Ten years ago, I was excited about our family’s call to ministry as evangelical Protestant missionaries to Guatemala. We were going to serve in an orphanage for abandoned children. I knew that Jesus could heal even the most complex problems, and I wanted to give the children there the love they so desperately needed. 

Idealistic but ready to sacrifice, I set out with my husband, Doug, and our four children (ages seven to twelve) to make my home in Guatemala. Having grown up in a strong Christian family where I learned to weave my Christian faith into every facet of life, I had long ago embraced the idea that this world needs “the simple gospel.” Endless debates about justification, eternal security, gifts of the Holy Spirit, and whether leaders should be called deacons or elders were of no interest to me. I had made up my mind to live the Christian life by obeying the two greatest commandments: Love God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself (see Mark 12:28-31). 

The main emphases of our work in Guatemala for the first three years were helping at an orphanage and hosting teams of lay workers from the U.S. We hosted several medical, construction, and ministry teams each year. During this time we met Christians from a myriad of Protestant denominations. The Holy Spirit was at work in each team we hosted. Stereotypes and prejudices faded away as I met people from different backgrounds who were committed to serving Christ. Our whole family treasures the time we spent serving the teams.

We also had contact with some small indigenous congregations in various villages. In the context of a third world setting, the weaknesses of my belief system were magnified as I was forced to acknowledge the fallacies inherent to the tradition from which I came. For example, I had sometimes been uncomfortable with the lack of encouragement for young people to pursue an education (unless it was at a Bible College).
While I lived in the relatively literate U.S.A. it was easy to push aside my uneasiness about this issue. But when this same weakness was transferred to the village churches in Guatemala, I found it impossible to ignore. I was surprised to learn that pastors of many village churches had almost no education. Many barely knew how to read. 

One pastor whom we knew personally had only completed the third grade in a public school. His zeal and love for our Lord were undeniable, but his ability to preach was limited to his own spiritual experiences and what he could understand from his Bible. His authority as a pastor was dependent upon his congregation’s confidence in his spiritual life and upon their remaining less educated than he was.

Another village church for which our mission was responsible divided because the pastor read in the Bible that Jesus told his disciples to wash one another’s feet. The pastor, wanting to be obedient to the words of Jesus, began to implement this practice at every meeting with his congregation. Half the congregation thought such a practice could not possibly be what Christ had in mind, since they knew of no other church that practiced foot-washing on a regular basis. Following nearly five hundred years of Protestant tradition, those who disagreed with their pastor found a different man willing to call himself their pastor and founded a new congregation.

I had conversations with a number of Guatemalan women who told me that it didn’t seem to make any difference whether a person was Catholic or Evangelical. (Evangelical is the term used in Central America for Christians who are not Catholic.) One young woman told me that the main difference seemed to be that Catholics can drink alcohol, but Evangelicals prohibit it. While I knew the differences between Catholics and Protestants were not so easily dismissed, her comment made me wonder whether the two groups had more in common than I realized.

Other questions haunted me too. I asked myself, “If the main way we grow in our Christian faith is through Bible study, what about the millions of people who are illiterate? What did people do before the printing press was invented? How did the early church worship? What if praying ‘the sinner’s prayer’ did not result in a life-changing conversion? Was that a sign the person was not truly penitent? Who was I to judge?”
After several years the questions did not go away. In fact, they became more and more pressing. A missionary friend asked us to store his personal theological library while he was on furlough in the U.S. Among our friend’s books were some written by the early Church Fathers. There were also works by Martin Luther and John Calvin. 

My husband, an avid reader, took this opportunity to study Church history, and he shared with me his discoveries. He found that all the most ancient documents about the early Church contained much information that sounded very Catholic. It was a scary time for us as we learned that many of the ideas we had about Church history could not be substantiated. Previously, Doug had read books suggesting that the early Church met in homes where there was no formal liturgy and no hierarchy. We looked for evidence of a home-based church without a formal liturgy. It was nowhere to be found. 

Now I realize that one of the reasons I had vowed to avoid controversial doctrinal arguments and stick to the “simple gospel” was that I had lost all hope of ever coming to a firm conviction of the truth. I had read and listened to different arguments enough to realize that opposing views could argue well their points using the Scriptures. I reasoned that if people who were far more intelligent and educated than I could not agree on the correct interpretation of the Scriptures, how would I ever be able to decide which one was right? This dilemma, combined with a strong emphasis on personal prayer, made my faith life mostly experiential. My basis for belief in God and His intervention in our lives was a combination of personal experience and what I understood the Scriptures to say. 

In August of 1995 I received a letter from my close friend, Kris Franklin. I was stunned to learn that she and her husband, Marty, had been asking many of the same questions we were, and had ended up in the Catholic Church. I had met Kris and her family in Guatemala when Marty was teaching at the missionary kids’ school our children attended. We had shared concerns about the missionary subculture in Guatemala.

I knew that Kris was both prayerful and honest. She would not convert to Catholicism without being fully convinced that it was true. In her letter she told her conversion story using the analogy of coming home. 

Like many who are uninformed about Catholic teaching, I thought Catholic worship devalued Scripture, was prone to idolatry, and encouraged superstition. I confused Catholic liturgy and prayer with pagan practices and meaningless rituals. In spite of these general negative attitudes, I didn’t doubt that it was possible to be a Catholic and still be a true Christian. This was because I knew personally some lively Catholics whose lives of holiness, prayer, and evangelization I could not discount.

The idea of home as Kris used it in her letter struck a deep chord within me. I was living in a foreign country, not sure how much longer we would stay there. I had not lived in the same house for more than three or four years in my entire life. And I had recently had a dream about going home. In my dream, God had prepared a home for me near a desert mountain, and I was rearranging the furniture so I could get a good view of the mountain where I would draw closer to God.

Along with Kris’s conversion story, she sent me Patrick Madrid’s book Surprised by Truth. Sick in bed one day, I had time to read it all at once. The book consists of the conversion stories of eleven Protestant converts. Many of them used the language of homecoming. I soaked up information about topics I had never considered before. 

The term sola scriptura was new to me, but I saw clearly that it was the very foundation of everything I believed. And these Catholic converts were convinced that it was a faulty foundation. I was shaken by what I read and wondered what implications it had for my future. I learned that the teachings of men such as John Calvin and Martin Luther had influenced my thinking even though I had not even studied their writings. Soon my mind was swimming with possibilities I had never imagined. 

What if the Catholic Church was the Church that Jesus founded? What if I no longer had to figure out from Scripture all by myself (with the help of the Holy Spirit) what was good and right and true? What if Mary was not an idol, but my Mother? What if I, too, could go home? 

Suddenly I felt as if a whole new world of thought had opened up to me. I told Doug, “I feel free to think for the first time in my life.” It was a dramatic conversion of mind for me. 

It was as if my thoughts were freed from a small cage in which they’d been locked for many years. Suddenly the door was wide open. I could exercise my mind beyond the narrow parameters to which I had confined myself. 
My Catholic neighbor Rosamaria had heard I was sick, so she brought me a huge bouquet of red roses. The roses were the most beautiful I have ever seen, and their fragrance was more heavenly than I could have imagined. My heart was overflowing with gratitude to God who created them. 

I meditated for awhile on the beauty of the roses, thinking that meditating on God’s creation could be a form of prayer. Then I decided to look up the Magnificat in my Bible and read it aloud as a sort of thank you to God for the roses. When I finished, I whispered these words: “Thank you, Mary for giving us that beautiful prayer!” 

I waited in fear, wondering if I had just committed the sin of idolatry. But my fear soon faded and I felt only peace. There was a sense that I had crossed some invisible line and that I wouldn’t be going back. 

Then, Doug read Surprised by Truth. He was thinking about conversion, but I wanted to talk about it. We discussed some of the implications for us if what we read were true. Doug didn’t want to make a hasty decision, especially while serving our home church as missionaries. 

I tried to explain to him the conversion of mind I was experiencing. He thought I was moving too fast. I had been fevered and he wondered if that was causing me to become a little delirious. We decided to table it for awhile. We had plenty to keep us busy.

“The simple gospel” had become more and more difficult for me to live. Still wanting to avoid controversial issues, I tried to find resources to encourage me in my goal of loving God with my whole heart and loving my neighbor as myself. Most of the books I found seemed to be a mixture of pop psychology and Scripture verses. These books appeared shallow in light of the poverty and hardships facing many of the people who lived just outside the walls of my house. 

I also sought to experience the presence of God in a more consistent and deeper way in my personal life, but I experienced only dryness and emptiness. We met weekly with a couple of other missionaries to pray for the city of Antigua, and I found myself unable to pray anything except, “Lord, have mercy.”

The emphasis of our missionary work had changed and we were trying to start an English-speaking church in the tourist city of Antigua. Doug preached a series of sermons on the Lord’s Prayer (the Our Father). I began to pray “the prayer that Jesus taught us.” I prayed nothing else, but it was enough to get me through the spiritual desert I was in. 

