“It is Jesus that you seek when you dream of happiness; He is waiting for you when nothing else you find satisfies you.”
— Saint John Paul II
This quote sums up my life—a life spent searching for satisfaction in success, relationships, material possessions, and even through my children. But true peace remained elusive until I found my home in the Catholic Church. My journey to the Eucharist was long, unexpected, and, at times, painful. Yet, looking back, I see God’s hand guiding me every step of the way, weaving together my suffering, my searching, and even my son, Andrew, to bring me into the fullness of faith.
Roots in Faith, Yet Always Searching
I was born on December 13, 1966, in Cullman, a rural town in north Alabama, to two young parents. Though they loved my sister and me deeply, their marriage ended when I was seven. My mother, a devoted member of the Church of Christ, did her best to instill faith in us. My great-grandfather had been a deacon in the church, and my family had been in the Church of Christ for generations. My father’s side may have been Baptist, but I rarely saw him in church.
Faith was present in my childhood but never deeply personal. I never saw my parents read the Bible or pray, though my mother shared Bible stories with us. I didn’t question much about faith as a child; it was simply part of life, but not something I owned for myself.
That changed when I was 17. I attended a Baptist revival, where an ex-biker-turned-preacher spoke about sin, hell, and salvation in a way I had never heard before. It shook me, and for the first time, I understood my need for a Savior. I was baptized, but my grandmother refused to attend—because, in her eyes, it “didn’t count.” For her, the only true church was the Church of Christ. This was my first encounter with theological division, and it planted a seed of confusion.
After a painful divorce at 19, my faith crumbled. If God was real, why was my life unraveling? My searching led me through various denominations—Church of Christ, Congregational Methodist, Baptist, and eventually non-denominational megachurches. I taught children’s church, led ministries, and sought to deepen my faith. But something was always missing.
Providence in a Hospital Room
At 21, I gave birth to my first son, Andrew, in a Catholic hospital. During that time, the only person who prayed with me was a small, kind-hearted nun. She told me that I had chosen a wonderful name for my son — Michael Andrew — and that he had been born on a special day of mercy. I didn’t understand what she meant, but her gentleness stayed with me. Before she left, she told me something that would change my life:
“It is now your responsibility to pray for your son every day of his life.”
And I did. No matter how far I wandered from church or struggled in my faith, I always prayed for my son. What I didn’t realize then was that those prayers for Andrew, like St. Andrew who led his brother Peter to Christ, would one day lead me home to the Catholic Church.
From the Closet to the Sanctuary
Years later, I found myself lost in pain again. My world had been turned upside down by addiction—watching helplessly as two loved ones spiraled deeper into darkness. My burdens felt unbearable, but my husband, Johnny, carried his with a peace I envied.
Johnny was Catholic, though he hadn’t been well-catechized. He attended daily Mass, but I assumed his peace came from his years in a 12-step program. I didn’t think much of it until he invited me to join him for Mass. At first, I went out of convenience—so we could get to our Saturday date nights faster.
I expected Catholic Mass to feel foreign, but my Church of Christ upbringing had prepared me for its reverence, Scripture readings, and solemnity. The only thing that confused me was the Eucharist. It seemed familiar but different. I didn’t understand.
One day, overwhelmed by grief, I found myself literally face-down in my closet, sobbing and begging God for peace. Johnny suggested I go to Sacred Heart Catholic Church to pray. I thought he was crazy—my church was locked! But he explained that Catholic churches stayed open for prayer.
Skeptically, I went.
The moment I stepped inside, I began to weep. An indescribable peace washed over me. I didn’t yet understand the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist, but I experienced Him that day. I had no words—only groanings, as St. Paul describes (Rom 8:26). I was in the presence of Almighty God, and He loved me.
The Healing Grace of Annulments
Johnny eventually asked me to marry him in the Church, which required an annulment. I scoffed.
“I don’t need a man in a dress to tell me I’m forgiven!” I declared.
But my resistance didn’t last. God was working on my heart. When I finally entered the annulment process, I expected it to be painful—and it was. But it was also something else: grace. True grace.
The annulment process forced me to confront wounds I had buried for years. It was a path of deep healing, allowing me to receive God’s mercy in a way I never had before. The Church, far from being judgmental, walked with me through my brokenness, offering me a way forward. It was a true gift.
A Mother’s Love Leads Home
During this time, I kept returning to the church to pray. There was one particular spot where I lit candles beside a painting of a beautiful woman. I had no idea who she was, but I called her “my girl.” She became my silent prayer partner.
One day, I poured out my heart in prayer and felt an undeniable prompting: Go see the priest.
I resisted, but the feeling wouldn’t leave. Finally, I met with Fr. Patrick. Through tears, I told him about my suffering. He listened, then stood up and said, “Carol, every person has a cross to carry.” He acted out two ways to carry it—one in self-pity and one in service to others.
Then he spoke directly to my heart: “Carol, your children don’t want your help. Go help people who do.”
That conversation changed my life. In 2011, I founded Restoring Women Outreach, a home for women struggling with addiction. And my mysterious “prayer partner”? I eventually learned that she was not just “my girl”—she was my Mother. Our Lady of Guadalupe had been leading me all along.
Coming Home to the Eucharist
On December 1, 2017, my journey home was complete. I was confirmed, my marriage was convalidated, and I finally received Jesus—body, blood, soul, and divinity. The longing that had driven me my whole life was finally fulfilled. I was home.
Since becoming Catholic, God has taken my wounds and used them for His glory. I’ve helped bring others into the Church, taught Mystagogy for new converts, and assisted non-Catholics and lapsed Catholics in rediscovering the beauty of the faith.
One of my greatest joys is inviting people into my home for “Celebrating the Saints” gatherings—sharing faith through food, fellowship, and stories of the saints. Even my non-Catholic friends have fallen in love with these holy men and women.
Looking back, I see that my whole life has been a story of mercy. I made so many wrong choices, but Jesus has been merciful. He was waiting for me in the Eucharist all along, and when I finally received Him, I knew: I was home.
