My Conversion

 On January 25th, we celebrate the Conversion of Saint Paul.The road to Damascus was not easily paved for me either. It took many meandering turns before God led me where He wanted me. Uncertainty about the new direction brought many questions: “Is this where You want me, Lord?” — and if so, “Give me a sign!” The sign was sitting right next to me (more on that later), but still more answers seemed necessary. When the journey toward the Holy Catholic Church began, no one in the family followed.Bringing young children along on this dusty road came with a price. Mike wanted nothing to do with it — not because he was so Catholic, but because he felt it was pulling the family apart. For years, that winding path of discovering who I was in Christ was building toward a dramatic turn. Like Paul, the collision was coming.

Bashing Catholics

Bible in hand and pride in full armor, it seemed clear that Catholics needed a wake-up call. After all, they prayed to saints and worshiped Mary — or so it seemed. Arrows were sharpened and placed in the quiver, ready for battle, because surely these poor Catholics needed salvation. The campaign launched. From an imaginary soapbox came warnings to friends about the dangers of the Catholic Church. And then, just like Paul, the high horse gave way — and the ground came up fast.

Two Women

The mission to convert the world to Protestant beliefs fell on deaf ears — thankfully. Two dear friends, unlike me, were richly catechized. They never challenged or questioned. They simply prayed. And somehow, that was enough.

The Sacrament of Confirmation

At one point, a nephew asked to have me as his Confirmation sponsor. Of course, the answer was yes. But a dear friend gently intervened — pointing out that sponsoring him wasn’t possible, because a practicing Catholic is required for that role. She went so far as to make an appointment with her parish priest to help sort things out. The priest explained it clearly. In arrogance, though, the words went in one ear and out the other. Travel arrangements were made for New Orleans — and then God intervened.

A Day Late

Arriving at the airport, the ticket read the following day. The Confirmation would be missed entirely. As it should have been — his brother stepped in as the rightful sponsor.

Born Again

The road to Damascus was paved with real growth. The years in the “Born Again” movement were not wasted — far from it. Biola University (Bible Institute of Los Angeles) became home for a season, where a Bachelor of Science degree was earned and another dream fulfilled by God’s grace. Biola in the ’90s did not admit Catholics — a detail that, in hindsight, simply shows how God can use any road, even a detour, to bring someone home.

Now there is understanding — and compassion — for those still finding their way. Not everyone arrives at the same moment or by the same path. But together, we belong to one family of God, and that is reason enough to rejoice.

Saint Paul

Saul of Tarsus was on his way to Damascus with one purpose: stop the spread of Christianity. He went to the high priest and asked for letters to the synagogues in Damascus, so that if he found any who belonged to the Way, he might bring them back to Jerusalem in chains.

He never arrived as planned. On the journey, as he neared Damascus, a light from the sky suddenly flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice: “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” Saul got up from the ground, but when he opened his eyes he could see nothing; so they led him by the hand and brought him to Damascus. For three days he was unable to see, and he neither ate nor drank.

The House of Judas

There was a disciple in Damascus named Ananias, and the Lord said to him in a vision, “Ananias.” He answered, “Here I am, Lord.” The Lord said to him, “Get up and go to the street called Straight and ask at the house of Judas for a man from Tarsus named Saul.” The Lord said to Ananias: “Go, for this man is a chosen instrument of mine to carry my name before Gentiles, kings, and children of Israel.”

Three Days of Silence

In that blindness and silence, God was dismantling the old self. Immediately, things like scales fell from his eyes and he regained his sight. He got up and was baptized, and when he had eaten, he recovered his strength. Paul was not transformed by a thought but by an event — by the irresistible presence of the Risen One. It radically changed his life in a fundamental way; in this sense, one can and must speak of a conversion.

The Ananias Passage (Acts 9:10–16, NABRE)

Depression comes in many forms.

Pity Party

In my late thirties some days I would wake up sad or, as the world would know it, “depressed.” My mind would activate and play some sad scenario over and over again. Years ago this condition was referred to as  premenstrual syndrome (PMS). This condition became my self-pity friend. Was everyone out to get me? Probably not, but it certainly felt like it. On a bad day even strangers were fair game because the depression would escalate to anger. A pity party followed because of the guilt.

