Why I Miss the Catholic Church from My Childhood
A story about the gift of faith and overcoming shame
This story isn’t aimed to debate about the Catholic Church. I already sense the curious minds, perhaps already defensive (either for or against Catholicism) before I’ve began. But as I prayed and asked the Lord what to write about, this came to mind: the chocolate brown pews layered one after another, the burgundy upholstery, the echo, or rather, the silence held in the air as one kneels in prayer in an empty church, the stained-glass windows, the best of them, I always felt, being the one from my childhood which served as an enormous skylight with the image of doves flying through a net heavenward. Okay, Lord, here we go.
I went to Catholic school kindergarten through senior year of high school. The neck ties, the knee length skirts, the rules, yes, I remember them quite well. Maybe you do too. To be honest, I didn’t even know other Christian denominations existed until nearly my senior year.
I was sitting in a coffee shop reading and writing (funny how some things never change) when a teenage boy and girl about my age sat at a table quite close to me. They seemed to be on a date. And it was going horribly. The awkwardness, the silence between them, was so piercing that I was cringing from a table away. The secondhand embarrassment was so deeply uncomfortable that I actually thought I should introduce myself and try to help them. I’m pretty good socially, I remember thinking to myself, let me just try.
The boy had a Jesus fish charm on a necklace. I complimented on it, told them where I went to school and church on Sunday, and started asking them questions about their lives. In a few minutes we were all chatting, chuckling a little, and the two were finding things in common with one another.
“Hey, you should come to our church,” the boy said.
“Where do you guys go?” I said.
It was a church I’d seen a sign for while driving and told them I’d check it out. Then I excused myself from the conversation and wished them a nice day.
When I went the following Sunday, it changed my life. The room was dark aside from assorted colors radiating from the stage and ceiling, the music was loud, and there was an entire band on stage. People had their arms up, singing their hearts out. I stood there shocked. I had never seen anything like it. Then behind me, an old man, maybe in his 70’s, started to weep audibly, and got down on his knees touching his head the back of the chair. An older woman, his wife I assume, held his shoulders and crouched over him, seeming to check on him. I remember turning back around to face the stage thinking, Where…am… I?
That service would change the course of my life leading me to ministries, churches, and experiences orchestrated by God that would save me, sanctify me, and make my dad a little disappointed that I no longer seemed to be a “practicing Catholic”. But I resonated with the way they worshipped, the way they cried in the presence of God, the lengthy sermons, and as someone who played instruments and loved to sing, I was moved by the music.
Yet still, my mind wanders to that stained-glass ceiling, the doves, the net, the way it seemed that something, or rather, Someone, was calling to me through it.
I’ve met plenty of people who came from the Catholic Church with horrid experiences, condemning the Catholic Church and everyone in it. I’ve met people from Catholic churches that are some of the most kind, wise, God-fearing, grace-understanding, Jesus-loving people I’ve ever met. I’ve met a few people who grew up in Baptist or other Protestant denominations who decided to start attending a Catholic church in their adulthood. And I’ve met even more people who have never stepped foot in a Catholic church, attended (and paid attention in) a mass, or talked to a priest or someone else with Holy Orders (nuns, brothers, etc.), with plenty of horrible things to say about it. In my experience, those people have been quick to tell me all Catholics are going to hell.
I don’t know what camp you’re in. Maybe you’re in an entirely different one I didn’t mention. But despite all the strong opinions about Catholicism, I miss St. Andrew’s, the Catholic church from my childhood. And I’d love to tell you why.
I miss the pews, the stillness of an empty sanctuary, the way that the Lord always seemed to meet me there, whether I was five years old or 25, He never withheld His presence. It’s like the noise, the hustle and bustle of the world, was quieted, like there was nothing standing in the way between me and the Father.
Some of my earliest memories are looking up at that stained-glass ceiling. I remember staring at the doves, not paying attention at all to the priest or the bible verses said over the podium. I was enamored, captivated, by the skylight. And it’s hard to explain, Reader, but it was in that room that I could not deny the existence and presence of God. I felt Him. If you’ve read my previous post, I was Delivered from Mental Illnesses by the Power of the Holy Spirit & I'm Afraid to Talk about It: Why getting sold out for Jesus made me question my career as a therapist, you know that my childhood was riddled with much pain and suffering and sadness. It was in that room that I felt His comfort. I felt His watchful eye. I didn’t have the words to describe it then, but I’ll speak for little Katie now. She had the gift of faith.
I remember one time, perhaps around the age of six or seven, when my class was leaving the church to make the long walk back to the school which was all on the same property, I made sure I was last in line. As my classmates followed my teacher out the large wooden double doors in a single-file line, I crouched down on the floor in between the pews. I waited a few minutes to ensure they were far away and that no one was turning around to find me. Then I walked across the parking lot to the parish office, a little building with a few offices and a receptionist. This would be my first and last time entering this building. I’m not sure why little Katie went there. But looking back, I’m grateful for this peculiar memory.
I was not tall enough to see over the counter to the receptionist. I imagine she saw the door swing open and shut from her point of view. And I can only imagine what she was thinking when a little first grader in school uniform was standing at the door. She asked me a question, what it was I can’t remember, but I remember telling her, “I want to talk to a priest.”
She led me to a shabby dim lit room where the walls were stacked with bookshelves and a couple of chairs sat near the center. I took a seat, my little feet waving back in forth in the air, and an old man walked in and sat across from me. He was thin, with wispy white hair, wrinkled skin, and thick rimmed glasses. He might’ve been the oldest man I’d ever met at the time.
I can’t recall what I asked him or what his answers were, but I remember he responded to all my questions by quoting scripture.
“Wow!” I said, truly in awe. “How did you memorize the Bible?”
He smiled and chuckled a little. “I read it.”
It was in that same Catholic church at 13 years old that I would continue to feel His presence on Confirmation1 Day. My home, my world, might’ve left me feeling unseen, unknown, hurt, and unloved. But in the walls of that church, I was seen by a perfect Father, known completely by a perfect Creator, held, loved, by a perfect Savior. It was the only place where I experienced profound peace. I can’t believe it. Jesus, who already knew that in the years that followed, I would leave His side to betray Him, to live in the world, live in sin, and break His heart2, made sure that a little girl from a broken home had the gift of faith.
“Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.’” Matthew 19:14
When I was 16 years old, while tormented by suicidal thoughts, it was at a Catholic conference that I would break down in tears on my knees as the Lord asked me to give my pain to Him, and a priest in Confession would help me believe, for the first time really, that I could have a life after high school.
When I was 17 years old, on the cusp of moving away for college, a vessel for 17 years of unresolved trauma, I would be driving down the road to a friend’s house when suddenly I pulled over to a Catholic church and I wandered inside. I kneeled and wept in the silence, looking up at the crucifix3 thanking Him for at least being with me through the pain, carrying me day by grueling day when I thought I didn’t have any strength left.
When I was 19 years old in college in another part of Florida and found myself with too many questions and not enough answers, it was the Catholic Campus Ministry building that I would wander into, where a Brother sat with me for hours, giving me the space to process, to question, and sharing with me his powerful testimony. Time and compassion are priceless gifts.
And when I was 25 years old, in the trenches of Revival, cloaked in the shame of my sins, crushed under the weight of how I had turned to everything of this broken world except Jesus, in the midst of a godly grief for how I had hurt the only One who ever truly loved me and never left my side, it was a Catholic Church that I would hear the Holy Spirit say, “Go.”
I was walking in a place called Park Ave, where cafe tables and chairs line the sidewalks like classic European streets, where the doors of high-end clothing stores, restaurants, and a quaint little bookstore, swing open and shut as the crowds bustle in and out. I was recently baptized and heavily distraught. I walked with my head down in prayer, on the verge of tears. I was a new creation in Christ but plagued by shame from the enemy.
As I walked the sidewalk towards my car to go home, ceaselessly in prayer still, a Catholic church stood at the end of the Park Ave strip, and I felt the Holy Spirit tell me to go in.
But, Lord, what if the doors are locked? What if there’s a mass right now?
But if there was one thing the Lord had taught me in Revival, it’s to obey.
As I approached, I found the Lord leading my steps to the side of the building, not the main doors. There was a door behind some hedges and through my nervousness, I pushed it open. Many Catholic churches are usually open in daytime hours. I always appreciated that.
I found myself in a chapel. It was empty. I walked up to the crucifix, strolled over to a statue of Mary, Jesus’ mother, holding baby Jesus. I wondered if the potted plants were real or not.
I sat down in a chair and asked the Lord why He wanted me to come here. In the corner of the room was another door, this one open slightly, and I felt the Holy Spirit urge me to enter it.
I walked over and peaked my head in. It was a Confession4 room, and I spotted a pair of black dress shoes from behind a barrier. Someone was sitting in there. I quickly and quietly zipped my head out of the room and walked away, but the Holy Spirit once again urged me to re-enter. So, I did.
