Conversion Story pt 4

“If anyone comes to me with hating his father and mother… he cannot be my disciple.” Luke 14:26

I knew that at barely the age of seventeen I was going to need parental permission to become Catholic. I had no idea how my parents would react to my decision but I knew I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation. I knew what my parents thought of religion. I also knew that there were certain unspoken rules in my house: Talking about God in a positive light was one of them.

I didn’t know what to do. So I wrote my mom a letter. I left it under her pillow before traveling with my dad to Idaho for a regional softball tournament. Probably not most mature decision I made during those years, but I didn’t know what else to do. I tried to be as honest as I could in the letter. I told her of my desire to become Catholic and what led me to it.

I suppose she and my dad talked sometime over the weekend because when I got home I was sat down on the couch to “talk.” There was little talking that went on, at least on my part. A lot of crying though. My mom was hurt that I couldn’t talk to her about this in person. She was hurt that I had been hiding everything from her.

And then came the “you’re too young to make this decision.” The “you’re just being hoodwinked by your friends.” The “this is just your way of rebelling.” And other such reasons that my parents gave, either out loud or otherwise. I was told to wait until I was 18. A full year until I could even start RCIA classes [Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults—the series of classes and rites over a set time, usually about six or seven months, that teach and prepare people for baptism or confirmation].

But that didn’t stop me from attending Mass. I snuck off whenever I could so that I could go. Usually that meant our monthly late-start days during the school year and weekdays during the summer. I could never go on the weekends because I always had softball tournaments and my parents were home.

I absolutely loved going to Mass. But it always killed me when it came time for Holy Communion. I would approach for a blessing, as I had been instructed, with my hands crossed over my chest. Ah! To be so close to Our Lord in the Holy Eucharist, but not be able to receive Him! How my heart longed to receive Him into my soul! Yet, to even be so near to Him was a blessing to me.

It killed me to watch so many others receive Our Lord as though He were some food sample being handed out at the super-market. Did they not know Who they were receiving? That their God humbled Himself to be with them in such a beautiful and intimate way? Yet they stretched out their hands like greedy children for candy. They didn’t care. They didn’t even know… and here I was, so desperate to be united to my God, to make that act of love union, and I was unable to.

Somehow my mom found out I was sneaking off to Mass. I’m not exactly sure how, but moms are moms, and they have their ways. Maybe it was for the better. I always felt guilty lying in order to go to Mass. Seemed to defeat the purpose, right? And it also seemed to fuel her fire against the purity of my reasoning for becoming Catholic.

Time went by and I was quickly approaching my 18^th birthday. It was the beginning of my senior year of high school and was also the time that I was heavy into the recruiting for softball. I was spotted by a coach during the summer at the National tournament in Kentucky. He coached at a small, yet Division 1, Catholic university in Maryland. He contacted me, told me about the school, and asked if I would be interested in coming out to visit.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I looked up the school on the internet. Small, Catholic, liberal arts, and apparently faithful to the Magisterium. I was excited. I looked at the team stats… they were pretty poor. Second to last place in the division, and last place the year before. But I decided to go on the visit.

I fell in love with the Mount the moment I set foot on campus. The Grotto was beautiful. It was perfect. I practiced with the team, had a tour of campus, and enjoyed every minute of it. I met with the coach at the end of my visit and signed for the school. He worked on getting me good scholarship and everything was set by October of my senior year of high school.

October was also special for me, as it was the month that I turned 18… it was consequently the month that RCIA started at my parish.

Somehow I garnered up the courage to tell my parents that I was still planning on becoming Catholic and that I would be attending these classes on Thursday nights. They weren’t happy about it, but they honored the agreement they had made before. I was 18, I could now make that decision for myself even if they disapproved.

My mom made it her prerogative to make it as difficult as possible for me to make it to these classes. One week it was too windy to drive. Another week I had too much homework [“No mom, I don’t have any homework.] Yet another week I had to go to the gym to work out, despite having done that after school. It was ridiculous.

I loved RCIA. I loved learning about the Church [remember, I grew up without any religious background whatsoever, so I was soaking everything up], even the smallest detail. I loved the various rites we went through. I loved it all. Except, perhaps, the dismissals. You see, after the Liturgy of the Word [that is, after the scripture readings and homily], we were dismissed from the community and from the Mass. I both loved and hated these. I loved them because it was a beautiful rite. I hated them because they took me away from what I loved… the Holy Eucharist.