Ever seen a tiny Bible? My journey into the Christian faith began in 4th Grade when my friend, Amy, gifted me with that.
Just a few pages long and no bigger than the palm of my hand, this tiny Bible introduced me to a love I had never known.
Today, its pages have seen better days but something always told me to hold on to it. So glad that I did.
We were little children sharing what we knew and had with each other. That’s what little kids do, right?
But like all young children, however, I cared more about fitting in with peers than memorizing the Ten Commandments. Religion was a foreign concept.
Then the teenage years emerged. Oh, what a period of struggle it was.
Struggling socially, physically and emotionally. No one ever taught me that we had a spiritual side too. It was hard to find my footing in life during those years of growth.
My parents were the hard-working, pursuing-the-American-Dream, do-it-yourself variety. Tough with love, expectations, and discipline. They were also not very open about faith matters. Dad was especially atheistic in his viewpoints.
Growing up in Virginia, our family did not belong to any church. However, my parents were friendly with people at the local Baptist Church who also shared our Asian heritage. The only time we got to mingle with “church people” was during weddings and social functions.
But there was no real community or connection. The “church people” were very kind, but our interactions were superficial and lacked depth.
In an effort to find happiness and combat teenage loneliness, a lot of my free time was spent watching TV.
It was through TV that I learned about God.
Sermons by the late Reverend Billy Graham and another popular televangelist intrigued me. It was through their televised ministries that I was repeatedly fed the message that there was a Creator who loved me more than anything and I needed salvation to get to Heaven. What a hopeful message! I looked forward to each telecast, yearning to hear more.
Despite knowing that God existed and loved me unconditionally, I was confronted with another obstacle: no churchgoing allowed. I did say my folks were “tough with love, expectations and discipline,” no? Their roof, their rules.
God did not give up on me though.
When I was old enough to drive, I courageously left the house one Sunday morning to visit an evangelical megachurch close to home.
The worship atmosphere was one of non-stop high energy, the congregants speaking in tongues, and their hands waving in the air. It was a loving space, but I felt overwhelmed. Pressured to belong and pressured to commit.
A young woman who conversed with me that day clearly sensed my hesitation to join the church. I froze at the thought of “coming home” to the megachurch because I worried about what my parents would say. Weeks later, she sent a card with this Scripture passage:
“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matt. 6:34).
Did I know that God had my struggles in the palm of His hands? Was I willing to trust and believe in Him? I never returned to the megachurch and I never forgot that young woman.
Unfortunately, as a young adult, I stopped searching for God.
Young adulthood meant embracing my newfound freedom and trying to fill up the empty hole in my heart with all the things I was not allowed to experience as a kid. In time, I realized all of these were like a temporary Band-Aid for a lifetime of “wounds.”
Beginning anew in the New England area, my then-boyfriend (now husband) was a practicing Catholic and introduced his parish community to me. A community of energized Catholic Christians I had never seen or experienced before. People who looked like me.
The first visit made a lasting impression. A parishioner extended a warm welcome, offering a firm handshake, a sincere smile, and a genuine interest in wanting to know more about me. Wow, it’s hard to fake that. There was no pressure to join the community or the Church either.
But in my conscience, I felt at home.
At last.
As if God had set the stage and rolled out the invisible carpet for my “homecoming.”
I signed up for the RCIA program (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults), started attending the Masses, got acquainted with all the prayers, hymns, and gestures, and participated in the parish activities. There was a lot to digest. I was the catechumen still crawling at a snail’s pace in her faith journey while my classmates were already running.
But this was all God’s doing. A mustard seed of faith was planted.
I came home to the Catholic Church on Easter, 1998. There are no words. It was a perfect day in every way as God had intended it to be. I was starting a new life in Jesus Christ, in the Church that He founded.
After the Mass, I gave a witness talk to the congregation, sharing parts of my faith journey that led me on the road to Catholicism.
In English.
To a Chinese-speaking congregation.
I was pretty sure few people understood what I said from that ambo. However, the Holy Spirit made it clear that He was the one in charge. Because the comment of one older parishioner left me in shock: “I did not understand a single word you said (from the ambo), but I understood (every word) from the heart.”
Clearly …” with God all things are possible” (Matt. 19:26).
The honeymoon was soon over, as it was time to roll up the sleeves and get to work. A newly minted Catholic, I was immediately put into service at the parish.
Service commitments included helping to coordinate the Religious Education program and teaching the parish’s children. Leadership opportunities followed including forming a young adults fellowship group, organizing a World Youth Day pilgrimage, participating in committees and parish council, and others.
Sadly, the joy of service soon led to burnout. Spiritual burnout.
I failed to spend time learning about the Catholic faith. And I had no real relationship with Jesus. Prayer time? Nope. My spiritual life needed time to process and grow. I was too focused on “doing” and not “being.” I needed to seek out the resources to help myself flourish spiritually.
Except I did not.
Instead, I fell into the trap of letting obstacles dictate and coming up with excuses. I became easy prey for the Evil One. The burnout became a spiritual blindness that would last 20 years … then God permitted me to undergo a series of big trials that led to a transformation.
Photo credit: Annie Spratt on Unsplash