My Conversion Story

Sarah Wright over at theorthodoxmama.com runs an amazing blog! She writes  about faith, family and frugal  living. How wonderful it is to find fellow travelers on the spiritual path who encourage and uplift us!  She was gracious enough to include a post I wrote about my conversion story!

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http://www.theorthodoxmama.com/how-orthodoxy-found-me/

 

Turns Out…It is the Destination that Matters

by Michele Latham

 

Social media is full of inspirational tidbits. One that I have always liked was Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Life is a journey, not a destination”. Another take, “It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey” is a good one, too. Bwhich_wayut when it comes to my journey to the Orthodox church, it was all about the destination. Not to say that the journey was unnecessary. Sometimes I mentally trace the steps I’ve taken to arrive at the Church.

I was raised by loving parents in a Southern Baptist Church. I was baptized as a youngster, attended Sunday school class and revivals and learned about Jesus and the Bible. I left home to start my adult life, having not asked many questions. During the next several years, I attended some Protestant churches and met many lovely people. My husband and I loved God and yearned for a spiritual life, but to us, there was something missing at the churches we were visiting. God was definitely present, but it seemed there should be something more to support the reading of scriptures. While I visited different churches observing the services, my husband started researching Christianity. Where was the original, pure form?

Roughly 18 months and numerous books later (this was pre-internet time) we found what we were looking for. The Orthodox Christian Church. Christ’s church. Teachings based on Holy Scripture, complete with ancient traditions, saints and wisdom of the church fathers passed down unchanged for 2000 years. We had found the ancient Church and it was alive in our hometown!

I am so grateful for my particular journey. If I had skipped ahead at some point, I might have missed some important lessons. My parents, and the Baptist church, the pastors whose words inspired me, the youth directors and old folks whose lights shone so brightly: all of these people fed me along the way and kept me safe on my path.

But God could have used any path to direct me to the Church.

I am always interested to meet other converts and hear about their experiences. There are many and varied paths that lead us to Orthodoxy.

And now that I have found my home, I know that the destination, the true Church is the most important part of the journey.

 

 

*Want to write a post about your journey? Email a draft to sophiacardcompany@gmail.com. We’d love to hear from you!

 

The Farm

by Mary Michal Rogers

fence_split_rail_farm

My journey from Protestantism to a sort of nameless faith to Orthodox Christianity began really without my knowledge.

 My parents’ disillusionment with the church they’d always known started and culminated before I was old enough to know much about what was going on.  What I do remember is the search and the fight to keep faith alive even when we didn’t know what to call ourselves.  That fight led us to the truth – the True Light.

It also led us to an inherited, non-working dairy farm in a town called Spokane, Missouri.  It isn’t what you’d call a particularly progressive part of the state; Branson sits 30 miles to the south and the Bible Belt influence thrives.  The farm and my ancestors were well-known in the community, but we ourselves were still outsiders.  My sisters and brother and I all had been homeschooled for most of our lives, we knew nothing about farming, and we had no plans to attend any of the local churches.  Instead, we drove an hour each way most Sundays to Ash Grove, where Father Moses Berry served Liturgy in a gardening shed in the middle of an historic cemetery.

We didn’t exactly blend.

And then in the fall of 1996, we removed all doubt from the minds of the locals.  My parents hosted an Orthodox gathering on the farm (which sat, quite literally, right on a main thoroughfare); Father Alexii (then Father Paisius), Father Moses, Mother Pachomia, Mother Bridget, even Father Herman and a host of other monks, nuns, priests and Orthodox faithful journeyed to our 80 acres and camped out for a weekend.  We held services in the hayloft of the old barn, prayed and sang and talked around big bonfires, and were only vaguely aware of the Baptists and Lutherans and Pentecostals slowing down when they saw men and women in black robes and caps sitting around a fire in our front yard.  From the perspective of our ancient faith, nothing could have been more normal.

There’s some humor in this account, but the truth of it is that the holiness of that one weekend never went out of that farm.  Until the day we left it, it was as if you could hear the Akathist and Typicon still being sung in that hayloft.  Just like I see Christ when I look into the eyes of the monastics, the Fathers, the Elders, the holy icons…I knew in my soul that I’d been part of something otherwordly (even where just a few are gathered in My name…). My own rocky, meandering path towards the True Faith began.