I didn’t become Catholic because I was disillusioned with God. I became Catholic because I was so deeply rooted in my relationship with Jesus that I had to keep following Him—even when He led me in unexpected directions.
I grew up Baptist, mostly because the church was within walking distance of our house. In many ways, it was simple. I believed in Jesus. I went to church. I prayed. And even as a child, Jesus provided comfort and peace in the middle of hardship. That comfort became a lifeline. My childhood wasn’t easy, and it was in those moments—sometimes quiet, sometimes chaotic—that I felt Christ’s presence as steady and grounding. He was the one constant I could cling to. In my heart, my walk with Christ was always more central than the church building I happened to attend. Looking back, I think that’s why I was open to exploring different expressions of faith—I wasn’t clinging to a structure. I was following a Shepherd.
Eventually, I became involved with an Assembly of God church, especially after meeting my wife. We worshipped together, became more involved, and eventually, I stepped into full-time ministry as an A/G pastor. I had already served in the Army, and as that chapter closed, a new one opened in ministry. It felt like a natural transition—serving with structure and purpose, but now with eternal implications. I preached the Gospel, led a small congregation, and poured myself into shepherding others. I baptized new believers, prayed over marriages, counseled hurting people, and did everything I knew to do to serve faithfully. My wife stood beside me through it all—supporting the work, loving the people, and leading women in prayer and worship. Our entire life revolved around this calling.
But even as I poured my life into ministry, I began noticing things that troubled me.
The Cracks in the Foundation
Leading a struggling church exposed me to a level of organizational confusion and denominational division that was spiritually exhausting. Every decision seemed bogged down by bureaucracy. Every question raised a dozen conflicting answers depending on who I asked, what denomination they came from, or what their particular tradition taught.
It started to haunt me: If my denomination isn’t entirely right—who is? How could so many churches, all claiming to be led by the same Spirit, end up so divided on foundational issues? I had been trained to believe that Scripture alone (sola Scriptura) would guide us into truth, but truth seemed subjective in practice. One church said one thing. Another said the opposite. Both claimed biblical authority.
That crack in my confidence became a chasm. I didn’t lose my faith—I just realized the house I had built it in might be missing something. I began asking deeper questions. Who decided the canon of Scripture? How did the early Christians worship? Why did every church plant I encountered look different, even though we were all reading the same Bible?
So I quietly began reading, researching, praying. I read early Church Fathers. I explored apostolic succession. I began to see the Catholic Church not as a medieval invention, but as the historical root of Christianity. Again and again, the path kept pointing back to the Catholic Church. But I resisted. I didn’t see how it could work.
I was a pastor. I had a wife deeply rooted in Pentecostal tradition. I had a flock to lead. I couldn’t imagine my wife would ever be interested in Catholicism.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
An Unexpected Confirmation
I was in the bathroom one day, getting ready for the day, when my wife, unprompted, said she had talked to a Catholic priest and was starting to look into the Catholic Church. My jaw just about hit the floor. She didn’t know about the hours I had been spending reading about the Church Fathers, apostolic succession, and Church authority. She didn’t know I had already been wrestling with the idea in silence.
It was, without a doubt, a divine nudge. A very loud one.
Soon after, I met with the priest she had spoken to. He answered my questions with clarity and compassion. When I asked for resources, he gave me the Catechism of the Catholic Church. I loved it instantly. It wasn’t just inspirational—it was instructional. It had references. It had authority. In a sea of fragmented doctrine, here was something rooted, deep, historical. I had long felt that Protestantism lacked a unified voice. Now I could hear one.
This encounter led to more. We began attending Mass. We sat in the back, unfamiliar with the flow, but drawn to the reverence. It was so different from what we were used to—less emotional, more contemplative. But it felt holy. It felt ancient. It felt right.
We began having long discussions in the evenings, after putting the kids to bed. Sometimes we would share something new we had learned—how the Eucharist echoed Passover, or how apostolic succession maintained the unity of faith. Other times we just sat in silence, overwhelmed. Change was scary. But peace was louder than fear.
Wrestling with Mary, Embracing the Liturgy
The shift wasn’t easy. I struggled with aspects of Catholic practice. The liturgy felt formal and distant at first. I didn’t understand the structure. But over time, I discovered the beauty in its form. The reverence. The rhythm. The deep connection to the early Church and the unfolding of salvation history every time we gathered.
The Mass is not a performance. It’s a participation in something eternal. And as I began to understand that, my heart softened to the beauty and necessity of liturgy.
Mary was even harder.
I had always seen her as the humble teenage girl on a donkey in a Christmas play—precious, yes, but not a spiritual mother. The Catholic relationship with Mary baffled me. It felt foreign, maybe even idolatrous. But then I began to study Scripture through a Catholic lens. I saw how deeply she was woven into salvation history—not as a goddess, but as a mother. As my mother.