“The prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise them up. If they have sinned, they will be forgiven. Therefore, confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.” James 5:15-16
“Well, hello!” A man said sitting in a chair.
“Hi,” I smiled and gave a small wave. “Is this a room for Confession?”
“It is. How can I help you?”
“Oh,” I said shaking my head, “I was just walking on Park Ave and felt the Lord tell me to come in here.”
“Well, Confession hour doesn’t start for another 15 minutes, and I felt the Lord tell me to come here early. So, I don’t think that’s a coincidence.” A divine appointment. He smiled at me and gestured with his hand. “Have a seat.”
“Have you been to Confession before?” He asked.
“Oh, yes. I grew up Catholic, but I’ve been going to nondenominational church.”
“Great, then go ahead and begin.”
“Oh, uh, I haven’t been to Confession since I was a kid. I’m not sure I remember how it goes.”
“That’s okay.”
“Okay. Uhm, ‘Oh my God, I am sorry if I have hurt You by my sins’”, I recited the Act of Contrition5 I learned in elementary school, “‘I ask that You forgive me. I know You will forgive me because You love me. I will try to love You daily more and more. Amen.’”
“And how long has it been since your last confession?” the priest asked.
“Gosh, I don’t know,” I laughed, “years.”
“Well,” he smiled reassuringly, “go ahead.”
I told him briefly of my abusive and dysfunctional childhood and young adult life, how the Lord revealed to me that it led to a life of sin, a worldly life, how the Lord had stripped me of idols I’d placed on the throne of my heart. And I told him in detail what those habitual sins and idols were. And I began to weep.
“I’ve repented and I know God has forgiven me,” I said through tears, “but I’m struggling with feeling so much shame from the enemy for what I’ve done.”
He leaned forward and said something I’ll never forget. “When Jesus went to the cross that day, He nailed your sins to the cross with Him.”
“He Himself bore our sins in His body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By His wounds you have been healed.” 1 Peter 2:24
He handed me a tissue and I nodded, unable to make eye contact. He was right. God no longer thought about my sins.6 Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross was the debt paid on my behalf. The Lord had forgiven me. But could I forgive myself?
He gave me some kind words and asked good questions to ensure I was no longer being hurt or abused by anyone. I told him how I wanted to forgive the people who’d hurt me, how hard it was, and how I was terrified to love and be loved by anyone. Then he gave some wise metaphors to help me make sense of my current state which I’ll also never forget and still use today with my clients in therapy.
“Can I pray for you?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” I nodded eagerly.
Then he went to spiritual battle for me. Praying a prayer to break chains so that my past sin would have no effect on me moving forward, even praying for people in my past that I’d sinned with, that they would have no soul ties to me nor I to them in any way from that day forward. I didn’t know it yet, but the next day I would wake up feeling as young, pure, and innocent as I was when I was a young girl before anyone ever laid a hand on me. I was washed clean. My mind was purified, memories erased, completely renewed. (That’s a story for another time I suppose but worth mentioning.)
As a penance7 he told me to go pray for others that need the Lord.
“What is your name?” I asked, grabbing my belongings to leave.
“Father Adam. And yours?”
“Katie.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Katie. If you’re interested, we have a young adults group that meets here.”
“Really? I know someone that could really benefit from that.”
“Perhaps, you could benefit from it.”
We smiled and shook hands, and I thanked him deeply for talking with me. I sat back in the chapel as a young man walked into the Confession room and an older man sat down and waited to go next. And I looked at the crucifix and thanked Jesus, almost laughing with Him, shocked really, that He would be so intentional with me. And once again, I found myself on my knees in a Catholic church, with that same feeling I’d had as a little girl. I was seen, known, loved by an Almighty God, El-Shaddai.8 He directs my steps. He is with me. He is always with me. Immanuel9.
Losing shame would be a process. I learned that the Lord is much kinder and compassionate to me than I am to myself. But the more I spent time with Him, read the Word, prayed throughout my days, months really, the Lord chipped away at my shame like a sculptor to stone, and He created something beautiful.
I wish I could say I lost my shame overnight, that I left it in the water when I was baptized in the lake behind my pastor’s house, or in the Confession room that Saturday afternoon, but more truthfully it took time. And the more I grieved, the more I realized how much God hates sin, how much it hurts him when His creation turns away from Him. I had a glimpse into His heart, and it humbled me to love righteousness even more. It taught me that I didn’t have to strive to be righteous to earn my way into Heaven. Jesus already paid the price for that with His blood. All I had to do was rest in His steadfast love for me, and righteousness was a natural byproduct of that rest. And when my flesh desired sin, self-control and righteousness became a way I loved Him in return.
When I think about the Catholic church from my childhood, I am reminded that it is where I first heard about this man named Jesus. It is where stories of Jesus from the gospels were told over and over again. It is where I first saw a statue of a man dying on a cross, which would be my introduction into the greatest sacrifice in human history, the Lord’s greatest act of love
“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life.” John 3:16
It is where the Father Himself made His presence known to me. How many billions of people around the world, perhaps even in my own country, have never heard of Jesus, or live in places where it is illegal to speak of Jesus, and are not given such eternally important opportunities. For that, I am grateful. St. Andrew’s will always hold a special place in my heart.
I have asked the Lord why He doesn’t just give everyone the gift of faith. Sure, I questioned the Lord’s existence throughout my childhood and adolescence. I even had moments where I “broke up” with God. I told Him that it was too hard to believe that He was loving and good when my life reflected anything but being loving and good. But then I’d be in church, and His presence would be unavoidable. It was like He was poking me, holding me, reminding me that I could run, but He was still real, and He wasn’t going anywhere. My husband told me that he thinks I was given the gift of faith as a child because I would need the Lord in order to survive the decades ahead. Who can know if it’s true, but even the possibility of its validity makes me praise Jesus.
Where did the Lord first make Himself known to you, Reader? Do you remember what it felt like to be in that place? To feel the Father’s love, to experience the presence of Jesus? I hope so. Praise Him who reveals Himself to us, who forgives us of our sins, who makes us new.
“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus…” Romans 8:1
Katie Donohue Tona
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Confirmation, a sacrament in the Catholic Church, is the first time a baptized Christian makes their public commitment to live out their baptism, which was usually performed before the individual was old enough to understand what baptism means or make the decision for themselves.
“The Lord saw how great man’s wickedness on the earth had become, and that every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil at the time. The Lord was grieved that He had made man on the earth, and his heart was filled with pain.” Genesis 6: 5-6
crucifix: a representation of a cross with a figure of Jesus Christ on it.
Also known as Reconciliation or the Sacrament of Penance, Confirmation is where an individual is given the opportunity to confess the sins they have committed and reconcile with God. When done genuinely, the sacrament is approached with sorrow for one’s sins, a desire to seek reparation with God, and a firm decision to not continue to commit those sins again.
The Act of Contrition is a prayer that expresses sorrow for sins. It may be used in a liturgical service or be used privately. There are different versions of the prayer, but all versions acknowledge our sins, ask God for forgiveness, and express our desire to repent. The Act of Contrition I recited in this story is one that they taught us in elementary school, which is why the language is simple and childlike.
“For I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more.” Jeremiah 31:34
At the end of the confession, the priest gives a “penance”. This might be a certain prayer to say, an instruction to fast, reading something from the Bible or a liturgy, etc.
“When Abram was ninety-nine years old the Lord appeared to Abram and said to him, ‘I am God Almighty;[a] walk before me, and be blameless…’” Genesis 17:1
“‘Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel’ (which means, God with us).” Matthew 1:23
I’m crying, Katie. It’s so interesting because I was baptized Catholic as a child but raised evangelical. Never grew up in the Catholic Church, and never felt particularly drawn to it. However, in the last 18 months, the Holy Spirit has been gently nudging me to connect with the Father in more orthodox spaces rather than the flashy, nondenominational ones that feel so familiar. I keep lingering on the word “sacrament” and feel this urge to understand and celebrate how the Catholic tradition embodies their faith physically through sacramental practices in ways which the evangelical church has lost. I am one who definitely embraces the priesthood of all believers, and I simply feel so grateful for stories like yours and the variety of Christian traditions that offer us space to connect with Him wherever we are at in life. Thank you so much for sharing! What a precious and timely story for me personally. (PS I don’t know if you read my post about encountering God in an old Saxon church, but the peace you describe in a Catholic Church felt so similar to what I experienced there! I wonder if there’s something to that? If the sense of the Spirit is thicker sometimes in these orthodox spaces? Just something I’m chewing on!). ♥️♥️♥️
Thanks for sharing this journey of faith. It's rare to hear a story of moving between Catholic and Protestant worlds and being able to value both. So often, conversion from one church to the other involves renunciation and condemnation of one's past church, and I love how you hold space for God to speak to you in both non-denominational and Catholic churches.
I've found God in both spaces as well. I grew up non-denominational and became a Catholic as an adult. The gift of faith and the presence of God transcend the labels we place on ourselves and on the churches we attend.