Doug found a book by St. Teresa of Avila, and I read what she wrote about praying the Our Father. Her words were like fresh water on parched soil. New hope sprang up within me. I wanted to find more books written by Catholic saints.

Several missionary women met in my home weekly for prayer and Bible study. We were going through a study written by a minister about experiencing God in everyday life. One of the key ideas of the study was that God is always at work around us and that we need to find out what He is doing and join Him. The study encouraged us to look around the area where we lived and find out where God was already at work. 

I privately wondered if God was at work in the Catholic parishes and youth groups in our city. It was humbling to realize that we had spent almost six years in a mostly Catholic country without considering the possibility that God was at work in and through the Catholic Church there. But I didn’t feel that I could share my questions and discoveries about Catholicism with the other women. I felt too weak to defend my thoughts from the attacks that I feared would come if they knew what I was thinking.

The last week of the study was about experiencing God in the church. It was written with the idea that people from one congregation would study together. Because we were seven women from seven different denominations it was almost laughable to try to discuss the material. 

All of us were trying to lay aside our doctrinal differences and encourage one another in our varied ministries. We were a needed support to one another, women sharing the common bond of having grown up in the U.S. and then moving to a third world country. We were living “the simple gospel” to the best of our ability. I sat quietly and thought about how different it would be if we were all united in one Church.

One missionary friend and I were in the habit of visiting the local women’s prison weekly. The women there knew quite a few Christian hymns, which they joined in singing enthusiastically as I accompanied them on an autoharp. God’s grace was evident as we talked to them about Jesus and His love for all people. The women were often willing to pray with us, but some insisted they were too bad to receive God’s love and forgiveness.

On Christmas Eve, Doug joined us for our visit to the prison. It happened that a priest and three nuns arrived just after we did and joined in our Christmas carols and prayers. After we stopped singing, the priest turned to Doug and asked him to share from the Scriptures. 

It may seem like a small thing, but this gesture from a priest whom we had never met greatly impressed us. After our devotional was finished the priest heard Confessions and gave Communion to the Catholic prisoners. It was our last Christmas as Protestants.

Several months had passed since receiving Kris’s letter. The theme of going home had never been far from my mind. Now I was thinking of it constantly. The church from which we were sent out as missionaries was going through a devastating split because of disagreements about pastoral authority. My parents and brothers and sisters were planning a family reunion for the first time in seven years and I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to attend. Our oldest son was soon graduating from high school and going off to college in the following year. I was longing for home no matter what that meant.

In the meantime Kris Franklin was sending us more books and tapes, and Doug and I were discussing Catholicism at every opportunity. We called our hot topic “the big C” and tried not to upset our children unnecessarily by discussing it in front of them. We talked about purgatory, Mary, the Pope, apostolic succession, and the Mass. But the topic we came back to again and again was the Eucharistic presence of Jesus. 

We agreed that the Gospel of John (chapter six) was a powerful argument for the Real Presence. We acknowledged to one another a growing longing to receive Jesus in the Eucharist. But we were still being supported by our sending church and were facing an international move with five children, four of whom were teenagers. We decided to postpone making a decision until after we were once again settled in Arizona.

The move itself was the most difficult move of my life. Our 1984 Suburban was giving us some problems, so Doug decided to take it to the mechanic and get it tuned up before the trip. A week before our departure date it was worse than before. 

Soon it became clear that we would not be able to leave on the day we had planned. We had to be out of our house, so we made arrangements to stay in the guest dorms at the orphanage where we had begun our work six years earlier. The delays made it impossible for me to attend my family reunion. 

I was emotionally exhausted from all the goodbyes. I felt so sad. Here is a passage from my journal written on June 7, 1996:

This is the day [my sister and brothers] will fly to Omaha. I wonder who will meet them at the airport. I wanted to be there with them so much! 

I cry and cry and cry. Still the sadness doesn’t end. I had such dreams and hopes for our time together. Now I don’t know what to write. 

We’re still here at the children’s home in Villa Nueva. Our car is in the shop again. The mechanic has not been able to diagnose the problem. 

I am weary. Chris woke up with a fever today and a sore throat. I don’t mean to be bad or anything, but at this point I have a hard time believing my prayers will make any difference in any of our circumstances. 

Perhaps it somehow gives us the strength to carry on. And so I pray: “Our Father (do you really see us as your dearly beloved children?) who art in Heaven (you are high and lifted up; who can understand Your ways?) hallowed be Thy name. (Holy, Holy, Holy; there is none like You, You are faithful and true, Your good will prevail, I adore and honor You, my God and King.) 

