Early Life
I was born in Manchester, England in 1969 to Irish parents. We moved to my Mom’s hometown, Donegal, Ireland, in 1977, where my four siblings and I attended the local Catholic school. At the age of 11, I received the Sacrament of Confirmation. My friends and I were very excited for the gifts of the Holy Spirit to descend upon us. We wondered what it would be like, if we would notice a difference in the moment. We were ready and waiting! After the big event, we huddled together and agreed that we were all much wiser — probably as mature as our parents!
I next attended the local high school, a Loreto convent. There, we occasionally had a service in the beautiful little chapel. We’d sing and have a lesson on being guided by the Holy Spirit. Sometimes, I was sure He showed up in person as we sang Veni Sanctus Spiritus. I wondered if others felt it. Most people never spoke about their faith. Faith wasn’t very personalized, but rather, more institutional.
Growing up, we went to Mass every Sunday, but it didn’t have any great appeal to me. I went because it was non-negotiable. When, at 18, I left home for college in Belfast, I didn’t bother with Mass any more, preferring to sleep in on Sunday mornings instead.
The Catholic/Protestant divide, or “The Troubles,” was rife in Northern Ireland at the time. Being Catholic now took on a different meaning altogether. It wasn’t about Jesus and the Blessed Mother. It wasn’t about going to Mass or holy living. It wasn’t about religion at all. It was about which side of the fence you were on nationally. Were you proud of the Queen and aligned with British politics, or did you carry a vision for a United Ireland, free from British “occupation”? For me, I didn’t have a political or historical bone in my body, but that didn’t matter. I was born Catholic, came from Donegal, had the last name Moran, and attended the University of Ulster. There was no doubt to society where my “allegiance” lay.
Everyone played by the rules. There was no choice. You’d be shot in the head or knees if you wandered to the wrong side. It was easy to not get lost. Street curbs were painted either red, white, and blue, or green, white, and gold. Everything was segregated: schools, colleges, taxi stands, and even pubs. During this time, I had a job teaching preschoolers. The classroom was a double-decker bus in Protestant Rathcoole Estate, the epitome of poverty-stricken, downtrodden, hopeless living. However, the director of the group pulled me from the role. She said it was too dangerous, since I was Catholic, and gave me an office job. I was tasked with refurbishing a rundown Victorian mansion that would be used for cross-border events.
After receiving my B.S. in Applied Psychology, I continued my study in the same field. In 1993, I graduated with my Master’s degree and went to England to study for a Ph.D. in Neuroscience.
An Awakening: That’s Not Me
About a year or so into my Ph.D., I started dating my professor. I was in my mid-twenties — he was over 50! We had an argument one night after coming home from the pub. He started punching me. After a few hard hits in the face, I managed to get out from under him and ran out the door.
I dressed pretty promiscuously in those days, and now I was out on the dark street alone. It was about two in the morning on a Friday night, when people were driving home from the pub, consciences loosened with alcohol. I got such a fright when I realized my vulnerability. I ran as fast as I could to my home, about a mile away.
When I got home, I went to my room and looked at myself in the mirror. My face was a mess. My mouth was cut and my nose was bloody. My eyes were puffed up and bruised — one was barely open. Blood was all over my face and mascara streaked down my cheeks. My hair was matted with blood from my nose. I was shocked at what I saw in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself — physically or emotionally. The person staring back at me was not me. I fell to the floor and cried, wondering how on earth I had gotten here. I knew there was a better me buried deep inside. How did I let her drift away? Where did she go? More importantly, how could I get her back? Was that even possible? I knew I was at risk losing this inner soul for good. I needed a radical change.
Becoming Protestant
Shortly after that awakening, I had a conversion experience. My Protestant friends called it being “born again.” I didn’t like that terminology at all. It sounded cultish. I was told I needed to get back to church — but not a Catholic church. I didn’t ask why it couldn’t be a Catholic church; I just followed along and found a local Non-denominational church. It didn’t seem to have much structure to it, and I was okay with that. They played nice worship music and studied the Bible. I did an Alpha course, which helped me understand where I was in my faith. I enjoyed studying the Bible, praying, and most of all, just speaking with Jesus — daily, throughout the day, moment-by-moment. Soon, a prophetic gift developed, and I had many deep, meaningful conversations with the Holy Spirit.
Around this time, while I was in the north in Chester, I met my husband, an American, in London. We began dating, spending most of our time together on the phone. After a year, we got engaged. Back in Ireland, my mum was making arrangements for our wedding. She called a local priest and told him she was looking for a date for her daughter’s wedding, and mentioned that my fiancé was a Protestant. The tone on the phone changed instantly. I could hear the priest screaming at her. He yelled that both me and my heathen husband were damned to hell for all eternity! My mum was outraged. I found the whole thing amusing.
