Books, Friends, and Priests: A Reflection on My Conversion

When I was asked to write down the story of my conversion, I immediately knew where the story would end. However, I was not quite sure where it would begin, because it seems that it was always there. I remember once speaking with a friend of mine, a Protestant who learned of my forthcoming conversion. He asked, “So, was there a moment when you knew you wanted to become Catholic? Or was it always a part of you that you had not known before?” It was certainly the latter. I remember no exact moment when I internally converted to Catholicism. Rather, I remember a series of moments in which some sediment was removed and uncovered a little bit of who I was always becoming. 

Beginnings

Looking back, it seems the first moment was my first Sacrament. I was raised in an independent Baptist church. It was the usual country parish with hymns and the occasional guitar and piano mixed in. The liturgy of whitewashed walls, business suits, and the King James Bible (Before I go any further, I will say that I am very grateful for my Protestant upbringing. If it were not for that I would never have become Catholic, of that I am quite sure. Christ works in many ways and one of them, as often is the case with converts, is our separated brethren). When I was thirteen, I was baptized in this community. The trinitarian formula, the water, and the Holy Spirit did its work on an unsuspecting boy from upstate New York just looking to fulfill his parents request that he be baptized. 

Introduction to the Good, the True, and the Beautiful

Fast forward five years: I was entering college at the Templeton Honors College of Eastern University. Here, that same unsuspecting boy would be introduced to the great traditions of history, philosophy, and theology. A pragmatic soul, I was raised to see usefulness in things and not beauty. Because of my upbringing, I was heartily set on seeing what I could glean from all these new things that were introduced to me. I had to learn how to use them after all. 

After about a month in the College, I came to realize that others around me in the classroom (professors and students) were thinking differently than I was. I found this troubling and began to wonder if I was doing something wrong. Then, I was introduced to goodness. In a class titled, “The Good Life,” we were reading St. Therese of Lisieux’s autobiography, The Story of a Soul. I remember I was absolutely struck by her willingness to suffer. “Make me a saint!” she pleaded to God; she wanted to suffer that she might better love God. Coming from a faith community that taught that Catholics were going to hell, I was dumbfounded. I remember saying to myself as I read one evening, “There is no possible way this exceptionally good woman is not a Christian.” 

That same semester, I read two other texts that truly affected me. One was Graham Greene’s novel, The End of the Affair, in which I was introduced to beauty. Catholicism, I find, has a sort of natural, almost dirty beauty to it. Because of the Sacramental nature of the Church, its beauty is something so entrenched in real humanity that it seems almost scandalous to the outside world. That is what Greene introduced me to. In this story of a saint, Greene shows his readers the beauty and power of grace in some of the most debased sinners you will ever encounter. He shows the true power of baptism, the power of prayer, the sacramentality of the human person, and so much more. This book quite honestly shocked me in many ways, but I was overwhelmed by the beauty of Catholicism I was shown here. 

In the last influential book, I was introduced to Truth. This book was a sort of breaking point for me. Saint Therese opened my heart and mind to the idea that all Catholics might not be dirty rotten apostates, Greene drew me close, and Saint Augustine would show me the truth (about Augustine’s Confessions, if you are a Catholic and you have not read it, there are very few things that could possibly be more important to your life at this moment). You might know the famous line from Augustine’s Confessions, “For Thou hast made us for Thyself and our hearts are restless till they rest in Thee” (Confessions Bk. I CH i). If I’m being honest, when I first read it, not knowing its fame I barely noticed the line. I must have been trying to finish enough for class the following day. But thank God for a diligent Professor who stopped the whole class and made us read and ruminate on that line. I was hooked on Augustine; I wanted to know him. I was still relatively uninterested in Catholicism—at least, I was not consciously interested. What I really wanted was to know Augustine. 

So I began to do some research, I started with some articles: a few bits from James K.A. Smith, C.C. Pecknold, Oliver O’Donovan, and I even burdened my soul with reading a bit of Calvin and Luther. This led me into Augustine’s De Civitate Dei, Enchiridion, and De Doctrina Christiana. As time progressed, I was unable to continue my personal inquiry into Augustine. Freshmen year ended and I had to begin taking a more difficult course load. However, there was another thing God chose to use to bring me home. 

