By Bo Caldwell
When I Was in first grade, my mom told me that I'd been invited to play at Jenny's house, and that after school I should take the bus as usual, but get off with Jenny. I wasn't crazy about the idea. Jenny was new and lived with her grandmother. She was a little too good and a little too nice, and I didn't see that we had much in common. But I took the bus like Mom told me to.
I even sat next to Jenny and tried to talk to her, and I understood that it was going to be a difficult afternoon. She had long wavy hair and short bangs and looked like a doll and my feelings about how different she was were confirmed.
Then the bus stopped and someone at the front of the bus called my name and I looked up and Jenny Buchanan, beautiful, popular Jenny Buchanan, who wore calico jumpers and her auburn hair cut short, was standing next to the bus driver saying, "Come on, Bo, this is my house." And instantly I saw that I'd misunderstood: It was Jenny Buchanan who'd invited me over, the fun one, the one everyone liked. I stood and hurried down the aisle, amazed at my good luck.
On Wednesday, Jan. 31, at the age of almost 41, I was received into the Catholic Church, and what's led up to that decision has been like hearing Jenny Buchanan call my name. It turns out that God isn't at all who I thought he was, and somehow the view through the window called Catholicism has changed everything. I've been continually surprised at who it is that is really calling, beckoning me to come with him. He is far more wonderful than I ever expected, and once again, I am amazed.
And I find myself in a place I never expected to be, shaking my head at what's transpired: How did this happen? As with any great change that comes upon one slowly, my conversion feels at once like the most surprising and the most natural turn of events. I can't help but try to retrace my steps, looking for the seeds, whether scattered or sown, that brought me here.
Going to Mass seemed like going to another country, and I was wistful as I watched my cousins head toward their car.
We, on the other hand, were Presbyterians, and my parents' strong evangelical faith was a given of my childhood. I sang in the choir and went to Sunday school and Vacation Bible School and church camps, where I was told the Good News: that God loved me and that his Son had died for my sins. I understood that God had a plan for my life, and while I never doubted God's love, I did doubt that He really knew me. He was like the maid: It was best to tidy up a bit before you let him in, and I was careful about how I talked to him: Dear God, please God, thank you, God, I'm sorry, God. My guess was that God wanted me to be like Nancy Drew: honest and kind, with high morals and solid judgment. He wanted me to be good.
So I tried to be good, and it wasn't hard in junior high and early high school. I helped run the church's youth group and could be depended upon to get my homework done. I was timid and self-conscious, and I didn't stray; my belief in God was lodged firmly in my center and I felt I had a personal relationship with Jesus. Being good got harder during the last two years of high school: I drank a little, I had a boyfriend, and I was doing a few things I didn't want God to know about. And when I didn't see any way to follow Jesus and still do what I wanted, I developed an all or nothing approach. In the "on" periods, I was very good. I worked at Christian camps, where I gave my testimony and prayed that my friends would accept Christ. When I was 16, I went to hear a fundamentalist speaker who told us emphatically that "Christians should not date non-Christians," and I found myself breaking up with a perfectly good boyfriend, for no reason that I really understood or believed in.
But eventually I'd get tired of being oh-so-virtuous, just worn down by the effort, and I'd call it quits. I'd still go to church, but with my defenses up. Hey God, I'd think, don't worry about me for a while. In fact, don't even look. Thanks for all your help, but I'll handle things from here.
And little by little, we grew distant, God and I. He became like a close family friend on the other side of the country who sent me so many gifts that after a while I hardly noticed them.
While I didn't doubt his love, it never felt real to me because he didn't know me. I carefully hid the parts of myself that might disappoint him; he had such high hopes for me! So I used good manners. I didn't complain. I was grateful for everything he gave me. I didn't tell him about the things that hurt, or how I sometimes hated the way I looked, or how lonely I was, even with family and friends who loved me. When I looked inside myself, I saw someone loved by God as best he could, given who she was.
And then I fell into one of those times where it seemed as though I heard of someone having cancer just about every day-with three of them close to me. I prayed like crazy, and when, one by one, those people died, God lost his power for me. I understood that he commiserated with me and that he shared my grief, but that was about it. We became no more than co-workers in the same building, with my faith not much more than a hard nut of stubborn belief, the residue of my upbringing.
And then my marriage hit the skids.
In March of 1993, I moved myself and my two kids out of the house I had shared with my husband for 10 years, taking, for the most part, only what I needed: enough plates and flatware and pots and pans and linens to get by on, a handful of photographs, the clothes I wore most. I left the crystal, almost all of the furniture, most of the books. I left the clothes from Talbots; the separation brought out the adolescent in me, and I'd grown to dislike anything that hinted of a suburban housewife. And I very intentionally left my faith. I assumed God would disapprove entirely, and I figured I had enough to do without convincing him. When I thought of him, it was in an apologetic way: I'm sorry, I know you don't like this, but I'm going to do it anyway-which, coincidentally, was pretty much what I was telling my husband.
