I grew up in the confusion of mental illness and abuse. This led me to look for peace and stability outside the home. I was drawn to the natural world. In my youth we lived in a semi-rural area where houses were few and open spaces grew trees, grasses and flowers. In the beauty of nature, I was drawn to the Creator. Returning home from six months in foster care, I was sent to Christian summer camp in the mountains of California. As a nine-year-old sitting around a campfire, I looked up into a canopy of stars. Captivated by the immensity of the night sky, I fell in love with the One who could make such beauty. This memory still fills me with awe. I knew in the center of my being that the One who made it all was far greater than anything I could imagine. Throughout the challenges, opportunities, and mistakes of my life, I never abandoned this connection to the designer of the heavens.
The faith of my extended family was Seventh-Day Adventist. I never knew who paid for me to attend that summer camp, but they also paid the tuition to send my older sister and me to the Adventist school, sixth grade through high school. Being the only church I knew growing up, the Adventist church shaped my understanding of God and life. Belief in this creator God provided the stability I longed for. His Son, Jesus, and His prophet, Ellen G. White, taught us how to live. We honored the Old Testament Sabbath from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday, following guidelines inspired by Jewish laws. It wasn’t just a day of rest; as a memorial of Creation, it was a defining part of who we were.
Our faith wasn’t just about worship. It extended to how we lived — what we ate, drank, and even how we dressed. We avoided pork and shellfish and many chose vegetarian diets. Alcohol, drugs and smoking were strictly forbidden, as our bodies were temples of the Holy Spirit. To preserve our minds, we were to avoid novels, plays, and movies that were not historical documentaries. These rules weren’t arbitrary; they reflected a commitment to health and holiness, though they could feel heavy at times, especially for a young women trying to understand her place in the world.
As indicated above, the heart of Adventist life was the prophetic voice of Ellen G. White. Though she passed away decades before I was born, her teachings remained central to our faith. Her words were held in almost equal reverence with Scripture. Her guidance shaped how we approached nearly every aspect of life and faith.
We were taught that the Catholic Church was the “Harlot of Babylon” and that the Pope was the Antichrist — a narrative reinforced so often that stepping inside a Catholic church felt unthinkable. It wasn’t just a matter of doctrine; it was fear. I believed doing so would defile me, separating me from Jesus forever.
But the seeds of doubt were already there, quietly taking root. I couldn’t have articulated it then, but I sensed that truth shouldn’t contradict itself. And contradictions, small and large, began to show themselves. Why did some Adventist rules, like the dress code at my school, seem to shift with time while others were unchanging? I began to separate Adventist culture from doctrine, ‘truths.’
Still, my faith in the God of the universe — the One who made the stars and the mountains — remained strong. It was that faith which would carry me forward, even as questions began to multiply. I couldn’t have imagined where those questions would lead me. But I would soon discover that the quest for truth, once begun, is nearly impossible to ignore.
Seeds of Doubt
Growing up in the Seventh-Day Adventist Church, I accepted its teachings as absolute truth. Our beliefs were central to our lives, reinforced by years of Adventist schooling. But as I moved through my teenage years and into college, small cracks began to form in what I had always assumed was a solid foundation.
High school and college were defining times for me. I attended Adventist schools from sixth grade through college, where every subject — even music and dress — was shaped by our church’s teachings. By the time I graduated, those teachings were part of my identity, though not without challenges.
I remember one specific moment that felt trivial at the time but grew in significance later. In high school, a friend fought to wear pants to a school picnic — something strictly against the dress code. To everyone’s surprise, she succeeded. By the time I left college, pants were generally accepted. It seemed like a small thing, but it planted a question in my mind: if these rules could change, what else might be subject to reinterpretation? Could something we viewed as unchangeable one day become negotiable? For me, a shifting standard didn’t feel like a hallmark of truth.
The questions only grew more serious in college. I answered an altar call between my freshman and sophomore years, recommitting my life to Jesus. I meant every word of the hymn we sang, “Just as I am, without one plea, but that Thy blood was shed for me.” Yet I struggled to reconcile this deeply personal commitment with certain Adventist doctrines. If Christ’s sacrifice justified all Christians, why did some teachings imply there was no salvation outside the Adventist Church? How could both positions be true?
Another contradiction came to light when I thought about Christian holidays. The Adventist focus on the Sabbath often overshadowed celebrations like Christmas and Easter. If Christmas fell on a Saturday, it wasn’t celebrated until the Sabbath was over. This left me wondering why the birth and resurrection of Christ — the most important events in Christianity — were being overshadowed by the sabbath memorial of creation.
These doubts simmered quietly during college to surface later. At the time, I threw myself into my nursing studies, focusing on building a future. Working as a nurse, I stopped attending church. I pulled away from Adventist culture but clung to my God of creation.
Years later, while working in a temporary position at a hospital that specialized in women’s services, I encountered a young woman preparing for surgery. She asked me to pray with her, and though I couldn’t remember the Lord’s Prayer in that moment, I prayed earnestly for her, ending with the 23rd Psalm. In that prayer, I sensed the Holy Spirit’s presence.
The events that followed shook me. Unknown to me as I prayed for her, the surgery was a late-term abortion, and the baby was delivered stillborn. The young woman, who had sought the abortion to avoid the pain of labor, was devastated. Now she had endured labor anyway and faced the sorrow of losing her child.
I couldn’t ignore what I had seen. Deep inside, I felt a conviction that I needed to reconcile with God. The next day, I resigned from my position and sought to work where abortions were not performed. The Seventh-Day Adventist Hospital employment person did not understand my concerns. Knowing that Catholics oppose abortion, I went to work at a Catholic hospital. This was a turning point for me, leading me to make selections based on principles. Now, I was an Adventist working in a Catholic hospital because I believed God valued each human life.
In my studies of Philosophy, I came to understand the Adventist doctrines of human creation and generation. God created Adam and Eve, and all other humans are their descendants. God’s breath that made Adam and Eve living souls was transmitted through natural generation to all others. This was why the Adventist church taught that parents controlled the eternal destiny of the unborn to the age of reason when a child developed their own relationship to God. If the parents were resurrected at the end of time, then the child was saved. If not, the child was as if it had never existed.
Thomas Aquinas, however, taught the soul was immaterial, requiring an immaterial source — God. My aversion to abortion was a gift that later came to be understood. Every human being is conceived related to God and treasured by God.
My doubts about Adventist teachings grew. I began to see how much of my faith was shaped by the cultural context I had grown up in. As I questioned the contradictions, I didn’t feel like I was turning away from God. Instead, I was searching for Him more earnestly than ever before. Attending the Adventist church, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. My search for a church with the truth was just beginning, though I didn’t know it yet. At that point, all I knew was that the answers I needed wouldn’t be found by blindly accepting what I had always been taught.
The Catholic Question
At this time, my life felt like a patchwork quilt — pieces of certainty stitched together with threads of doubt. I had pursued a master’s degree in nursing education and began teaching at Columbia Union College, an Adventist institution in Maryland. Nursing was both a profession and a way to live out my faith, caring for others as Christ had taught. But even as I found purpose in my work, questions about my faith lingered in the background.
Pursuing a master’s degree in nursing led to my encounter with the Catholic University of America (CUA). Though it might seem strange for a Seventh-Day Adventist to study at a Catholic institution, my interest was purely academic — or so I thought. I wanted to deepen my understanding of nursing, and at Georgetown Hospital I learned CUA would accept my undergraduate degrees in nursing (AD) and biology (BSN) to enroll in their master’s program. I wasn’t seeking anything spiritual, and I certainly wasn’t looking to further challenge my Adventist beliefs. But God had other plans.
My first exposure to Catholicism at CUA came in subtle ways. I studied and worked on campus, often walking past the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. To me, it wasn’t a church. It was a landmark, a beautiful place to study that had nothing to do with my religious life — or so I told myself.
When I started teaching nursing, my interest in research and science drew me deeper into questions about human nature, truth, and gaining knowledge. These weren’t just academic curiosities; they were questions about life itself. I decided to pursue a doctoral program in philosophy. My application was rejected at University of Maryland, but It was accepted with a teaching stipend at CUA. That year the Dean of the School of Philosophy accepted two Master’s prepared nurses to honor his wife, who was a nurse.