Late in Freshman year, I thought I ought to at least see one of these Catholic services (I probably did not know it was called mass at the time). A friend of mine allowed me to tag along to a Sunday morning mass at Villanova University. Not long after I opened the car door, my friend began laughing hysterically at me. I thought, “What could I possibly have done?” She soon exclaimed, “You brought your Bible?!?!” and continued to laugh hysterically (I find it quite funny now, too, and you can see how little I knew even about cultural Catholicism). On the way out from mass, I expected to be peppered with questions, like, “what did you think?” and “what did you notice?”. But instead, whether intentional or not, my friend did what I now see to be one of the greatest things she could have done: she said nothing. I breathed deeply as we left, waiting for her inevitable questioning, but none came. Being a rather talkative person, I said, “Well that was interesting.” She said, “I’m glad you liked it,” and we got in the car, and drove home. This allowed me plenty of time to mull over what really happened in mass. Instead of putting up my defenses right away had she questioned me, I was forced to think through the mass. This made a world of difference. 

Climbing the Ladder

Sophomore year of college came around, and I knew I was on a journey upwards, liturgically. I was making a transition from a low church protestant background to a high church protestant mindset. I had no intention of going beyond this. This was mostly due to the fact that liturgically (as far as the mechanics of the liturgy went, not its actual substance), Anglicans and more traditional Episcopalians offered me what I wanted. This period essentially involved me spending almost an entire semester attending an old Episcopal parish where I was previously introduced. 

During this time, I also became more seriously interested in theology. I had so many questions I needed answers to. Through this, a theological tendency of mine rose to the surface. This was a tendency that had always been present in other facets of my life, but I never expected it to manifest itself in my faith. I began to desire fervently for unity and order. I was drawn to the structure of formal theology of the Western tradition. Because of this, I knew most low church Protestantism was out of the question. I found it unconvincing and shaky. 

After attending this Episcopal parish for quite a while with a friend on a similar journey, we decided we should meet with the priest. One Sunday, we asked the priest if we might chat with him in his office after the service. He willingly and joyfully agreed. After a bit of conversation concerning the history of the church and the Episcopal/Anglican divisions. I asked the priest, “Can you tell me more about the theology of the Episcopal church? And where I might go to understand its structure?” He smiled and said to me, “Well, we like to keep our theology in conversation, allowing it to always change and move with the times.” That was all I needed to hear. I left knowing this was not the church in which I was born to be. Unity and order have always been two things that have been important to me. I find that a theology that is not systematized and allows opposition to its most fundamental principles is usually of man and not of God. 

Before I move on to the next stage of my journey, it should be noted that obviously, not all strands of Anglicanism are this fluid. There are many Anglo-Catholics who are more stringent in their theology and liturgy. While I did find that appealing, there was still something missing that was only fulfilled in the Catholic Church. 

Returning to Mass

After this conversation, I knew I was left with only two options: Eastern Orthodoxy and Catholicism. I soon ruled out Eastern Orthodoxy because of my understanding of the Schism of 1054 and Saint Pope John Paul II’s teaching on the Eastern Orthodox Church (which is that they are the other lung of the Church and are welcome to come back into communion with the Catholic Church). I then started a deeper exploration into Catholicism. I began by returning to mass at a few different parishes and usually with friends. I began to become familiar with the structure of the liturgy. I began to know when to kneel, sit, and stand. I even began to say some of the responses silently in my head. Despite the processes and rituals becoming familiar to me physically, I still knew none of their significance. After about two months of attending mass, I started asking questions. On our way out, I would whisper to my friend, “Why do you kneel? Why a crucifix and not just a cross? Why can’t I receive communion?”

Perhaps surprisingly, I came to understand the answers I received to these questions quite quickly and none of the answers ever seemed to me unreasonable or wrong. I often remember thinking, “that makes sense,” and moving on to my next question. Finally, my friend (probably disgruntled by all my questioning) came to me after a class one day and said, “Here.” It was a catechism. She said, “You have so many questions, I thought it might help.” And it did. This catechism would help me immensely when it came to more specific doctrinal questions I needed help with. I looked up Marian doctrines, Eucharistic doctrines, Sacramental doctrines, and so much more. I began to understand the rationale for the theology. 