Thy Kingdom come. (Can righteousness, peace and joy reign and rule in this my sad heart? Grace me with Your kingdom today and the fruits of your Spirit.) Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. (Yes, Lord, as much as it hurts and I really don’t understand it at all I do want what You want. No! I don’t! I want to be with my family today and I don’t understand why You have not made it happen! It doesn’t seem like a bad thing I asked You for. I want to embrace Your will, but I have to be honest with You, God. This is far beyond my understanding . . . I surrender . . . all.) 

Give us this day our daily bread. (You are always so faithful to provide for our needs. Thank You for a place to stay, beds to sleep on, food to eat, clean water to drink, showers, toilets, Your people around us. Yes, thank You, Father, for our daily bread that You’ve provided and especially for the Bread of Jesus. Without Him all the rest would be meaningless.) And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. (Show me whom I haven’t forgiven, help me forgive with freedom and mercy and in all humility knowing how often I have sinned.) 

Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. (O God, we don’t know where we are going, but we are so weak and so easily led astray. Have mercy on us! Don’t allow us to be carried away by anyone’s ideas or philosophies. Help us to cry out to You, Lord, and to hear clearly the voice of the Good Shepherd. For we are but sheep, unable to care for ourselves. Guard my heart and mind from confusion.) In Jesus’ name, Amen.

On June 15, after more delays, immigration troubles, a nine-hour guerrilla soldier roadblock, vehicle and trailer repairs, customs hassles, and hundreds of miles, we finally arrived in Texas. There we were welcomed by a Catholic lay missionary family whom we had met in language school during our first months in Guatemala six years earlier. They graciously offered us a couple of days’ reprieve at their house. 

Our friends encouraged us on our journey, assuring us that God was leading us, even though the road was long and hard. Father Tim O’Connor came at six a.m. to pray a blessing over us for the remainder of our trip.

Once settled in Arizona we called Gary and Gayle Somers. Kris Franklin had given us their name and number because they were recent converts who had moved with their family to Phoenix just one year earlier. Gayle and Gary warmly welcomed us and shared with us the struggles and joys of their own journey. 

They were enthusiastic about the Catholic Faith, but never pushy. Instead they encouraged us to take our time. When we were ready to talk to a priest, they recommended Father Jack Spaulding, the pastor at St. Thomas the Apostle parish. He had seen them through their first year as Catholics, and they were sure he would be helpful.

Doug and I met with Father Jack in his office. We were not quite sure what to expect. He listened attentively to our story and welcomed us home. 

I told him one of my biggest fears was that one or more of our teenage children would not understand our decision and would decide to turn away from the Christian faith altogether. He assured me that as long as I was obedient to what Our Lord was telling me to do, then God would take care of my children.

Father Jack suggested that we set an appointment for the whole family to meet with him. He told the children that they needed to make their own journeys and not to feel pressured to convert because of their parents. He said that they should become Catholic only if they believed it to be true. 

I didn’t want to hear that, but it was true. Doug and I did what we knew in our hearts was right. In prayer we released our children into the care of Our Lord. In the next few months they each experienced their own conversion.

On Rejoice Sunday, December 15, 1996, with Gayle and Gary Somers as our sponsors, Father Jack Spaulding received Doug and me along with our children, Chris and Xhiv, into the Church at St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic Church in Phoenix, Arizona. The next Spring at the Easter Vigil our daughter, Cana, joined us. Our youngest son, Evan, became Catholic at the Easter Vigil in 1998. And finally on the Feast of the Holy Angels, in September of 1998, Jonathan, our oldest son, made his profession of faith and was received by Father Jack into the Catholic Church.

I’m just beginning to discover the riches and depths of our Catholic Faith. It’s like living with my family inside a mysterious old castle with treasures in every room. There are libraries filled with valuable old books written by the saints who inhabited these rooms before us. Lining the halls are beautiful portraits and life-like statues of the saints, our family ancestors. There is a music library full of hymns to enjoy. 

When we enter the dining room of this castle we step beyond the dimension of time because the King of the castle is outside time. Because He conquered death, time has no claim on Him. No one wants to miss a family meal here. The very saints and angels whose portraits and statues line the halls attend in regal attire. Yet we all are invited to come as we are, for our King has become our Servant. There at the Holy Table, He serves us the Food from heaven, His own Body and Blood. Words fail to tell the goodness of it. 

It will take years to explore all the treasures awaiting me in the Catholic Church. But that’s all right. I live in the castle now; it’s my home. 

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