But the real fear was that if I listened to God, he would talk me back into the marriage, just as he'd talked me into breaking up with that non-Christian boyfriend. Let God get his foot in the door and there was no telling what might happen. Before I knew it, I'd find myself wearing Laura Ashley clothes and writing Christian novels and denying my sexuality, my shadow, and my very self.
Six months passed, fall, then winter, and I began to calm down. I started going to bed at midnight instead of 3 a.m. I stopped letting the dog drink beer. I just sat now and then, instead of always doing something around the house. And in the stillness, I began to feel a hunger, for what I didn't know, but I wanted to satisfy it.
Church didn't seem like an option-I felt certain I knew what God thought-so I began to meditate. Actually, I began reading about meditating far more than meditating, but even so, I had the feeling of doors opening, and I sensed someone nearby. And as I grew quieter, I began to miss God, and little by little to want to wind my way back, not retracing my steps, but, like the wise men, going home by another way.
That was in January 1994, and at the end of the month I fell in love, the head-over-heels, everything's-different kind. Falling in love had often seemed to solve things in my life before, and it seemed to then. All I could think about was him, and all that spiritual hunger got shelved because it didn't matter any more.
But around March, the object of my affection backed off a little, trying to get his bearings and to see where we were headed. And while his carefulness turned out to be a good thing, at the time it felt like a turning away, and I was lost. It was as though I'd been right in the middle of a great party, and everyone left. Now what?
Did I mention that he's Catholic?
We're talking serious Catholic: daily Mass, educated by the Jesuits. He's a believer, all right, and through his belief- which was passionate and real and ran right down his center-I began to glimpse the giver of that belief, and it was not the God I'd known. More than that: Through this sweet man's eyes, I began to see not only that my being good wasn't God's chief concern, but that, in an entirely different way, God was good. Not good as in behave yourself, but good. Like pizza and beer for dinner when you're tired and hungry. Like a hot bath, or a great day, or holding your kids: that kind of good. And I wanted more of him.
The Episcopal Church was next. I found that the ritual and rhythm of Holy Eucharist fed me, and when I looked in the yellow pages and found that a church in Portola Valley had Morning Prayer on weekdays and Holy Eucharist on Friday mornings, I began driving up there most mornings after getting my kids to school. And there, in the span of those short services, I received a calmness that gave me hope, and I began to see that God wasn't who I'd made Him out to be.
I bought a new Bible-the old one had little penciled-in notes and I wanted to read with new eyes-and I started reading the Psalms. Then I just browsed around in the Old Testament, looking for something helpful. And I found it. The descriptions in Deuteronomy of God bringing his people to a new land resonated with what was happening to me. I too felt lost, and I too wanted to believe that I was being brought somewhere new, a place where I would be whole.
Deuteronomy reassured me that it would happen, though it would not happen overnight. Do not be afraid, I read again and again, and my fears eased. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might, I read, a verse I'd known since childhood. Only now I didn't see it as a command, but as a promise: I was beginning to want to love this God, and that verse seemed to tell me that I would learn how.
Jesus was more of a problem. He was so heavily clothed in Vacation Bible School-with connotations of no fun, be good, and act like a doormat-that I still didn't want to have much to do with him. He was like the boy in high school who liked you too much and was just always there, wherever you went, watching you with a sorrowful expression. No thanks. So I just avoided the New Testament.
Over the next year I went to Holy Eucharist at two Episcopalian churches three or four times a week. And, now and then, I'd go to Mass with the boyfriend. I found the Mass beautiful and powerful, and the presence I sensed there was intimate and passionate in its love. I had the feeling I'd had everything upside down: At Mass, God was a mystery, and it seemed that we were called not to figure him out, but simply to experience him. We didn't go to please him; we went to feed ourselves. I came out of Mass in awe, shaking my head. That's what you're like? That was you? As though that distant friend I'd imagined wasn't just a friend, but a lover, a case of mistaken identity. I felt I was being not so much called as beckoned, pursued even; someone had found me and would not let me out of his sight.
Then, on a Saturday afternoon in late February, I got out the yellow pages again and found that the Catholic church nearby had Mass at 5 o'clock. And when I walked into St. Nicholas that afternoon, the first time I'd gone to Mass by myself, what I felt was: at home.
Soon I was going to Mass every day. I'd take my kids to school and go to St. Athanasius at 9 o'clock, if I ran late, I'd go at 12:15 to St. Thomas Aquinas, or to Church of the Nativity at 5:30. Each time I came out of Mass, I felt embraced, and I began to see that I'd misread a lot of things. I'd been wrong. He didn't want me to be good. He just wanted me.
In June, I went to a silent retreat at a Franciscan retreat center, and when I saw my parents after the retreat, my dad said, "I've been sniffing the wind, and I think you're becoming Catholic."
"I'm thinking about it," I said, and when we'd talked a bit, he and my mom said that if this path brought me closer to Christ, so be it. But the conversation, while a relief, was also difficult.