As time progressed, I continued to go to mass, and while I was beginning to have a theological understanding and appreciation for Catholicism, I still did not understand the liturgy. One day, when at mass at a local parish with some friends, I leaned over to my friend during the consecration and said, “Why do they ring the bells?” “The host has been consecrated,” she said. After a blank stare from me, she said, “It has become the Body and Blood.” 

From that moment on, the mass was never the same for me. I then understood why it is that we go to mass: we go to mass to be with Christ. What greater joy and fear could there possibly be? I remember physically shaking on the kneeler that Sunday when the bells were rung again. That is when I knew it was no longer a choice, I could not deny the truth of the Catholic Church any longer. 

First Attempt

After about another month or so of going to mass, I decided it was time to meet with a Catholic priest. So I made my way over to the local parish one afternoon to speak with the pastor there. This was about four months before Easter and I was very eager. The priest asked me about my story a bit: how I got to where I was, whether or not I was baptized, and any questions I might have—the normal things. After about an hour of conversation, he said, “Well, it seems like we could meet once a week for the next few months, and then you could come into full communion with the Church at the Easter Vigil. But I, for some reason, was unsatisfied with this. “Why wait?” I thought. The priest suggested perhaps we could work something out sooner and perhaps any of the coming weeks could work. With this plan in mind, I left. But something curious would follow. In the coming weeks I heard a lecture on the importance of good catechesis. I knew the speaker was right and contacted the priest to tell him I needed more time. An entire year would go by before I was truly ready. 

Purgatory

The next year was one of the most excruciating of my entire life. It began rather innocently. I went home that summer and did not much else but work, read (Lewis and Augustine mostly), and listen to two podcasts which had a curiously powerful impact on my development. The first was Bishop Robert Barron’s Word on Fire podcast. The second was Clerically Speaking with Father Sciarappa and Father Harrison. After not attending mass a great deal that summer and doing more intellectual rather than spiritual or liturgical catechesis, I headed off for a much welcomed semester abroad. 

During this semester, I was surrounded by a group of friends who were willing to deal with my existential struggles and help me through them. For that I am most grateful. My time abroad was a spiritually strenuous time. I arrived overjoyed to be away, but quickly came to miss my home. I arrived longing to one day be Catholic, but I struggled with the obligation I felt to it. Thankfully, due to the efforts of a great friend, a good priest, and a healthy dose of the Rosary, I made it out and home alive. 

My Return Home

Upon my return home, I knew the time had come. I would go to a priest, speak with him, and do as he said—No questioning, no impatience, just complete obedience. I went to him about ten weeks before Easter. I explained to him my situation and he said, “Alright then, come here next Monday at seven to meet with Brother Raymond.” And so I did. Brother Raymond and I would spend the next nine weeks praying together, asking questions together, and learning together about the Catholic faith. We did everything from walking through the Church itself to learn little things I had not known before, to reading through the order of mass and learning about the Sacraments. It was an instrumental last step in my intellectual and spiritual journey to Catholicism. 

One week before I was to be confirmed at the Easter Sunday mass, I had my first confession. For those of you who have also prepared for and gone to confession after accruing 21 years of sin, you know what a spiritually strenuous process that was. But upon leaving the confessional, I swear to you that the trees were greener. It was the greatest grace I had received since my baptism (though a grace I was completely unaware of). I was finally washed clean and prepared to receive the Body and Blood of our Lord. 

When that day came, I shook with fear and joy all the same. On the ride to mass that morning my confirmation sponsor noted to me, “This is the most important moment of your life thus far, James. It will be truly life-changing. You are about to be a Catholic.” His words were true and helped to prepare me to receive the Sacraments of Confirmation and the Holy Eucharist. When the time came, I approached the Priest, and he confirmed me. “Augustine, be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit.” Those were the  greatest words I have ever heard. Minutes later, as I knelt to receive my first communion, I felt a greater peace than I ever have before.  