When I began studying philosophy, I didn’t realize how much it would challenge and expand my understanding of faith. My introduction to thinkers like Plato, Aristotle, and Thomas Aquinas opened a new world to me. I had always believed that faith and reason were separate — faith was emotional and personal, while reason belonged to science. But Aquinas shattered that Kantian divide. Aquinas’ arguments for the existence of God weren’t just profound; they were rational. Faith and reason could coexist, even complement each other.
One moment during those early studies stands out vividly. My professor handed out an outline of Aquinas’ five proofs for the existence of God. I was shocked. Here was a Catholic thinker from the 13th century offering logical, reasoned arguments for God’s existence. It was a revelation: intelligent, faithful people had been writing and thinking about God long before the 16th century theologian of the Protestant Reformation, Martin Luther. This realization felt like a seismic shift. What else had I been missing?
As related above, my philosophical studies also challenged my Adventist understanding of the soul. I had been taught that humans were entirely material beings, with no immortal soul. At death, the body returned to dust, and the breath of life returned to God, leaving nothing behind. But Aquinas argued differently. Human intellect and reasoning pointed to an immaterial soul — a soul that didn’t fall apart at death, but endured. This wasn’t just a theory; it was a truth that resonated deeply within me. It explained why humans were said to be created in God’s image, capable of eternal life.
These discoveries began to erode the walls I had built around my Adventist beliefs. The Catholic intellectual tradition, which I had dismissed as irrelevant — or even dangerous — was revealing truths I couldn’t ignore. And yet, I resisted. The Catholic Church was still “the Harlot of Babylon” in my mind, and the Pope was still the Antichrist. I couldn’t imagine stepping inside a Catholic church, let alone considering its teachings as true.
Even so, the questions wouldn’t go away. If the Holy Spirit could preserve the teachings of Ellen G. White, as Adventists believed, why wouldn’t He have preserved Christ’s teachings throughout history? That question led me to the Early Church Fathers. I had been taught that nothing of value existed between the New Testament and the writings of Martin Luther. But in addition to Aquinas, here was a treasure trove of wisdom from the earliest Christians — men who lived within a few generations of the Apostles. I realized that I had been deceived. These weren’t the “Dark Ages” I had been warned about; they were centuries of vibrant faith and intellectual pursuit.
The Catholic Church was no longer just an abstract idea or an enemy to be avoided. It was becoming a possibility, even if I couldn’t admit it to myself yet. My studies had opened a door, but I was still too afraid to walk through it. The Catholic question loomed larger than ever, and I wasn’t ready to face it. When asked, I would answer, “I am no longer Adventist, but I cannot be Catholic.”
The Eucharist and the Turning Point
My search for truth took me in directions I never expected. By the time I began studying philosophy at the Catholic University of America, I had left the Seventh-Day Adventist Church and was in a kind of spiritual limbo. I wanted to know God and live according to His truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to step inside a Catholic church, let alone consider becoming Catholic. My upbringing had made sure of that.
I poured myself into Scripture, hoping the answers I sought would become clear. One passage, in particular, left a mark I couldn’t ignore: John 6. I had read the Bible countless times in my Adventist education, but somehow, this chapter had always slipped past me or was not addressed. Jesus’ words were direct: “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you” (John 6:53). He repeated this teaching so many times that I couldn’t dismiss it as symbolic. If it were merely a metaphor, why did many of His disciples leave Him, saying, “This teaching is hard”? Jesus didn’t call them back to clarify; He let them go, as though He meant every word.
These verses haunted me. What could it mean to eat His flesh and drink His blood? During Adventist communion services, we read Paul’s words in Corinthians as purely symbolic. Yet here in John’s Gospel, the message seemed unavoidably literal. Once again, I had to confront the possibility that I had been deceived or had misunderstood.