The Hail Mary was a prayer I never thought I would say. But eventually, I did. First quietly. Then confidently. It became a way to calm my anxiety and center my thoughts on Christ through her example. I still wrestle with her role sometimes, but that wrestling has led to growth. I’ve come to see the beauty in building a relationship with her, and even in the tension, there’s grace. I’ve begun to pray with her, not just about her. And slowly, the mystery of Mary has become a comfort rather than a controversy.
Coming Home
We entered the Church at Sacred Heart Catholic Community on Fort Leonard Wood in 2019. Our RCIA instructor was exceptional. The congregation welcomed us like family. The priest walked with us tenderly and truthfully. RCIA wasn’t just education—it was transformation.
Each week in RCIA felt like rediscovering the faith I already had, but with roots. With structure. With history. The teachings weren’t just theological—they were deeply pastoral. We weren’t just learning about doctrines; we were being drawn into a mystery.
On Easter Vigil, as we received the sacraments, I was overwhelmed. Joy and safety washed over me. For the first time in my life, I felt like a wandering orphan who had finally found home. A real home. A home where the authority was apostolic, the worship was timeless, and the doors opened into the eternal.
I remember crying. Not out of confusion or fear, but release. I had been holding it all together for so long—wearing the armor of leadership, responsibility, pastoral authority—and now, I could simply receive. I didn’t have to build the Church. Christ already had.
Since that Easter night, life has kept moving. We’ve moved a couple of times for work and family and now call Waco, Texas home. But the call to share Christ and truth never left me. It just kept finding new expression.
Faith in the Present Tense
Not long after our youngest daughter, Octavia, was born, my wife Beatrice was diagnosed with lupus. There is something humbling about watching the woman who stood beside you in RCIA, who said “yes” to the Church alongside you, now having to say yes to a fight she didn’t choose. The exhaustion. The flare-ups. The uncertainty. We have had to learn, all over again, what it means to trust God with the things we cannot control.
In those hard seasons, I have been grateful for a Church that doesn’t just offer inspiration—it offers the sacraments. The Anointing of the Sick is not a ceremony of defeat; it is a declaration that God meets us in our suffering. The Eucharist is not a symbol we hold at a distance; it is the Body of Christ we receive when our own bodies are failing. This is what I could not find in the fractured denominationalism of my past—a Church that knows how to suffer, a Church that walks into the valley with you.
In the middle of that, the Lord also clarified my vocation. I work today as a biblical stewardship coach, author, and speaker—helping individuals, military families, and veterans align their faith with their finances. I wrote The Steward’s Life as a practical guide that weaves theology, Scripture, and real-world financial wisdom together. Beatrice and I also co-authored Before the Ice Melts, a book born out of our shared journey through faith, hardship, and the call to live generously even when resources are thin.
One of the things that surprised me most as a new Catholic was discovering how deep and coherent the Church’s teaching on money and material goods actually is. I had spent years in Protestant circles where financial teaching was either prosperity gospel or barely mentioned at all. The Catholic tradition gave me something different: a rich, integrated social teaching that connects generosity, justice, solidarity, and the stewardship of creation into a single, coherent vision. Documents like Rerum Novarum, the Catechism’s treatment of the seventh commandment (Thou shalt not steal), and the Church’s teaching on the universal destination of goods shaped my understanding of stewardship in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Scripture—like Luke 16:10–11 where Jesus teaches that faithfulness in small things reveals our readiness for greater things—found new depth when read alongside the tradition the Church has preserved for two thousand years.
I now speak to churches, ministries, and veterans groups about integrating faith with finances. I point to the Catechism, the Scriptures, and the wisdom of saints and Church councils. And I do it with joy—because I’m not pointing people to a financial product or a self-help method. I’m pointing them to a way of life rooted in two thousand years of tested, faithful teaching.
Sometimes, people ask me why I converted. I tell them it wasn’t just a theological decision. It was personal. It was spiritual. It was about finally being able to rest in the house of the Lord—knowing the foundation wouldn’t shift beneath me.
To Those Still Searching
If you’re a non-Catholic Christian reading this, let me tell you: Jesus is still the center. He always has been. Becoming Catholic didn’t move me away from Jesus—it brought me closer. It brought me into the Church He founded, with the sacraments He instituted, and the family He established.
There’s beauty in the Catholic Church worth exploring. Often the fears or misconceptions that keep people away are based on misinformation. I encourage you to set those aside, even for a moment, and see what’s really there. You might just find, like I did, that the journey leads home.
Don’t be afraid to ask hard questions. Truth can handle scrutiny. Pray. Read. Explore. The Shepherd is still calling, and He has a home prepared for you. A home that’s been there all along.