At the end of the day, after I received the Eucharist surrounded by my greatest friends and my parents, I can honestly say it was the most joyous day of my life. I was finally a Catholic—a piece of my identity that I still smile about each time someone asks me. It truly was unbelievable. To those of you who are Catholic, stand by the Church in all that you do, because it is faithful Catholics who led me to where I am today. To those of you who are not Catholic, look, in everything, for goodness, truth, and beauty.  It is those things that brought me to Christ through the saints. 

~ James Davenport

@mrJSDavenport

Gillette and Toxic Masculinity

By now pretty much everyone with a phone or computer has seen the latest advertisement by Gillette which targets “toxic masculinity.” As expected, there was an uproar of people either supporting the ad or throwing their over-priced Gillette razors into the toilet. Some people I spoke to found the ad “immensely patronizing” and “very offensive” (and that was from a woman I spoke to regarding the ad). Some men I know just found it stupid. I have heard from both men and women that the ad is encouraging and simply calling men to higher standards.

I for one did not find the ad offensive. The ad portrays men encouraging other men to do the right thing. It denounces the crude and vulgar tendencies men have (especially when they are in groups). My favorite part of the ad was when the one man stopped the other from cat-calling at a lady. We find (I think) these particular acts of virtue to be inspiring and admirable. One man, one person, stepping up to do the right thing. This is why I find describing men behaving badly as “toxic masculinity” to be such a weak description.

Talking about “toxic masculinity” casts the problem in a certain a light, where the “toxicity” arises from excessive “masculinity.” It presents the problem as if the social infraction or injustice arises from men being too manly. But if we are to regard masculinity and femininity to be complementary, then suggesting excessive masculinity is toxic seems rather odd. It treats masculinity as though it were an acquired virtue, where it is possible to be deficient on one side and excessive on the other, and we all ought to strive for the “golden mean” between the two extremes. I do not think masculinity or femininity are what Aristotle would call an acquired habitus. Masculinity and femininity are very abstract words to use; however, John Paul II offers a more concrete approach that considers masculinity and femininity to be all the physical characteristics that imply complementarity between the two sexes. Hence, talking about masculinity as liking barbeque, fishing, and beer is totally superfluous. These associations are socially constructed. What is not socially constructed, however, is that the experience of masculinity and femininity in one’s own body points to the complementarity realized in conjugal union.

The inability of pop culture to distinguish between what is “accidental” and “essential” reaps a myriad of moral consequences. In the case of the trendy phrase “toxic masculinity,” it grounds toxic behavior in manhood, as if being a man is the source of evil behavior. When I first saw the Gillette ad, I thought to myself: “this is very interesting—what they consider ‘toxic masculinity’ is what I consider sin (especially regarding the portrayals of lust).” Sin is portrayed in many forms throughout the ad: pride, lust, anger, &c. So why consider these things the byproduct of excessive masculinity?

It seems the collective consciousness that pervades public discourse can only conceive of “sin” in broad social categories, where individual agency is secondary to all else. This perspective reduces man to his material condition—whether it be his economic circumstances, skin color, or sex. Of course the role of culture in the formation of human personality cannot be completely ignored—all that man is, his ability to reason and make moral decisions, is largely founded in his cultural inheritance. However, talking about culture as its own autonomous order solely determined by nature and materialism is not enough to account for the complexity of human agency. Culture is first formed by man’s religious experience, rooted in the fact that he possesses an immaterial soul. To neglect this dimension is to confuse the very nature of man and how he relates to culture.

This tendency to wrap individuality up in an autonomous social order is nothing new. Romano Guardini, an influential Catholic intellectual and priest of the early twentieth century, predicted many of these developments in his book, The End of the Modern World. In it, he notes how the time of “modern man” is coming to an end and a new man is emerging. He calls this man “Mass Man.” He calls him this because the Mass Man is formed by the “masses”—whether it be the “masses” of human culture or the “mass” amount of technology and industrialization that isolates him from the world. Guardini describes Mass Man as the “Man Without Personality” because the “regimented instincts” of this man “forbid him to appear distinctive, compel him to appear anonymous. Mass Man acts almost as if he felt that to be one’s self was both the source of all injustice and even a sign of peril.” Individual personality and agency are destroyed for Mass Man. Man as an individual is left to be subsumed in the masses which arbitrate the new standards of morality, which today are consent-based sexual ethics, limitless human rights created ex nihilo, and in our case, the social sin of “toxic masculinity.”