During a phone call that autumn, my dad voiced his concern. "You have a history," he said, "of being strongly influenced by whatever guy you happen to be dating. You know what I mean?"
"Yes," I said.
"Do I need to go on?"
"No," I said, "true enough."
"Like Boyfriend Four," he said (except he used the name, but it didn't matter).
"You took up macrame. You wore Earth Shoes. You-"
"Dad," I said, "I said yes."
"OK," he said, and then he asked whether all of this was about the Catholic boyfriend.
"No," I said, because I'd examined this one carefully, making sure.
Late in the fall, I met Leo-Father Rock-a Jesuit at Santa Clara University who was helping someone through the RCIA process and who agreed to do the same with me. I liked him immediately, and during our times together, I began, through Leo, to unravel some of the knots in my faith. I began to be convinced that God wasn't disappointed with me when I failed; that he didn't wish I were someone else; that he wasn't waiting for me to be perfect. And I began to feel his kindness, a tenderness that made me let my breath out in relief.
On the morning that I was to be received into the Church, I called my parents. I hadn't yet told them that I was making things official. Mom wasn't home; Dad and I talked for a few minutes, and then he said, "Tell me what's new with Bo."
Deep breath. "Well, there is something new, Dad," I said. "I'm going to be received into the Catholic Church today."
Then a long pause that told me, You weren't imagining this; it's like saying, Well, Dad, I've decided to go ahead and grow that third eye. My dad said, "OK," in a grim sort of way, not as in OK, that's fine, but as in, OK, I'm trying-let's have the rest of it.
"It feels very right," I said hesitantly, and I told him about Leo, and that there would be a small Mass at 3 o'clock that afternoon.
We talked for a while longer. As I told him how I loved the Mass and got so much out of it, I could picture him listening, trying to understand. "When I come out of Mass each morning," I said, "I can't believe that I get to do that every day. I can't believe it's free, that I can just go."
He didn't miss a beat. "That won't last," he said. "They'll fix that in a hurry, trust me," implying that I'd soon be asked to tithe. We talked for a bit longer and then he said, "Well, you have my blessing, whatever that's worth."
It was during the homily that Leo gave me a gift. "Mementos that mark special occasions are important for us," he started, and he went on to say that when a novice takes his vows, he is given a crucifix. It's called his vow crucifix, and usually these crucifixes came from Rome, where they were made. When Leo took his vows, it was after the war-1947-and it wasn't possible to get crucifixes from Rome. So instead, the father of one of the novices owned an ironworks and he made their crucifixes.
Leo was holding a crucifix all this time, and it became clear that it was his vow crucifix.
He looked at it, then at me. "The time has come to pass it on," he said, and I watched him closely, sure that I was misunderstanding. "Many people see the crucifix as a sign of suffering, a symbol of great sadness. But it's not. It's a sign of great love." He said that he hoped I would always see it that way. And then he gave me his crucifix.
But one Sunday at the Episcopal church, the priest said that we were continually called to conversion; we were called to turn away from some things, and toward others. That, she said, was conversion: a process, not a moment. And so, while I can tell you the date and time of my conversion to Catholicism, real conversion-metanoia in Greek, a "change of heart"-is gradual; it doesn't happen all at once. A blind man is brought to Jesus. Jesus takes his hand and leads him outside the village, where he puts spittle on the blind man's eyes, lays his hands on the blind man, and says, "Can you see anything?" The man opens his eyes and says, "I can see people, but they are like trees walking." Jesus lays his hands on the man again, and it's only then that he can see clearly.
And if before I felt found, now I feel claimed. Leo's vow crucifix hangs next to my bed, and I'm beginning to think of it as mine. The day after my "swearing in" my brother called and serenaded me with "Ave Maria" and told me how happy he was for me. My parents were moved by Leo's gift; they've made peace with my decision and I feel their blessing. And my kids go to Mass with me on Sunday evenings; they're even becoming regulars. A few weeks ago as we left the church, the Irish priest eyed them and said, "Those two should be acolytes."
On Christmas Eve, I went to Mass with my Catholic uncle, the one I'd see on his way to church when I was a kid. He attends a Protestant church these days, and it was his first time at Mass in a long time, but as we received the body and blood together, I felt joined to him. And that Catholic boyfriend has become my fiance; we'll be married on the Fourth of July. He is a gift so unexpected and so astonishing that I cannot quite fathom it, and yet he is exactly what I've always wanted, and I find myself thinking, How did You know?
And Jesus?
Years pass and you run into that boy from high school who liked you too much. But things are different now, and you see that what you took for weakness was compassion; and what you took for sternness was strength. And you see that he's been there all along-he's never once left you-and that he loves you dearly, down to your very soul. What does he want? To give you the desires of your heart.
Because as it turns out the Christian story is unabashedly and unashamedly a love story.
It's the story of Someone being head over heels in love with us, and the story of us falling in love with him. And the question I hear at Mass every morning is simple in that love: Will you be mine? he asks. By receiving him I answer Yes, and when I look into the window of my soul, God and I are dancing.
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