Adding insult to injury, the priest hung up on my mum. I suggested she call him back and give him a word or two of her own. She did. She shouted back at him, “Is it any wonder the youth are leaving the Catholic church these days with bigots like you at the helm?” She told him that my Protestant fiancé was more a testimony of Christ than she’d seen in any Catholic priest in a long time. Then she hung up on him. Six months later, my husband and I got married in a Methodist church in Ireland. I was 30 years old.
The American Dream
After our wedding in December 1999 and a New Year’s celebration in Ireland, I emigrated to the United States with my American husband. We arrived in Philadelphia on January 2, 2000. For church, my husband and I settled into a Calvary Chapel in Philadelphia, then attended another Calvary Chapel when we moved to the suburbs. I was learning tons about the Word of God. I began doing children’s ministry and participating in small group Bible studies. I got into a pattern of daily devotions, my prayer life was deepening, and my obedience to the Holy Spirit was becoming more consistent. My walk with the Lord was good and growing, and I was loving it!
Leaving behind a life of academia in the UK, I began my American career working in the pharmaceutical industry, using my psychology background to understand patient cognition and health behavior. It was very fulfilling. I worked for a large pharmaceutical company for several years and then resigned to establish my own consulting company. I loved my work and planned to see this through until retirement. I was living the American dream — that is, until God got in the way.
In 2017, after almost two decades in the pharmaceutical industry, the Lord told me to give it up. I said, “No!” After months of wrestling with the Lord over the future of my business, the Lord pulled the rug out from under me. Maybe if I had gotten off of the rug, the fall wouldn’t have been so painful, but I was stubbornly holding on. I fell hard and was stunned! My whole purpose and identity were instantly stripped from me. I felt naked, lost, unjustly robbed — by God, of all people! I was confused and angry with God. I lay on the floor in my home office and cried my eyes out, completely stymied about what had just happened and what my life was going to be now.
I had thought I was doing what I was created to do. Applied cognitive science was my life and purpose; now all of that vanished. Trying to see into the future, all I could see was a blank. There was no definition, no plans, no goals, no purpose — nothing; just lots of white space and nothingness. I felt like a zombie.
One day around that time, while I was doing AirBnB, I had a lady staying with me who asked me at breakfast, “So, what do you do?” This was the first time someone had asked me that question since the Lord took me out of my consulting. I had no answer. After a couple of minutes of hemming and hawing, I answered rather circumspectly, “I guess I’m a stay-at-home mom,” and I burst into tears. She said, “Oh dear, I didn’t mean it to be a difficult question.” It was a cathartic moment. I didn’t want to be a stay-at-home mom. As much as I value that role, I had never seen it as my calling, despite having five children, four of whom were hurtling towards the teenage years! (Looking back now, spending time close to my children during their teens was a cherished time.)
The American Nightmare
During this time of being a stay-at-home mom, the Lord was providing me lots of material to write down. Soon I had notebooks packed with teachings and lessons. There was a definite theme in the writings. The church was struggling to be a testimony to the world of God’s love and grace. My heart began to lament for a deeper spirituality within the church, and within myself. It grieved me to see people sloshing their coffee mugs around in the “sanctuary.” It grieved me to see people focus on themselves during worship instead of on God. It grieved me to see God being reduced to a prayer buddy. It grieved me that His people didn’t bow down in humility and reverence to Him — our Creator and our Redeemer.
I spent a lot of 2018 in tears crying over the lack of honor and obedience within the church. My heart was broken. I cried with Christian friends, with my husband, with church leaders, by myself — always about the same stuff: the church isn’t loving and honoring God from the depths of its heart. I saw a desperate crisis, and work to be done. I started with a meager and humble effort: writing a blog on Spiritual Formation.
Truth First
I enjoyed writing the blog. It grew into a small ministry, which I set up as a 501c3 organization in 2018 under the name Truth First. I began teaching seminars and conferences. The theme was always the same: providing practical tools to prosper sanctification so that Christians could live authentic lives that glorified God.
Then the pandemic hit. I stopped doing seminars and conferences and took to writing again. The Lord kept pressing on my heart about the desperate state of the church. The feeling became overwhelming to the point that I couldn’t bear it any more. I told my husband I needed to get away for a while to write what the Lord was laying on me. He gave me his blessing, and off I went in our RV, just me and my dog, to Cape May for a while.