The Most Reverend Fulton J. Sheen observes this tendency on a more pastoral note in his forward to St. Maximlian Kolbe’s Will to Love. He sees how “for many decades past [in Catholicism], emphasis was put on individual sanctification but with little stress on social justice.” However, now there is a “reaction to the other extreme, when if one carries the banner for racial justice or marches in a protest parade against the building of an atomic reactor, he will find so-called theologians who will deny any guilt to fornicators and those who violate the natural laws of God.” The paradigm shifted from seeing sin primarily as a personal harm against God or neighbor, to sin being primarily a corporate reality where lack of concern for global issues is the primary cause for contrition. Clearly tropes like “toxic masculinity” fall into the latter category as a very broad, corporate sin which is contingent upon your material/social conditions, e.g., being a man.

What is needed now is a return to acknowledging personal, private sins. Pride, lust, and anger are not symptoms of excessive masculinity; rather, they are vices. And what causes these vices is something the latest PC-bandwagon will not address: sin, such as divorce (which leads to fatherless homes), contraception, pornography, and consumerism. These things will always be ignored because they do not mitigate personal responsibility, unlike the broad social categories the media and political elite love to divide us into. It is far too easy to look at the world and demarcate everyone into a group based on ideological persuasion. It is much harder to go and make a good confession for your own sins. It is even harder to do penance in reparation for the sins of others. But both these things are the only solution to a hurting world that has lost its way. So although it is fashionable to talk about the social ails of “toxic masculinity,” it is best we stick to our common Christian parlance, and call sin what it truly is.

~Zachary Nelson

Cover photo: Karol Wojtyla (a.k.a., Pope John Paul II) shaving in the great outdoors.

Zachary Nelson is the husband of Ciara Nelson and is pursuing his M.A. in theology at the University of Scranton. He loves history, philosophy, theology, and classics. He rarely blogs at coheresco.wordpress.com. 

The Heart of Woman

“One thing is certain: When the time has come, nothing which is man-made will subsist. One day, all human accomplishments will be reduced to a pile of ashes. But every single child to whom a woman has given birth will live forever, for he has been given an immortal soul made to God’s image and likeness” (33). – Alice von Hildebrand, The Privilege of Being a Woman

Every woman is given a womb, the very place in which a soul is created by God and a child is given to grow. A woman’s womb is the very first place where a child encounters love. To be pregnant with life is one instance in which a woman gets to be everything to another person; she gets to give of herself in a way only she can give—and what she gives is everything a person can possibly give in this world—life.

All around us, we hear pregnancy, childbearing, and motherhood labeled as bondage for women. And we hear women crying out that they are oppressed and controlled. It is possible, or rather, true, that women are indeed oppressed and controlled, but maybe it is the very things women hail as their freedom that actually holds them bound in chains. 

Our society worships anything that offers convenience, control, and pleasure, so it should come as no surprise that so many individuals try to avoid, or worse, throw out, the very persons who break down our dependence on convenience, control, and pleasure—that is, babies. Babies need love, and that requires immense sacrifice. At the same time, though, women are created for life. Women are made to give of themselves, to give of their very bodies, and this is a beautiful, sacred thing. In The Privilege of Being a Woman, Alice von Hildebrand writes about women, motherhood, and abortion:

In her book, The Eternal Woman, Gertrud von le Fort writes: “To be a mother, to feel maternally, means to turn especially to the helpless, to incline lovingly and helpfully to every small and weak thing upon the earth.” The diabolical work that has taken place since the legalization of abortion is that it has destroyed, in those tragic women who have allowed their child to be murdered, their sense for the sacredness of maternity. Abortion not only murders the innocent; it spiritually murders women. Those who devote their loving attention to these victims of our decadent society know that the wound created in their souls is so deep that only God’s grace can heal it. The very soul of the woman is meant to be maternal. Once this sublime calling has been trampled upon, such women become ‘unsexed;’ they are “sick unto death.” (96) 