Getting Help

I sought help, but my life took a positive turn only after I discovered a clinic specializing in PMS. I am a proponent of holistic alternatives, so this paved the road to the recovery I was seeking.  This medication was not FDA approved;  therefore my gynecologist was not in agreement with the treatment. The decision was a no brainer because the treatment was made with natural progesterone and there was a medical doctor to oversee the appointments.

Several months later all of the symptoms disappeared. This treatment stood the test of time and this clinic, Holly Anderson’s PMS Clinic, is still in operation in Arcadia, California, .

Modern Day Depression

As a result of the medication the depression was lifted. So now when it surfaces back into my life, I know how to fight it. But sometimes if I’m too tired, I give in to the sadness; my mind goes deeper into this negative thought pattern. By allowing these evil spirits in, something more sinister approaches the mindset – self-pity.

Self-Pity

At this point you are either going to do one of two things: you’re either go deeper into the abyss of depression or you’re going to snap out of it. This is the Devil’s favorite tool; he loves it when we are feeling sorry for ourselves. He amplifies the distress by reminding us of who, and why we were hurt by replaying the words or actions that were said about us.

The Devil wants to keep you in this unhealthy state of mind. Why? Because this is where the destructive dialogue takes place. The Devil will suggest that you go out to get a drink of alcohol or take some drugs to make you feel better. Once you’ve taken that evil advice, he can easily control you. People who are depressed and turn to substance abuse go deeper into this mental illness. Now Satan can and will control your thought pattern. So what is the antidote?

Getting Professional Help

Mental illness is real but help is always available. Seek professional help but be careful who you choose, because there are many therapists who are not aligned with God. I’m not saying that they would lead you astray, but wouldn’t you be better off with someone who can help guide you  to the the greatest healer of all? We turn to Jesus.

Remember that the Devil is lurking and waiting for you to stumble.

These evil spirits then invite other like spirits to keep you down. Familiar evil spirits are prevalent in the mind of the hurting who have no spiritual direction. This is why the Lord places people in our hearts for prayer.

Who gets attacked? When you are doing ministry work for the Lord, you get attacked. For example: if you go to Skid Row in Los Angeles and pray for addicted, homeless people, I can guarantee you that you will be subject to scrutiny by someone who will either start an argument or is simply upset with you for no apparent reason. This is a perfect scenario for Satan. First: you’ve entered into his territory because those poor, drug addicted, homeless people are right where he wants them. Second: the Devil will subconsciously enter into the mind of a loved one to attack you.

The Diabolical Plans

For years I experienced this after ministering to the homeless. It took me a while to make the connection that my loved ones were being used by Satan. They might not have not even realized that they were being used as instruments of discouragement. Satan wanted me to surrender by saying, “Every time I go to Skid Row I get attacked! Is it worth it?” For 20 years, once a month, this ministry continued.

This ministry came to an end only after the outbreak of  COVID.

All the work we do for the Kingdom of God is worth every effort! And though we may get attacked, the blessings outweigh the attacks when we see spiritual growth in those we are praying for.

Suffering

Do not waste your mental torments and spiritual battles;  instead offer then up for those who are truly suffering and battling for their lives. Suffering is a tool that teaches and strengthens us to become better human beings. How else can a person who has survived cancer minister to someone who is going through the same thing? Through suffering we develop spiritual muscles to fight the good fight.

Prayer

We all suffer from some type of discouragement, depression or sadness. When I feel it coming, I immediately start to pray. When prayer is not working, I sit in silence. Also listening to praise music brings  healing to my mind. We cannot allow the Enemy an open door to bring us down because when this happens we start to question and doubt God. Remember our Lord knows everything we are suffering through, and He will fight the battle with and for us.

We live in a world of so many uncertainties. So many people are angry and want revenge. Their spiritual guards are no longer their weapons; instead they use hatred. We serve a God of love, and in His world there is no room for hatred.

My Prayer

Dear Lord, bring us all into a place where we can experience Your true holiness. Unclutter our thoughts, and pour Your Holy Spirit over us. Remove all doubts and confusion, from our minds and replace them with peace. Amen.

This story is written with Joe, Pat’s brother’s permission.

My Friend Pat

Pat and I go back many years. She was my roommate on many of our missionary trips. This girl had the best, easygoing, funniest personality. Aside from all those wonderful attributes, she’s a gifted singer. I loved being around her. It has been some time since it was discovered that she had dementia. After a brain scan the doctors thought it best that she no longer drive. She was very upset about this decision, but she complied. When the illness progressed she had to give up her comfortable home and was moved to a memory care facility.