Around this time, I began studying Scripture with the Jehovah’s Witnesses. They, too, rejected the Catholic interpretation of John 6, claiming that the Real Presence of Christ in communion (the Eucharist) was reserved only for the 144,000 mentioned in Revelation. But this explanation didn’t satisfy me. The numbers didn’t add up, and neither did the logic. Still, I was grateful for the Witnesses, because they would study in my home. These studies sharpened my focus on the passages that mattered most, like John 6:53 (communion) and Matthew 3:13–17 (baptism of Jesus with manifestation of the Holy Spirit).
One night, as Christmas approached, I found myself longing for something more. I wanted to be in a church, to worship Jesus in a way that felt real. In my stubbornness, I reasoned that I couldn’t enter just any church until I was sure its teachings were true. But the desire was there, growing stronger with each passing year.
Christmas Eve of 1992 was a turning point. A friend suggested attending Mass at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. I convinced myself it wasn’t really a church — just a place I had studied and worked within for years. Arriving that night, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. The Great Upper Church was packed, standing room only. Disheartened, I walked down the long hallway to the Crypt Church. It was quiet, almost empty, and seemed safer somehow.
I slipped into a pew near the back, trying to stay unnoticed. The stillness of the space was captivating. As I prayed, I felt a deep sense of my own unworthiness, bent over, and a bit sick at my stomach. When I looked up, my eyes fell on a crucifix over me. The body of Christ was over my head, and in that moment, I felt crushed by my sinfulness. Even though I had often asked God for forgiveness, I couldn’t escape the overwhelming realization of my brokenness. Then, as clear as day, I heard an interior voice: “That is why I gave the Eucharist.”
The awareness faded as quickly as it came, leaving me shaken. Looking around, I found the cross and Jesus in the middle of the room far away from where I was sitting. I didn’t tell anyone — not my Adventist friends, not my Catholic classmates. The words lingered, quietly working their way into my heart. But I wasn’t ready to act.
A few weeks later, as I lay in bed, I felt a sinking sensation. It was as though I were dying, slipping into the unknown. In the stillness, Jesus on the cross spoke again: “Don’t you want to be united to me?” My answer came immediately: “Yes, Lord, take my soul. If I die, please take my soul.” I didn’t die that night, but I made a promise to seek out my Catholic friend, Steve, who was a convert, and tell him everything.
The very next day, I saw Steve walking by the Shrine. Words tumbled out of me as I tried to explain what had happened. He listened patiently for a few minutes, then said, “Calm down, that’s what Catholics believe.” He suggested I either come now and join him and his wife for Mass or pick up a booklet on the sacraments. I wasn’t ready to attend Mass, so I chose the booklet: The Seven Sacraments by Bishop Donald Wuerl. It was a revelation. The sacraments weren’t just rituals; they were lifelines, connecting us to the grace of God. For the first time, I saw the Eucharist as nourishment for the soul, like manna for the Israelites in the desert.
Still, fear held me back. I couldn’t imagine becoming Catholic. My upbringing had taught me to see the Church as the enemy, and old habits die hard. Even with the voice of Jesus and the truths I was discovering, fear wouldn’t let me go. I was on the brink of something life-changing.
A Leap of Faith
The truth had been unfolding before me for months, and I could no longer avoid it. By early 1993, I had come to accept that what I had been taught as a child about the Catholic Church was wrong. The Church wasn’t the “Harlot of Babylon,” and the Pope wasn’t the Antichrist. But letting go of decades of fear and prejudice was easier said than done. I felt trapped between what I knew intellectually and what I feared emotionally.
After my experience in the Crypt Church on Christmas Eve, I continued to wrestle with the idea of becoming Catholic. It felt impossible. I couldn’t reconcile the beliefs I had held for so long with the pull I now felt toward the Church. On one particularly frustrating day, I decided to seek out my Adventist friend, Jack, a former pastor, but a Catholic in his youth. Surely, he could help me sort through my doubts.
“Jack,” I asked, “can you remind me what Adventists believe about the soul?” His answer startled me: “We can’t really be sure. Human knowing is so uncertain. No matter what we decide, we could be wrong.” His words hit me like a jolt. “Jack, that’s Immanuel Kant!” I exclaimed. “I can’t accept that.” The idea that truth was so subjective, so fluid, was unbearable to me. I left our conversation knowing I couldn’t go back to the uncertainty of my Adventist beliefs.
