Taking the Back Roads to Rome - My Journey to the Catholic Church

Taking the Back Road to Rome: My Journey to the Catholic Church

By a.d. elliott | Take the Back Roads - Art and Other Odd Adventures

While I was in Orlando, soaking in the hot tub after visiting the Basilica of Mary, Queen of the Universe, the inevitable question floated across the water: “So, what brings you to Orlando?”

I knew answering honestly, “I’m here to visit a shrine," might cool the party mood, but I wasn’t expecting the man in the far corner to blurt out, “You’re Catholic? And you admit it?”

“Uh… yes? Shouldn’t I?” was the best I managed.
(Adding “work on snappier evangelization skills” to my mental to-do list.)

It turned out he was Catholic too, just nervous about admitting it because of the headlines.

But yes, Henry, I’m Catholic. And what’s more, I converted.

"Death stands at your elbow. Be good for something while you live, and it is in your power."

Marcus Aurelius

Why I’m Catholic is a long story.

People ask often, especially now, when many are questioning whether religion is worth the rules, the commitment, the scandals.

My background didn’t exactly prepare me for traditional worship. My parents operated somewhere between the fringes of Dionysus and a well-intentioned dumpster fire. The God of Abraham, when mentioned, was described like a cross between Zeus and a judgmental neighborhood Peeping Tom. Jesus came up at Christmas and Easter, usually with confusing explanations about how we were all “sons of God” the same way he was, which made no sense then and makes even less now.

Fish grew up in something similarly chaotic.

I grew up believing religious people were mean and judgmental.

Then came the accident. Then my son’s birth. Then the financial collapse.

Suddenly, we were living a life far beyond our emotional or physical bandwidth.

Our families' love came with strings we could no longer pull.

The “love everyone” church I’d been attending simply lit candles for us while we faced food scarcity with two small children and an infant.

The religious community around us vanished like morning mist.

"Our own life has to be our message."
Thich Nhat Hanh

And then came one fierce Benedictine nun.

Sister Stephanie had a tiny office in the hospital where my son remained. She fought for us fiercely. She made sure our boys had food. She bought us time. And she was genuinely offended when I tried to thank her.

“I’m a Christian,” she snapped.“As if I’d do anything else.”

I swore then: If I ever join another religion, it will be the Catholic Church. She was one small beacon in a sea of “Christians Behaving Badly,” but that beacon stayed lit. But I wasn’t looking for God yet. I was trying to stay alive.

There are things doctors don’t tell you when they bring you back from the dead:  They tell you it hurts.  They don’t tell you it will always hurt. And sometimes unbearably.

While struggling with pain management, I remembered the image of Thích Quảng Đức, the Buddhist monk who self-immolated in protest of the Vietnam War. I wanted to know how he endured the pain.

Buddhist meditation became a lifeline, something I still use in prayer.

"And yet, even if one person finds his way.... that means there is a way." 

Philip K. Dick

Survivor research is bleak. Really bleak.

I researched other near-death survivors and found that many don’t make it a decade. Self-destruction, intentional or accidental, is common. Those who survive longer often drown in medication or alcohol.

Very few live an average lifespan. 

But a few do. And if one person can find the way, then there is a way.

Those few survivors shared traits: disciplined routines, simple food, conservative medical use, quiet, contemplative lives, and consistent, devout religious practice.

I adopted everything except the religion. I didn’t want to deal with “Christians Behaving Badly.”

At least not until I needed to.

"I have competed well; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith."

St. Paul

Slowly, something shifted.

Meditating on some vague inner spark wasn’t enough anymore. Too much trauma had blown that inner light nearly out.

But meditating on a benevolent Creator,  on intention, beauty, order, the quiet goodness of creation, 

that brought peace.

Through that, I realized God was not the angry judge of my childhood. (You can read that part in Finding God in Gomorrah.)

Then came a moment where the Big G stepped in directly

(see The First Ashes).

And suddenly I wasn’t just meditating.

I was circling back to the only religious community that had ever treated my family with dignity.

The community that shaped one fierce little nun.

It still took years.

Years from the first spark

to the rumpled, tear-streaked walk down the aisle on Ash Wednesday

to begin RCIA.

The back road to Rome, you might say.

But eventually, Henry, I turned toward religious life for a simple reason:

I want to live—and die—in a way I’m proud of.

I want to say, like St. Paul,

“I have competed well; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith.”

And I became Catholic because one fierce little nun lived as a Christian should—

and didn’t behave badly.

xoxo a.d. elliott

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a.d. elliott is a wanderer, photographer, and storyteller living in Salem, Virginia. 

In addition to her travel writings at www.takethebackroads.com, you can also read her book reviews at www.riteoffancy.com and US military biographies at www.everydaypatriot.com

Her online photography gallery can be found at shop.takethebackroads.com

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