The first morning I woke up at 4:55 AM — the first miracle of the day! After breakfast and a walk with my dog on a cold, dark October morning, I sat at the tiny table and asked the Lord “Now what?” God spoke. He said “Before you write, I want to tell you why you are writing this book.” What happened next was an experience that deepened my faith across heart, soul, and mind more than anything else that I had ever experienced. He said, “You are writing this book to bring people back to me.” I can be a scribe for that, I thought casually. Then He said, “You are writing this book because I am desperate.” I said, “Lord, I didn’t hear you right. Can you say that again?” He said “You heard me right.” I was incredulous. Surely, it’s not possible for God to be desperate. I argued back “Lord, no. You are the God of heaven and earth. It’s not possible for you to be desperate. You can have whatever you want.” I felt my own sanity was on the line. What would I cling to and revere if my Rock — God — was desperate? I begged Him again, “You can’t be desperate!” He answered plainly, “I am desperate for my people to love me.” Then he placed in my heart a modicum of His grief. It was overwhelming. I felt like Moses, barely glimpsing the tiniest piece of His emotion, and I was utterly undone. My Christian mindset just imploded. Something was desperately wrong.
Through the grace of God, I was able to regain myself in service and sacrifice to the work I was tasked to do. The Lord said, “Write this down,” and I began typing, only stopping for a few seconds to shake the pain off my wrists. The Lord continued to pour His words into me during those days in Cape May. Then my dog and I returned to Pennsylvania. After this watershed experience, what had been a blank, white slate for my purpose was now filled with a manuscript for Loving God and a mission to bring God’s people back into a relationship of love and obedience to Him.
During this same time, my husband and I had left Calvary Chapel, a Non-denominational church we had attended for about 15 years. We joined a Baptist church and quickly found ourselves in leadership. My husband was the worship leader and I was a deacon. Again, we availed ourselves of great biblical teaching, but something just wasn’t right. Where was the love of God and obedience? Where was the sacrifice of daily living? There was much good talk about Christian living but little applied reality. There were no crosses to bear, only titles; no sacrifices, only celebrations; no mercies, only graces; no humility, only pride; no conviction, no accountability, no confessions, no reverence, no obedience; only grace, lots and lots of grace — as Bonhoeffer would say, “cheap grace.” It was all about cheap grace and a free ticket to heaven.
Protestant Spaghetti and Catholic Steak
It was also around this time that the Lord told me to go to seminary. Again, I promptly said, “No!” I thought the idea was ridiculous. The Lord wouldn’t relinquish. The Holy Spirit kept dialing up the conviction on my disobedience until I couldn’t take it any more. So in 2020, I registered for an online program at Liberty Baptist University to study for a Masters in Theology. I loved the academic life of my earlier years in the UK. Now though, I was in my fifties and a stay-at-home mom with five kids. Also, my ministry was taking up time. I couldn’t quite figure out how the Lord was going to carve out space for full-time study. Through earlier mornings, later nights, and a few good hours during the day, I was able to find the time to study and write papers. I loved getting back into reading and writing essays. I was hungry for more meaty, intellectual fodder to feast on. Surely I’d find this in a theology master’s program.
As I unpacked the doctrines of the faith, slowly but surely things began to unravel. I had been taught sola Scriptura, but now I was seeing evidence for tradition (1 Cor 11:1). I had been taught a congregational model of leadership was best, but now I read about servant leadership under ordained authority (Matt 16:18–19; Acts 14:23), and I had seen congregational “leadership” fall apart into chaos due to disobedience, arrogance, and pride. I had been taught “once saved, always saved” and then wrote a paper analyzing Hebrews 6, which came to a radically different conclusion. I had been taught that the sacraments and “working” out our salvation” (Phil 2:12) was a Catholic tyranny, and that “faith without works is dead” (Jas 2:26) did not mean that faith without works is dead. I had been taught infant baptism was useless because an infant cannot state their faith, then I was taught by the same Baptist professor that irresistible grace meant no response from the person was required to receive the grace of God. These weren’t the only contradictions I encountered. It all seemed like a big plate of spaghetti. Everything was a heap of non-nutritional stodge.
One of the most important lessons for me during this time of study was that I had cultivated a deep Protestant bias. When I put away my preconceived Protestant beliefs and studied through a cold or Catholic lens, verses I couldn’t reconcile with my Protestant doctrines made sense. “Faith without works is dead” was an obvious reality to me now, and I believed the apostle James when he said it was foolish to believe otherwise (Jas 2:20, 26). “Work out your faith with fear and trembling” (Phil 2:12) was no longer a “mystery.” Instead, it served to spur me on to actively living a sacrificial faith day-to-day. Mistruths like Calvin’s “total depravity” now saddened me when I considered that Scripture states, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made” (Ps 139:14) and that we are all made in the image of God (Gen 1:27). Moreover, I was explicitly taught in seminary, and through countless sermons over the years, that the Bible was canonized in the 4th century containing 66 books. Only through my extracurricular research did I discover that the Protestant Bible was originally the same as the Catholic Bible — containing 72 books — through the Reformation and up until as late as the 19th century, when six books were removed. I felt like I had uncovered a dirty little secret, and that I had been deceived.