My Adventist upbringing had left no room for reverence toward Mary, let alone devotion. But my years of walking the halls of the Basilica gave me a feeling of warmth and trust towards Mary, the kind and faithful mother of Jesus. As I walked the halls of the Basilica, I found myself seeking her out in quiet moments, trying to understand her role in all of this. Early in February 1993, I stopped in front of an image of Mary, somewhat like the women from Revelation that I had been searching for, but a depiction of her surrounded by the nations. I hesitated before praying, unsure of what to say. Then, almost as if she interrupted my thoughts, I heard her words clearly: “Do what He says, do not be afraid, it will be all right.”
Her words brought an unexpected peace, though I still hesitated. The idea of becoming Catholic felt overwhelming, but the pull toward the Church was undeniable. As I stood there in the Missionary Chapel, I realized I couldn’t turn away any longer. If this was the path God was leading me to, I had to follow it.
On February 11, 1993, the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes, I made the decision to act. I contacted Fr. Kurt Pritzl, a Dominican priest and professor who had guided me during my early studies at CUA. I wrote out my experiences and shared my recent insights with him, the journey that had brought me to this point. I could not speak. After quietly reading for several minutes, he smiled and said, “So, you’re not Catholic. Is that the problem? Well, this will be a beautiful spring.”
I wasn’t so sure. “I can’t be Catholic,” I told him firmly. But even as I said it, I felt the walls around my heart begin to crumble. The words “do not be afraid” echoed in my mind, a reassurance I desperately needed. My friend, the Dean’s secretary, told me this was the Feast of Bernadette of Lourdes and I ought to take the Confirmation name of Bernadette. It took time to understand what these words meant, but that is what I did.
The two months that followed were filled with preparation and prayer. Each step brought me closer to the Church I had once feared. On April 11, 1993, at the Easter Vigil, I was received into the Catholic Church. I remember the joy of that night, the overwhelming sense of being in the home I had resisted for so long, while Jesus pursued me with relentless love. He didn’t just wait for me to find Him — He came to get me.
Looking back, I am humbled by the words Jesus spoke to the apostle, Thomas: “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed” (John 20:29). I had to see to believe. My journey had been full of fear and resistance, but His grace broke through every barrier. Becoming Catholic wasn’t just a change in belief — it was the fulfillment of everything I had been searching for.
Life in the Fullness of Faith
Becoming Catholic was not the end of my journey, but the start of a new chapter. After my reception into the Church at the Easter Vigil in 1993, I began to experience what it truly meant to live the truth in the fullness of faith. For the first time, I understood how the sacraments connected us to Christ in a deeply personal way, nourishing our souls and strengthening us for the challenges of life.
The Eucharist became the center of my spiritual life. Jesus’ words in John 6 — words that had haunted me for so long — now bring comfort and joy. I see the Mass as a foretaste of heaven, a place where we are drawn into the very heart of God. It isn’t just a symbolic ceremony; it is life itself.
For several years, I searched for a religious community that Jesus might be calling me to join. I stayed close to Dominican communities, drawn by their devotion to truth and their love of study. But none of them was quite right. On February 11, 1999 — the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes — I made private personal vows as a lay religious. This commitment allowed me to dedicate my life fully to Christ, living out my vocation in the world while remaining closely united to Him.
These vows have shaped my life in countless ways. They’ve given me a focus and clarity I didn’t know I needed, enabling me to reflect Christ’s love in all that I do. While I haven’t been called to join a specific lay apostolate, I’ve found my place within the Church by embracing its universal mission to love and serve.
Looking back, I am filled with gratitude. Jesus didn’t just open a door for me; He came and found me when I was lost. He pursued me with a love that wouldn’t let go, breaking down the barriers of fear and misunderstanding I had carried for so long. Every step of my journey, from Adventist roots to Catholic conversion, has been a testament to His faithfulness.
Now, I strive to live as a witness to His love, embracing the beauty of His Church and sharing the joy of the faith I once feared. My story isn’t extraordinary — it’s simply a reflection of God’s extraordinary patience and grace.
