4
4Horsemen
Guest
Thank you, Eucharisted, for starting this thread which has such wonderful conversion and reversion stories. God gives to each according to need. I don’t know if any of you read Surprised by Truth 1,2, &3, but you might want to do so. Here is a link:
amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_b?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Surprised+by+truth&x=25&y=23
Other interesting titles are to be found as well.
My own story starts as a cradle Catholic. I recall singing for Sunday Mass in the Latin vernacular while in the primary grades. We’d be called to sing for funerals as well, so I’d walk the mile mostly by myself past the greasy neighborhoods of factories and taverns to the Catholic Church (one of several ethnic churches) in the heart of the city. I loved the Mass and used my missal intently checking the translation on the opposite page. I felt caught up in the rhythm and beauty of the choral pieces and chant that drew me in to the depth of the Holy Sacrifice. Eventually, I entered the convent in freshman year of high school, an old stately building in the city.
The first year was a year of blessing as we aspirants were housed with the postulants and novices and first professed sisters. We looked to these elders in faith as models hoping to be like them in holiness and virtue. But something happened along the way. Maybe it because of a misinformed interpretation of Vatican II, but during my sophomore year, my fellow aspirants and I were housed in the new Catholic high school with all the students who were not entering religion. However, even before that time, a monseigneur, during the course of a class in biblical scholarship, surprised and outraged us by telling us that what we read in the bible is myth and not necessarily truth. Maybe he explained that we shouldn’t be literalists, but at the time, we were all shocked and dismayed not knowing what to believe.
Almost the whole prep school didn’t return the following year. (We eventually had a reunion).
From this time on, my faith waned. New forms of the liturgy appeared from out of nowhere it seemed. Nothing was explained to the laity, at least in my parish. I stopped attending Mass early on in college and eventually, after a few philosophy classes, considered myself an atheist (much to my parents’ great sorrow). I became a pseudo-intellectual and attempted to destroy anyone else’s faith, as well, for which I feel intense regret–at one time, self-loathing.
I drank the cup to the last drops. If there were no true God, anything goes, I decided. The time was the 60’s, and I participated in various evils of the time. When I was tossing off the weight of religion and all its precepts and judgments, I felt an exhilaration and freedom like I had never known. However, little by little, it sunk in somewhere in my psyche that something was missing. Something important. Maybe it was an anchor. I couldn’t put my finger on it and became depressed. Nothing brought lasting relief. (This feeling I had now helps me to understand women suffering from post-abortion syndrome in my pro-life work). I even married in this nihilistic state of mind which summoned its own problems.
It wasn’t until after I had two (of six) children that something changed. My 3-year-old had begun asking me deep question like “Mommy, where will I go when I die?” “What does dying mean?”
“Will we be together?” “Always?” I couldn’t answer but to say that we will become part of the earth where we will be buried. My son would ask me the same questions in various ways over and over, until I started to burn with a desire to understand. I went to the library (my haven) where I picked up books on philosophy and theology and began reading into the night.
About this time, a friend came into my life who told me about the happenings going on at the big Catholic Church in town–how people were praising God, speaking in tongues, prophesying and witnessing. I was burning with desire to see if this was really true or some imaginative interplay that was meaningless. One evening I walked in to the church basement while, what was called a prayer meeting, was occurring. Immediately, I felt a presence in a particular area of the ceiling, which I thought was the Holy Spirit but have no evidence to name it. (I believe I experienced this because one time during my so-called existential angst, I had lost all hope and desire after a night of partying, and as I sat on the couch in my California apartment in despair, suddenly I found myself out of my body and in a corner of the ceiling. All I remember is an intense desire to be back in my body, and at that very second I was. I had put this event on a back burner of my already tortured mind).
When I heard the heavenly sounds of praise in tongues, I was astounded. Inwardly, I knew I was a filthy rag among saints, and the beginnings of sorrow and shame began to flow until I was overwhelmed with grief. I borrowed books on the Holy Spirit and read until I could return the following week. There was quite a crowd because the church was open to all Penecostals, Catholic and otherwise. Once again during the praying in tongues, because I could not join in, I asked God to receive my prayer. My hands and arms, which were outstretched, became warmer and warmer. At the same time, a sensation like, how can I describe it, but like a lovely feeling of a sip of wine and and the most wonderful feeling of love. How does love feel one might ask? The love God imbues is unlike no other. The joy of it made me want to leave this earth and be united with Him forever. However, it only lasted for, perhaps, up to a minute as the effects slowly diminished.
to be cont’d
amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_b?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Surprised+by+truth&x=25&y=23
Other interesting titles are to be found as well.
My own story starts as a cradle Catholic. I recall singing for Sunday Mass in the Latin vernacular while in the primary grades. We’d be called to sing for funerals as well, so I’d walk the mile mostly by myself past the greasy neighborhoods of factories and taverns to the Catholic Church (one of several ethnic churches) in the heart of the city. I loved the Mass and used my missal intently checking the translation on the opposite page. I felt caught up in the rhythm and beauty of the choral pieces and chant that drew me in to the depth of the Holy Sacrifice. Eventually, I entered the convent in freshman year of high school, an old stately building in the city.
The first year was a year of blessing as we aspirants were housed with the postulants and novices and first professed sisters. We looked to these elders in faith as models hoping to be like them in holiness and virtue. But something happened along the way. Maybe it because of a misinformed interpretation of Vatican II, but during my sophomore year, my fellow aspirants and I were housed in the new Catholic high school with all the students who were not entering religion. However, even before that time, a monseigneur, during the course of a class in biblical scholarship, surprised and outraged us by telling us that what we read in the bible is myth and not necessarily truth. Maybe he explained that we shouldn’t be literalists, but at the time, we were all shocked and dismayed not knowing what to believe.
Almost the whole prep school didn’t return the following year. (We eventually had a reunion).
From this time on, my faith waned. New forms of the liturgy appeared from out of nowhere it seemed. Nothing was explained to the laity, at least in my parish. I stopped attending Mass early on in college and eventually, after a few philosophy classes, considered myself an atheist (much to my parents’ great sorrow). I became a pseudo-intellectual and attempted to destroy anyone else’s faith, as well, for which I feel intense regret–at one time, self-loathing.
I drank the cup to the last drops. If there were no true God, anything goes, I decided. The time was the 60’s, and I participated in various evils of the time. When I was tossing off the weight of religion and all its precepts and judgments, I felt an exhilaration and freedom like I had never known. However, little by little, it sunk in somewhere in my psyche that something was missing. Something important. Maybe it was an anchor. I couldn’t put my finger on it and became depressed. Nothing brought lasting relief. (This feeling I had now helps me to understand women suffering from post-abortion syndrome in my pro-life work). I even married in this nihilistic state of mind which summoned its own problems.
It wasn’t until after I had two (of six) children that something changed. My 3-year-old had begun asking me deep question like “Mommy, where will I go when I die?” “What does dying mean?”
“Will we be together?” “Always?” I couldn’t answer but to say that we will become part of the earth where we will be buried. My son would ask me the same questions in various ways over and over, until I started to burn with a desire to understand. I went to the library (my haven) where I picked up books on philosophy and theology and began reading into the night.
About this time, a friend came into my life who told me about the happenings going on at the big Catholic Church in town–how people were praising God, speaking in tongues, prophesying and witnessing. I was burning with desire to see if this was really true or some imaginative interplay that was meaningless. One evening I walked in to the church basement while, what was called a prayer meeting, was occurring. Immediately, I felt a presence in a particular area of the ceiling, which I thought was the Holy Spirit but have no evidence to name it. (I believe I experienced this because one time during my so-called existential angst, I had lost all hope and desire after a night of partying, and as I sat on the couch in my California apartment in despair, suddenly I found myself out of my body and in a corner of the ceiling. All I remember is an intense desire to be back in my body, and at that very second I was. I had put this event on a back burner of my already tortured mind).
When I heard the heavenly sounds of praise in tongues, I was astounded. Inwardly, I knew I was a filthy rag among saints, and the beginnings of sorrow and shame began to flow until I was overwhelmed with grief. I borrowed books on the Holy Spirit and read until I could return the following week. There was quite a crowd because the church was open to all Penecostals, Catholic and otherwise. Once again during the praying in tongues, because I could not join in, I asked God to receive my prayer. My hands and arms, which were outstretched, became warmer and warmer. At the same time, a sensation like, how can I describe it, but like a lovely feeling of a sip of wine and and the most wonderful feeling of love. How does love feel one might ask? The love God imbues is unlike no other. The joy of it made me want to leave this earth and be united with Him forever. However, it only lasted for, perhaps, up to a minute as the effects slowly diminished.
to be cont’d
, I corrected myself and said the Sign of the Cross the Right way. When i did, i heard a voice out of nowhere say “Good” (i dont know if it was “Good” i corrected myself or “Good” in another way) I looked at the bathroom window, and there was the outline of a figure standing behind. I thought it was Jesus because the outline sortah matched alot of painting of him,(Hair that reached the shoulders), i wanted to have the Courage to open the curtain, and see what the shadow was. But i got scared and Ran into the living room. I never told anyone this event before.