Finding My Village

and familiarity in what was once foreign

Four months ago, I described Catholicism as a “foreign land” in the essay below (as well as many other essays.)

Perfect Placement

A new place with new faces, words, traditions, and things to behold. I was hesitant to enter this land. I think in many ways I felt like Ruth entering Judah, a foreigner and outsider not aware of the customs and traditions of a people group.

From every movement and motion in the Mass, to unknown prayers, and new verbiage of expressing viewpoints, I was in a mysterious and exotic realm. In many ways, I felt like a 17th century explorer, embarking into the unknown with fears about what I might discover. Just as travel threatened people of the past’s understanding of the shape and length of our planet, of the people groups that inhabit it, and of the vastness of everything, Catholicism in a strange way was similar to me.

It challenged every preconceived notion and understanding I had of it, and even challenged certain ways I understood the world around me.

I was forging a new path for myself (despite the fact others had forged it long before me), taking a road that felt more like I was veering off the beaten path into the forest to find civilization. It was isolating and incredibly difficult at times.

I wondered what my current friendships would look like… if they would be ruined by my choice? I also worried about family dynamics and people’s judgement. I wondered if I would ever find my place and niche again in work and school as someone who had been studying Christian Ministry and English, and had every intent to write about both. I also worried that community would never come to fruition. As I described in the above article, it felt like I was on an island alone sometimes.

You see, I am a firm believer in the fact our actions are just as weighty if not weightier than that we say in our statement of belief, which is something that I have often been slightly misunderstood for. I believe the places we go, the things we do, and the things we subscribe to are just as much a statement of what we believe as if it came straight from our mouths.

If I go to church, I believe my presence there is my submission and reception of that truth. If I pay for a certain subscription or make a certain purchase with a company, I am aligning myself with those beliefs in my support. If I follow someone on Instagram or Youtube, I am giving my sign of approval to that person’s actions and the things they say. (Believe me, I do not hold this to a perfect T. I still have a Netflix subscription and I am sure I do not support every single belief of everyone I follow on every social platform.) But, I do try and be thoughtful about my actions because actions are how the world sees, interprets, and understands what we believe.

If I claim to or want to represent something, I want to represent it well and accurately.

This is in large part why this path was so difficult for me in so many regards. I am usually an incredibly honest and perhaps overly vulnerable person (though my roommates tell me this is a strength of mine). To have to hide a part of myself, or at least an unravelling part of myself was immensely difficult. It felt like every new person who met me was only meeting half of me, but at the same time I knew I needed the privacy to unpack and unravel what this other half of me even was.

I was still on the quest for truth. I hadn’t made it even halfway to the destination yet. To share my heart would be to share a half incomplete map and face questions about the final destination I wasn’t sure of yet.

I am immensely grateful for every older and wiser person that reached out to me on Substack whether it be via comments or direct messages and reminded me that I didn’t owe anyone answers, because that was the exact consolation and wise reminder I needed.But, I still felt like I was floating on that island.

Here, in a rather desolate place, God met me and when He was sure my heart was ready, He whacked away the foliage and introduced me to a beautiful village of people.

Before this though, it took the humbling of my heart and true surrender. It took me dropping to my knees in the jungle and telling Him I would walk in any direction He said with the fullest of my being, holding nothing back.

Sometimes it takes the stripping of our heart to be able to hand it over to the Lord. Here, in my own desperation and fragile state, I handed my delicate heart to the Lord and He delivered on His promises.

My second semester of school starts on Monday, and when I reflect on how I entered last semester versus now I feel a bubbling sensation in my chest like an overflowing brook of water. Laughter and tears. Joy and disbelief. I am lapping in the glory.

I am no longer dragging my feet in drudgery, looking out for flying monkey’s, pot holes, and snakes. I am no longer walking into fear and unknown. No, I am running into a place I am quite and very known.

Yes, I am running with my arms stretched wide to the sky, a beaming smile on my face welcoming it all.

Shame. Fear. Isolation. Anxiety. Hesitation?

All long forgotten enemies of the past.

I am walking in freedom. In community. In love. In boldness and confidence.

The Lord has given me a village of people who fight for me and fight for the Faith. They are soldiers for the Lord and my greatest allies. They are pursuers of holiness, achers for the Eucharist, and warriors of intercession. When I am weak, they are strong. They hoist me by the waist and hold my head high.

And I am not only known here, but I know this place.

I know the rhythms of the Mass. I know it’s rise and fall. I know those sweet three bell rings like an echo in my soul. I know the calls of the priest because they reverberate in my mind on drives and in my sleep like a lullaby. I have learned the language and it is deeper than my mere English words can express but it is divine. It is its capture of God, human nature, and the very essence of everything that brings me back to my Maker.

Right before Ruth entered Judah she told Naomi that “[Naomi’s] people [would] be [her] people and [Naomi’s] God [her] God” (Ruth 1:16). And this became true. Though at first it was hard- at first, Ruth was gleaning fields and seen as a foreigner to the people- she eventually married into the family of Israel so much that the very promised Messiah and Savior himself came from her bloodline. The foreign became her home, her family, and her legacy.

For me, this is no longer foreign land. It is my land, my home, and perhaps one day, it will also be my legacy.

Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash