My journey into the Christian faith had its beginnings in elementary school, when my best friend in Grade 4 at the time gifted me with a miniature Bible. The tiny Bible, no bigger than the palm of my hand, was only a few pages long, but it introduced me to a love I had never known. Today, its pages have seen better days but something always told me to never lose it. My friend never pushed religion on me, but looking back I know now that her little gift to me was an effort on her part to share the beauty of the Christian faith with her friends. But like all 9-year-olds, I was more focused on fitting in than memorizing the Ten Commandments as religion was a foreign concept to me.
Later as a teenager, I struggled quite a bit to find my footing. My parents were not very open about faith matters and having grown up in China, they brought their strong atheistic viewpoints with them to America. My dad was especially vocal about his position throughout my youth, and any open opposition to his viewpoint would be met with a scolding.
Those years of longing and searching were mixed with a desire to be free on my own terms. My American ways often clashed with my parents’ desire to keep me and my brother in line with the Chinese cultural traditions that they were brought up with.
In search of happiness to combat some of my teenage loneliness, I spent a lot of my free time watching TV and I was the lucky child to have her own TV set in her bedroom.
It was through TV that I learned about God.
The sermons given by the late Reverend Billy Graham and another popular televangelist at the time intrigued me. It was through their ministries that I was repeatedly fed the message that there was a Creator who loved me more than anything and that I needed salvation in order to gain heaven. What a hopeful message! I looked forward to each telecast, yearning to hear more.
But despite knowing that God existed and loved me unconditionally, I had to endure another obstacle that made Him harder for me to reach: no churchgoing allowed.
God did not give up on me, no matter the obstacle.
Interestingly enough, my parents were friendly with a few families who shared our Chinese heritage and these families were also deeply involved in the local Baptist Church. It was only in social occasions with these families that I was allowed to mingle with “church people.” But over time, the superficiality and the gossiping from the families made me uncomfortable and was contrary to what I had expected of Christian conduct. Even though the televangelists preached a message of loving each other as Jesus had taught, the behavior of these “church people” left me conflicted and confused.
Finally, one day when I was old enough to drive a car on my own, I mustered the courage to leave the house on a Sunday morning to visit an evangelical megachurch a few miles away. I knew I would probably be met with my dad’s fury when I returned home (“where did you go?!”), but something in my heart told me I would be alright.
All I could remember of the worship atmosphere that day was that of non-stop high energy, the congregants speaking in tongues, and their hands waving in the air in all directions. It was a loving place to “come home” to, but at the same time I felt completely overwhelmed, pressured to belong, and pressured to commit.
A young woman who conversed with me at the megachurch that day clearly sensed my hesitation. I froze at the thought of “coming home” to the megachurch because I worried excessively about what my parents would say; the grip of my family was overpowering. A few weeks later, I received a card from her 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)
She wanted me to know that God had all my struggles and worries in His hands. I just needed to trust and believe in Him. Even though I never returned to the megachurch, I also never forgot her.
At that point, I was on the verge of heading off to college, on the cusp of young adulthood and along with that a new set of pressures and expectations. I still lived under my parents’ roof and their rules. How could I not be worried?
Unfortunately, I actively stopped searching for God through most of my twenties.
After leaving the family nest, I embraced my newfound freedom and tried to fill up the empty hole in my heart with all the things I was rarely allowed to experience as a kid: hang out at the mall with my friends, fill up my closet with the latest fashion trends, go to a movie, discover relationships, savor all the ice cream I wanted, explore a city on my own, go to the beach whenever I wanted. In time, I realized all of these “wants” were like a temporary Band-Aid for a lifetime of “wounds.” But the emptiness in my soul was very hard to ignore.
Then I packed up and moved 600 miles away.
My then-boyfriend (now husband) was a practicing Catholic and introduced his parish community to me. Housed within a historic church right by Chinatown, it was a community of energized Catholics predominantly of Chinese descent I had never seen before. Other than my earliest years in another Chinatown in a major city, I had never been in a place where so many people looked like me.
On my first visit, a parishioner walked up to me and gave me a warm welcome. He offered a firm handshake, a sincere smile, and a genuine interest in knowing more about me quickly followed. I never forgot that kind gesture. I was not pressured to join the community or the Church. First impressions mattered and that left a lasting, positive mark on me. The last thing I needed was more pressure. After those initial encounters, I finally felt at home, like God had set the stage and rolled out the invisible carpet for my “homecoming.”
I followed my conscience and joined the parish soon after.
Even though not many people spoke English at the parish, I thought I could get by with the Taishanese dialect I grew up speaking at home. Instead, I found myself having to quickly adapt to the Cantonese dialect that many of the parishioners used to communicate.
I did not know it at the time, but it was the Holy Spirit that moved me to sign up for the parish RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) program not long after. I started attending the Masses, getting acquainted with all the prayers, hymns, gestures and symbols Catholics are familiar with, and participating in the parish activities. I especially admired my teachers’ dedication and sacrifice of time. Being new to the Catholic faith, it was a lot to digest and I was probably the catechumen who was still crawling along at a snail’s pace in her faith journey while my classmates were already walking or running.
I came home to the Catholic Church on Easter, 1998. There are no words to describe that momentous day, as it was perfect 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.
During the ceremony, I was asked to give a personal witness to the congregation, sharing parts of my faith journey that led me on the road to Catholicism. Never having shared anything so deeply personal before, I was sure many of the congregants would not understand what I was talking about in English.
What happened next was just God’s way of showing me never to underestimate how He can work through His people: Not one to enjoy attention, sure enough, I was approached by several people following the ceremony and was applauded for the story I shared. Of all of them, the comment of one older parishioner, who spoke in Cantonese, left the biggest impact on me: “I did not understand a single word you said (from the ambo), but I understood (every word) from the heart.”
Words held power and that just propelled my spirits to the roof. Clearly …” with God all things are possible” (Matt. 19:26). There are no boundaries or obstacles that can keep Him from us. Not even a language barrier. From that moment on, I made it a point to keep searching for meaning and understanding in the Chinese Masses regardless of the dialect the priest would use.
The honeymoon was soon over and as a newly minted Catholic, I was immediately put into service at the parish. Thanks be to God because He was not one to allow a newly baptized sitting duck to be attacked by the Evil One.
Shortly after being initiated into the Church, I was approached by a fellow parishioner to help her coordinate the Religious Education program for the coming academic year. It became a multi-year service commitment including opportunities to teach and catechize the parish’s children. More service opportunities and leadership roles soon followed, including forming a fellowship group for young adults, organizing a group to attend the World Youth Day pilgrimage to Toronto, participating in committees and parish council, among others.
But, sadly, the joy of serving the parish soon led to a period of burnout. Spiritual burnout.
I suppose I had not given myself permission and the time to learn more about my new faith, to dive into the Church teachings, to study the Bible, to build a relationship with Jesus, let alone quiet time for prayer. My spiritual life needed nurturing and time to process and grow. My godparents were supportive and encouraging. Maybe it was pride or ego that reared its ugly head here, but as a grown adult, I was not expecting any handholding and 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 came up with excuses. The Evil One got me in his devilish grip now. The burnout I felt would eventually lead to a spiritual blindness that would last 20 years … until the day God put me through a series of trials that led to my ultimate transformation.
Photo credit: Annie Spratt on Unsplash