My Husband’s Journey
My husband, Andy, grew up in a strong Protestant home. He spent formative years on the mission field in Brazil before going to high school in New Jersey and college at Drexel University. He went to London to study for a PhD in Chemical Engineering, where we met. Back in the US, as we both journeyed through church over the first 20 years of our married life, Andy became increasingly aware of the poor testimony of the church in its day-to-day living. There was never a shortage of good Bible teaching, but reverence for the Lord, love and kindness towards fellow Christians and non-Christians, and plain old obedience were much harder to find. In our leadership roles, the scope of disobedience and arrogance we witnessed became burdensome to him.
In the small Baptist church where we were leaders, Andy was somewhat outraged that the pastor defied a stream of prophetic words, visions, signs and discernments, and the firm voice of his leadership team and instead chose his own self-serving preferences for the church. This was the last straw that spurred our departure from the Baptist church — but where to now? My husband and I both had developed a distaste for the congregational governance model of church leadership, and were also deeply saddened by the church’s flippant disregard for sacrifice and obedience.
There was a wonderful Non-denominational Protestant church right around the corner from our home, Grace Bible Fellowship, and a Catholic church right next to it. We assumed we would go to Grace, but I asked my husband if we could try the Catholic church for two weeks before we started Grace Bible Fellowship. He was agreeable. In February 2023, we sat in a Catholic church for Mass. My husband was overwhelmed with the Holy Spirit and cried throughout the Eucharistic liturgy. I felt deep pangs of nostalgia for my childhood in Ireland. Our two younger children (Simon, aged 15 and Molly, aged 11) were curious about Dad’s tears. “It’s just the Holy Spirit,” he told them. The second week we went to Mass, Andy again sat with tears streaming down his cheeks. The kids looked on curiously. “It’s just the Holy Spirit,” he told them. But why was the Holy Spirit moving him like this? And what were we to do next week? Could we really jump over to Grace Bible Fellowship when the Holy Spirit was clearly doing something within Andy? The next Sunday we agreed to go to the Catholic church again.
Now we were weekly attendees — nothing more. How long could we sustain this non-committal posture? It was March, and Easter was right around the corner. I had remembered, and shared with Andy, that the Catholic Church does a bang-up job for Lent and Easter. I suggested that we stay at the Catholic parish until Easter, and then make a decision to either commit, or leave for Grace Bible Fellowship. He agreed.
We thoroughly enjoyed the sacrificial time of Lent, and sobbed at the Good Friday service like never before. It was as if we were seeing the crucifixion for the first time. Christ hanging there naked and tattered for our sins — but yet, not a shred of condemnation, only love. It was thoroughly humbling for both of us. Molly and Simon also cried when they saw Jesus on the cross. This was a new way of seeing the cross for them — raw, sacrificial, passion-filled. By now, the Lord had a tight hold on Andy, and it would be a struggle to go anywhere else.
For the two years prior, Andy and I had had some great theological debates concerning the new discoveries I was making in my seminary studies. As I threw questions to him around inconsistencies that I couldn’t untangle, he initially was able to defend Protestantism. He had, after all, been brought up on a staple diet of sola Scriptura and knew the Scriptures well. But as the plot thickened, Protestant theology kept running aground, and the new (to us) Catholic theology that we were both now devouring continued to steam ahead, unstoppable, unwavering. It provided answers to what Protestant theology couldn’t explain. Andy now also was hungry for theology and reverence, and the Catholic Church was providing a rich diet of both.
After the Easter service, we met with the priest and shared our stories. He told me I was still a Catholic. I was surprised, and confessed I hadn’t described myself as such in 36 years! He told Andy that to join the Church, he needed to receive First Holy Communion and Confirmation. I had an image of him wearing small patent leather shoes and white tie with his hands flat together prayerfully. He asked Andy to take a year to do RCIA, during which time, he would abstain from the Eucharist. Andy pushed back, saying he was not willing to forego communion for an entire year. A happy compromise was reached. Andy would study select parts of the Catechism over the next few weeks, and the priest would exercise his Easter privilege of administering the Sacraments at Pentecost. The following week, we met again to check in on the Catechism study. Andy had read the whole thing front-to-back and was all in. Well, almost! He told the priest that he agreed with 98% of the Catechism. The priest was delighted, gave him a big smack on the shoulder and said, “Well, that’s more than me!” We were in! So were Molly and Simon; they were baptized and received First Holy Communion on Pentecost 2023, while their Dad received First Holy Communion and Confirmation — six Sacraments in total. The Holy Spirit showed up big time!
