful and happy, and that shows itself in joy every time I see her. She makes everyone around her feel loved. It’s something you cannot fake.”
My friend Holly told me about a similar woman who had a profound effect on her. Holly was raised in the Presbyterian Church and didn’t embrace Catholicism until several years after she married Jack. Sometime in the first few years of her marriage, Holly met Pat. “She was first a stranger, then became a friend, and now we call her our godmother,” Holly said. “Pat spoke to the youth group we helped with, and she shared story after story about miraculous things God had done in her life. I was amazed at her faith through all of those stressful, scary situations.” Pat’s life was far from perfect, had, in fact, never been easy, but she possessed a light that shone brightly on my friend.
Jen, another friend, grew up with such light. “My mom’s faith is very much her walk with her friend, Jesus. She speaks to him, and about him, in a very informal, personal way. She’s spent a lot of time listening for God…. I’ve always been attracted to the way she leans on the Lord.”
Another friend, Karl, who grew up in a non-Catholic home, said his parents always surrounded their family with passionate Christians. As an adult, Karl converted to Catholicism, but he’s always been grateful for a childhood that was populated with genuine disciples of Jesus who had a powerful impact on his faith.
These were the kinds of people I found myself returning to again and again when the sand was shifting beneath my feet. I craved a taste of what was on their plate, because they seemed so differently happy. Their joy didn’t originate in material goods, or careers, or in worldly possessions. What they possessed was something above and beyond. One day, I finally had to admit that I wanted it, too.
Stir Us Up
Years ago, after I was received into the Catholic Church, a friend babysat my daughters while I attended RCIA team meetings at my new parish. Melinda was a devout evangelical Christian. When the subject of religion had first come up between us, she’d fixed her eyes on me and pursed her lips when I mentioned my recent choice of Catholicism. It didn’t take long though before we were exchanging tales of what Jesus Christ had done in our lives. One day, with a note of skepticism in her voice, she said, “I’ve never heard a Catholic talk about Jesus the way you do.”
“Really?” I said, genuinely surprised. “Well, you just haven’t met enough Catholics!” She looked doubtful, and I laughed. “No, really,” I continued, “I know plenty of Catholics who talk about Jesus this way.”
That was true. The new friends I had made in my parish, and our RCIA leader, were serious Christians who worshiped with eagerness and fervor and sought the Lord’s will in their lives. On the other hand, I knew what Melinda meant. A “typical” evangelical Christian and a “typical” Catholic do not necessarily employ the same vocabulary when they speak about their Lord and Savior. But once we knew each other well enough to share details of our faith lives, we realized we were often saying the same things: I love God … I love my faith … the Mighty One has done great things for me.
I said those words so often to myself: The Mighty One has done great things for me. I remember driving to Mass one weekday evening when I was still a newish Catholic. The sun was just beginning to droop in the sky behind me as I drove into town. The fall weather was crisp and full of the promise of my favorite season. Everything felt peaceful and right and whole: my marriage was in the best shape it had ever been in, my two little girls were healthy and happy, and I loved being a mother. But there was another feeling, too, something that felt even bigger, overarching, and underlying everything I did. As I drew closer to the church, to my new parish—my new home, I thought—I was overcome with a feeling of anticipation, a quivering kind of bliss. I couldn’t wait to get to the church, could hardly contain myself as I thought of the Eucharist. I couldn’t wait to be with the Lord.
The ability to go to Mass whenever I wanted was an enormous privilege. I was going to be with Jesus again, to receive his Body and Blood, and spend time with him in prayer. I felt like a kid at Christmas. The words of St. Augustine were fitting and right:
Stir us up, and call us back; inflame us, and draw us to Thee; stir us up, and grow sweet unto us; let us now love Thee, let us run after Thee.6
My life seemed too good to be true. The ugliness and pain of my past was erased every time I received Jesus. In the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, in my encounters with him in the confessional, or immersed in prayer at home, I was lavished with undeserved gifts. Was this what Jack had felt when he was falling in love with God?
Practicing What They Preach
Priests are only human. Like the rest of us they are imperfect, but the priests I have known are overwhelmingly open, generous, faithful men who love Jesus and fervently desire to serve God. They express their love in a variety of ways, according to their gifts and how the Lord wishes to use them, but some possess such a visible and profound love for the Lord that they are beacons to others.
I had been Catholic for a couple of years when I met newly ordained Fr. Joe. I was on the RCIA team, and he was our team director. I had an appointment with him one day to talk about some RCIA business, but first I stopped in at the church to pray. I then headed next door to the parish offices. Fr. Joe must have seen me coming from the direction of the church, because he said, “Have you been visiting him?”
Visiting him? I’d never really heard it put that way. I was “praying before the Blessed Sacrament.” I was “at adoration.” I was … well, what was I? I was a Christian, for Pete’s sake, and I was even a Catholic now—why did Father’s phrasing sound funny?
It took me a moment, and then I realized what it was. Fr. Joe’s description of my time with Jesus didn’t sound like most Catholics’ description of adoration. His way sounded so much more personal. That resonated and was what I loved about it. I did feel that personal connection, too, but I’d rarely heard a Catholic, apart from Jack, express it that way. Fr. Joe’s easy manner gave me permission to talk about falling in love with Jesus. Such vocabulary was freeing. And it was just as Catholic, just as appropriate and accurate, I realized with relief, as more formal ways of expressing our love for him.
I remember many occasions, after that day in Fr. Joe’s office, when I stopped in at the church to visit Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. Fr. Joe was often there, too, spending time with his Beloved, living and practicing what he preached. Fr. Joe became my spiritual director, and to this
