Where It All Began
I was raised in the Lutheran tradition, where faith was structured, reverent, and rooted in Scripture. My mom sang in the choir, and I attended Sunday school regularly. I remember the hymns, the liturgies, the potlucks, and the steady rhythm of church life—a rhythm that gave me a sense of order and belonging. My family didn’t just attend church—we lived inside its patterns.
But even in that consistency, I carried questions I didn’t have the language or courage to ask.
Leaving the Church
It was in junior high that I left the church. Our pastor was transferred, and a new one came in. My dad decided to leave, and we never went back. I didn’t push back. I didn’t see the gospel lived out in the people I knew during the week, and over time, church just faded into the background.
I was a student of history, and I wrestled with what had been done in God’s name—and the quiet hypocrisy I saw around me. But I didn’t leave in protest. I drifted. Slowly. Church became optional, then irrelevant. I told myself I was still a “good person.” That was enough, wasn’t it?
But the longer I stayed away, the more untethered I felt. I tried to fill the quiet ache with relationships and experiences—things that gave me something to feel, something to chase—but they never settled the restlessness underneath. God wasn’t absent. I was. And somehow, I always knew.
Time in the Wilderness
For years, I wandered spiritually—trying to make life work on my own terms. But the truth is, I never found much meaning in what the world offers. I was always chasing something deeper—truth, connection, wholeness. But trauma distorts our vision. And I’d been carrying pain I didn’t know how to name.
When I was 23, my mom suffered a medical emergency that left her in a vegetative state. She remained that way until her passing three years later. Those years cracked something open in me. Grief didn’t just bring sorrow—it exposed the scaffolding I had unknowingly built my life upon. Relationships, work, intellect—they all buckled under the weight of loss.
In the silence that followed, I searched. Not for comfort, but for meaning. I read philosophy. I journaled. I dove into experiences and conversations, hoping something would click. I wasn’t chasing success—I never really had. I was chasing understanding. Something true enough to hold me.
God felt distant—but never gone.
There were moments of quiet grace: a lyric, a sunrise, a word I didn’t expect. Still, I didn’t yet have the courage to turn around. But that hunger for what was real—that never left me.
Coming Back to Christ
After my divorce, I found myself walking back into church—hesitant, unsure. The songs felt like they belonged to someone else’s God. It felt like an exclusive club I wasn’t invited to.
But I kept showing up.
Over time—through study, silence, and slow healing—I began to recognize someone I had known all along. Jesus wasn’t an idea I needed to re-learn. He was a person I had always known, and now I met Him again.
That season rekindled my love for Scripture and awakened a hunger for transformation. It didn’t fix everything, but it gave me something solid to stand on.
And then, something I hadn’t expected—I found a church community that welcomed me. A place where I wasn’t just tolerated, but truly seen. I was invited to share, to serve, to use my gifts in ways that mattered. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I felt like I belonged.
It was here I found purpose. It was here I met my wife and found direction. But, as often happens in the church, things changed. The pastor left, and a new one came in who shifted the direction of the church. Over time, the community began to unravel. Most of the original members eventually left.
During COVID, my wife and I felt a quiet clarity—we knew it was time to move on. We visited other churches, and for a time, we thought we had found a new home. It started out wonderfully, with hope and a sense of connection. But things didn’t stay that way. Over time, we realized we weren’t truly connecting to the community.
It was during this season that I found myself exploring Catholicism more seriously. As if God was gently unraveling our attachments to open our hearts to something we never expected. He wasn’t closing a door—He was inviting us to walk through a new one.
The Search for More
That search stirred something deeper in me—not a crisis of faith, but a longing for roots. Where did this story begin? Who carried it forward after the apostles? What did the early Church believe, and where did those beliefs go?
I was drawn to the Church Fathers. To apostolic succession. To the mystery of the Eucharist. I wanted something ancient. And alive.
A turning point came on a trip to the Holy Land. On the southern steps of the temple, while the noon call to prayer echoed through the air, I gave a Bible reflection. My words cut through the noise—unphased—and something in my spirit stirred. Scripture wasn’t abstract—it was embodied. Alive. Rooted in place, time, and truth.
That experience marked me.
Prayer deepened. Curiosity turned to conviction. A conversation here. A book there. A whisper in prayer. And then a moment at Mass—quiet, reverent, Christ-centered—where I encountered not emotion, but truth.
Entering the Catholic Church
I didn’t become Catholic because I had all the answers. I became Catholic because I trusted the One who does.
The process wasn’t easy—it came with questions from friends, moments of loneliness, and the humility of admitting I’d been wrong about many things. But I wasn’t abandoning my faith. I was coming home.
My love for Jesus didn’t change—it deepened. My understanding of grace and Scripture expanded. I didn’t lose my evangelical fire—I found its roots. I didn’t stop loving other Christians. If anything, I love them more.
Why It Matters to Me Now
Today, I find beauty in the sacraments, in the rhythm of the liturgical year, in the authority of a Church that spans centuries and cultures. The Mass grounds me. Confession humbles me. The Eucharist sustains me.
I believe in unity—not uniformity. I honor the steps that led me here: Lutheran reverence, evangelical passion, non-denominational openness. Each taught me something vital.
This journey showed me that grace isn’t just a concept. It’s a Person. A Savior who meets us in our wandering, waits through our rebellion, and welcomes us home with joy.
I didn’t find the Church because I was strong. I found it because I was lost. And Christ, in His mercy, led me to fullness.
I’m still walking. Still learning. But now I’m rooted. And that has made all the difference.
If You’re on a Similar Journey
If any part of this story resonates with you—whether you’re wrestling with questions, grieving something lost, or searching for a deeper sense of home—I’d encourage you to keep seeking. Ask the hard questions. Follow the quiet nudges. You’re not alone in the wilderness, and grace has a way of finding us when we least expect it.
I’m not here to convince, just to bear witness. And if you ever want to talk, I’m listening.