Many of us have lost any sense of a higher calling when it comes to the family—a calling to offer ourselves as total gift to another and to God. In many ways it is a call to death, but the crazy thing about this kind of death is that here we find life. It is actually life-giving to sacrifice oneself for another, to offer these little daily sacrifices with gratitude for another human being in one’s life. Here, in the day-to-day loving of another human being, in both the joys and the sorrows, is love. The alternative is a life of what-ifs, a life of regret. It is a sickness that goes unrecognized in many cases—that is, when a woman gets rid of the one person in the world she is made to protect and nourish and love. Despite what the voices of the world shout at women for their supposed freedom, women cannot flourish when they murder their children. In reality, as Alice von Hildebrand writes, this is the spiritual murder of women, and our merciful God is the only one who can bring a woman back from the darkness of spiritual death and into the light of life.

Our spiritual mother, Mary, shows us in every way what it means to be human, humbled before God. Furthermore, she shows us what it is to be woman. As human persons, we are all made to bear life to the world, to be tabernacles of the Holy Spirit and to present Christ to those around us. And as women, we get to be signs of this life in our very bodies. We get to be signs of what it means to give our bodies for the life of another, as Jesus poured His life out for us out of love, as Mary gave her “fiat” to God and received His very Son in her womb, giving birth to the Son of God, her son, and nursing him with the food of her own body. This is a profound mystery, and we, as women, get to take part in this mystery. We get to love in a unique way, caring for, nourishing, and loving our children in the very same ways the Mother of God loved our Savior.

Motherhood and childhood remind us of what it means to be human. Here, we remember the intimacy of persons to one another, we remember we need each other so deeply—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. To deny that we were made for one another deeply wounds women, and for men to indifferently go along with the attack on women in this way wreaks havoc on what it is to be man, to defend life, especially the vulnerable, and to fight for truth, justice, and peace.

The March for Life was yesterday, and the Women’s March is today. Both fight for women, but they are at war. We need to fight for women, but today, we desperately need the world to remember who woman is. Hildebrand reminds us, “Kierkegaard wrote that ‘woman is the conscience of man.’ But her conscience must be illumined by faith and enlivened by true love; it must not be a conscience distorted by self-centered relativism” (29). In discovering the dignity and mission of woman, we discover the true dignity of the human person.

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The Incarnation and Choosing to be Thankful

Maybe it is that Thanksgiving came and Advent is coming, but I have been realizing just how ungrateful I have been and, in light of that, how much more I must remember Christ’s incarnation.

I often want to perfectly curate my situation and my daily schedule to what I think I need in this season of my life, but in fact it is only me trying to get what I want from my life right now. God has given me the life I have in this moment and I must submit to all of it–its particular work and people, and when these things do not change, I must be obedient and faithful to what God has given me to do. Not everything I do will feel rewarding or particularly invigorating, but the fact of the matter is I have been given certain things in my life to do that God actually wants me to do–joyfully and with thanksgiving and love–because they join me to Christ and more fully enable me to love.

God gives us the grace to live holy lives in each moment, and to reject certain moments or to live those moments with contempt is to reject His will and to hate what He has given me to strengthen and to teach me. He reveals Himself to us in every moment, in every season, and when I am ungrateful, I reject the ways in which He reveals Himself to me in my life in this moment.

Every time I complain, I forget Christ. I forget that He suffered in the flesh, and that He, too, participated in the work of the day and the keeping and running of a home. He grew up in a home and He worked as a carpenter. He participated in daily life and He loved perfectly. For only three years at the end of his life on earth did he begin his public ministry. For three years Jesus taught us what it is to love God and one another and He demonstrated it in His life and His love towards others. He taught and He loved–we see it in His public ministry, but He was already doing this perfectly in his quiet, hidden life at home and in His work.

Jesus lived a life of obedience to the will of the Father in every situation, in every season of His life. He was obedient and showed great humility in becoming even a child in the womb of a poor young woman. He grew and He loved and He worked and He lived the life of a faithful Jew in a faithful Jewish family. He taught the people and He fed the hungry and He healed the sick, and when it was time He faced death, though He asked for another way if it be the Father’s will, yet was obedient to death on a cross and the great suffering that led up to that death. He rose again and told Thomas to put his hand in His wound, in His very risen body.