First Visit

On a busy street in Anaheim I made a left turn to pick up Pat for breakfast. She was already in the lobby of the  building, waiting for me. We headed to Katella Bakery and Deli for the best breakfast. Our conversation was a little scattered  because I have the tendency to jump from one subject to another; Pat politely listened. Nevertheless it was a joyful experience. We ran a few errands, and when we returned to the facility I promised to visit soon. Shamefully, I did not. It would be another eight months before we met again.

Second Visit

Pat’s brother Joe oversees all her living arrangements, so when the first memory care facility raised their prices, he had to scramble to find a new place. This place was much bigger and more secure. Visiting my friend at this facility was different; I had to go through several security doors before I reached Pat. In her usual manner, Pat was gracious and loving. I talked about our past experiences on the missionary trips, but at times I noticed her fade into another dimension. She brought me to a humble state of mind, and  my love for her only escalated because of her beautiful heart. She never stopped smiling.

Third Visit

Again Joe was faced with an unreasonable price increase, so Pat was moved to a board and care facility. It had been more than a year since I  last visited Pat. Not really knowing what to expect, I prepared to see my friend listless and feared that she would no longer recognize me.

In my usual fashion, I got lost and could not find the home. After putting the address on the GPS, I made it to the front of the home. This was a beautiful, middle-class neighborhood where the pride of ownership revealed the charm of its homeowners. The home is privately owned and operated, so clean you could eat off the floors.

After being warmly greeted, I signed my name as a visitor and Pat and I walked to the patio to visit.  Her slightly grey eyes were filled with joy. She looked great! She was dressed in a purple velour hoodie with matching shoes and blue jeans. Pat was always big on shoes, she loved her shoes: some gold, some silver.  She was definitely a shoe horse!

I talked about our old ministry days, how a mutual friend of ours had taken over, and that the ministry was going to the Holy Land this year.

On the last trip to the Holy Land, Pat was my constant companion. Walking through the streets of the Old City was by far one of our favorite times.

Whenever I traveled to the Holy Land, I always collected prayer requests. Some of these petitions came with specific instructions as to where the person wanted them left. I had several prayer requests that needed to be left at the Church of The Holy Sepulcher in the Old City. When I shared this information with my friend Pat, she mentioned that she had some petitions for the same place. It was our last night in Jerusalem, and we were leaving for the airport around noon. The Church of The Holy Sepulcher opens at 6:30 a.m., so Pat and I devised a plan.

Getting up extra early, we decided to take a taxi to the Old City. We were on a mission to pray and leave the prayer requests at the Tomb of Jesus. Not to be discouraged, we decided not to share this information with any of the team members.

Lost In Translation

When the taxi driver arrived, we told him  where we needed to go. The man did not understand any English, and between Pat and me, we only knew one Arabic word. The driver dropped us off at the Damascus Gate, which is the main entrance to the Muslim quarters. This gate was unfamiliar to us; the gates we use and are familiar with are the Jaffa Gate, the Lion’s Gate and the Dung Gate.

The Muslim Quarters

It was early morning, so I could smell the strong Arabic coffee brewing in private homes. Both Pat and I know the Old City pretty well, but this gate was throwing us off. We walked in deeper and still had no real direction as to where we were or where we were headed. Suddenly a loud, rowdy group of young Arab men coming in from a late night were headed toward our direction.

We were sitting ducks who did not know where to turn to avoid this uncomfortable encounter. Then suddenly a man appeared from out of nowhere. “What are you doing here?” he asked. I told him that we needed to go to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Without hesitation he said, “Follow me.”  Without consulting or questioning, Pat and I  followed the man.

The Angel

The man led us out of the Damascus Gate, and we walked a distance outside the city walls until we reached the New Gate. From there we followed him through the fresh meat section of the Old City. When we reached the end of the corridor the man raised his arm and pointed to the right. He said, “This is where you turn to get to the church. This is as far as I can go.”

The Arabic man then disappeared. Both Pat and I came to the realization that we had had an encounter with an angel. We walked into an almost empty church, where we prayed for several hours. We completed our mission by leaving the prayer requests at the Tomb of Jesus.

Dear Lord, thank You for Joe, Pat’s brother, who lovingly cares for the wellbeing of his sister.  I pray for all families who are struggling with this disorder. May God continually guide  them as they make decisions for their loved ones. Amen.