In dwelling on what I want to happen now in my life, I forget all I have already been given, and I forget the incarnation of Christ who, humbling Himself, became a baby in the womb of His mother and grew and became a man. God is not unfamiliar with life and death on earth; he is not unfamiliar with humanity. He knows what it means to have a body and a soul, and to labor to sustain life–both His own and those in His care. In each season of His life, Jesus was faithful and obedient to His Father. He was not rushing for what was not yet to come, and He did not hesitate or hide from what was to come in an effort to have what was gone. Jesus embraced what was given Him and loved in the midst of every moment, even and especially in the midst of His sufferings.

Let us embrace what God has given us to do, no matter what the task, for in being given these things, God grants us humility and grace–the humility to know our weakness and to confess our sin, and the grace to, by his power, overcome sin and be strengthened by our weakness. We can offer our suffering, no matter how small or how seemingly petty, to God, and ask Him to use our suffering to join us to His Son. I am really trying to get better at this, and whenever I am tempted to complain about something, I must remember Jesus and offer myself and all I do for love of Him, remembering that what I do joins me to Him in His incarnation. My life partakes in the Life of God.

Oh my Jesus, I offer this for love of Thee, for the conversion of sinners, and in reparation for the sins committed against the immaculate heart of Mary.

Beginning After This Our Exile

When the thought came to me to do a blog, I was still in catechesis to be brought into full communion with the Catholic Church. I remember it was Lent, and my husband and I were beginning to pray the Rosary as a devotion we hoped to add to our daily lives. I was astounded by how the Rosary could be so simple and yet have so much depth–how one could pray this prayer over and over for the rest of her life and always find herself coming closer to Christ through Mary. As I continued praying the Rosary, the title for the blog, “After This Our Exile,” came to me, for this prayer has been written on my heart ever since I began praying it, continually asking our Mother, “after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

Getting this blog started has been quite slow going. I could say time has stopped me, but mostly it was doubt. I feared pride was my motivation to start a blog, but I also feared I would not offer anything new, as there is already so much in the way of Catholic resources and media, not to mention the saints before me who have said anything I could possibly say and more, and much more eloquently. The reality is, no matter what I say, I will not be saying anything new. I hope anything I say is only an echo of what those saints greater than I have already said.

Amidst my doubt and waiting, however, many ideas continued to form, and my hope for a blog never faded. As a former Protestant, I know what Protestants think of Catholics and their Catholicism, and there are countless misconceptions of the Catholic faith, both by Protestants and Catholics alike. Knowing the misunderstandings that separate Protestants from their Catholic brothers and sisters breaks my heart. Christ prayed that we would be one, and my heart fervently desires that we would indeed be one. I sincerely hope we might seek understanding with one another, ebbing the tension that exists between us, eventually seeking Christ together as one in the Church.

My desire to write of the Catholic faith for the understanding of all people with the specific name, “After This Our Exile,” finally came full circle when my husband and I made the decision to consecrate ourselves to Mary through the Militia of the Immaculata (MI). Started by St. Maximilian Kolbe, the MI is evangelistic, as St. Maximilian used the media available to him–radio and the written word–to bring all people to Christ through the Immaculate Heart of Mary. So the MI is for the sanctification of its members, but it especially has the intention that its members would use the means they have to draw all people to Christ through Mary. I came to the MI initially without the knowledge that its mission is so evangelistic. Having wondered and prayed about whether I should write of the Catholic faith, I am now convicted that I must write of the faith that has been handed down to me from Christ Himself. Too many are ignorant of the truth, the goodness, and the beauty Jesus offers us through His Church. I pray, if only to a few people, the Holy Spirit might use my writing to reveal the beauty that lies in the Church and in the writings and stories of Her saints, so more people might see Christ is truly present here. I hope that others will behold Christ and find their calling to be the same as mine–to behold Christ and to call others to behold Christ with them, that we might behold Christ together.