The Blog

It has been seven years since the first story was published on this Blog — an idea that came to me during Advent. This dream was never abandoned, and through much prayer and the movement of the Holy Spirit, it came to fruition. There was a strong calling to share life experiences and describe them through a Blog.

The desire to start a Blog was present from the beginning, but knowing how to begin was another matter entirely. After much prayer, in December of 2015, a dream came from the Lord with a clear instruction: name the Blog “My Catholic Roots Are Showing.” Along with that dream came a vision of what the logo should look like. It was vivid and unmistakable.

After journaling the experience, the response to God was honest — and perhaps a little reluctant: “But I don’t really want to use the word Catholic, because this ministry reaches Protestants as well.” The Lord was reminded that many relatives were non-Catholic, including a son and his family. But God knows everything. Once the questioning and complaining about His directions gave way to trust, everything fell into place.

Lauren

Lauren, a family friend, was between jobs when she decided to join the weekly Bible study group. After hearing about the dream, she graciously volunteered to help — and she was truly an answer to prayer. Thanks to Lauren’s hard work and perseverance, the new Blog was up and running within three days.

The vision the Lord had given for the logo was a face with hair extensions designed to look like roots. When Lauren brought that vision to life, she added a creative touch — using the face as the “O” in Catholic.

The Vision

One thing is certain: when God gives a vision, He will see it through. This Blog exists to bring light to non-Catholics by illuminating the roots of the Catholic faith, and to gently guide wayward Catholics back home. The approach is never to pound anyone over the head with Catholic doctrine, but rather to witness through lived faith — sharing what God is doing every step of the way. The Catholic faith does not waver; it is a faith that has made serving God richer and fuller. It took a great trial to reach this point, but God was faithful through all of it.

The Exit

My history with the Catholic Church began in 1983, when my eldest brother died of cancer. Shortly after his death, a priest at our local parish questioned me about the funeral arrangements and asked whether our family attended Mass regularly. None of my siblings were practicing the faith at the time. Beyond Christmas and Easter, none of us attended Mass with any consistency. When I explained that my brother had been too ill to attend services, the priest’s manner left me feeling interrogated rather than consoled.

That encounter ignited a fire of frustration and anger that I could not contain. In the grief of losing my brother and the sting of that exchange, I walked away from the Catholic Church entirely. Disappointment hardened quickly into resentment toward the faith I had grown up in. Emotionally wounded and spiritually adrift, I spent the next fifteen years moving from one Protestant church to another.

The Valley Vineyard

Eventually, I found my way to the Valley Vineyard, and it was there that my young family put down roots. Something came alive in me — a renewed love for the Word of God. That community became my spiritual home, and we formed a genuine friendship with the pastor and his wife. Sadly, when my husband Mike’s job required us to relocate to Orange County, we had to leave it behind.

Over the next fifteen years, I attended Anaheim Vineyard, Calvary Church, Calvary Chapel, and several other congregations in between. Each of these was a meaningful season of growth. Yet one church in particular consistently stoked the embers of my bitterness toward the Catholic Church. Hearing critical words spoken from the pulpit about my former faith did not bring healing — it only deepened my contempt.

The Journey

My husband and children were all cradle Catholics, yet over time, my newfound Protestant faith became theirs as well. It was during this season that I was drawn into a prayer group led by a woman named Michelle. Her knowledge of Scripture was deep, her wisdom evident, and her preaching carried a fire that stirred something in my spirit — a hunger for more of God. I was so moved by her that I wanted to introduce her to my Catholic friends, convinced she might be the one to bring them to a living faith.

When I mentioned Michelle to other members at Anaheim Vineyard, I was stopped short: she was Catholic. The revelation hit me like a wave. How can this be? How can a Catholic have the fire of God like this? Michelle’s gift for building bridges across denominational lines allowed her to minister alongside well-known pastors and influential voices throughout the Protestant world — all while remaining firmly rooted in her Catholic faith.

Through Michelle’s teaching, I was introduced to her mother, Joanne — also Catholic, and equally on fire. In 1994, I became a member of Christ In You, attending two services each week and committing myself fully to serving that ministry. It was also during this time that I began attending daily Mass. These were the stepping stones God used to lead me home.

Coming Home

The Sunday I returned to Catholic Mass is one I will never forget — not because it was triumphant, but because it was disorienting in the best possible way. My husband walked in beside me as the sound of solemn music settled over the sanctuary. The worship was structured, ordered, quiet. My heart wrestled: What am I doing here? Lord, is this really from You?

I had grown accustomed to lifted hands, swaying bodies, and the rush of loud praise music. The stillness of the Mass felt foreign. Yet as the weeks passed, something long-buried began to surface. The reverence of the faithful, the genuflection before the Eucharist, the rhythmic cadence of kneeling and standing — these were not empty rituals. They were the body doing what the soul already knew: that the God of the universe was truly present, and He deserved more than applause. He deserved awe.

The Manna

The rituals of the Mass are unchanging and enriching, but it was the Eucharist that brought everything to completion. The first time I received Him again, something settled deep within my soul — a quiet, unmistakable sense of wholeness that I had been searching for without knowing it. It took several more Masses before the full weight of that reality broke through: this was where God had called me. This had always been where God had called me.

The Eucharist is not a symbol, not a memory, not a gesture — it is the true Body of Christ, the real manna come down from heaven. Just as Israel could not survive the wilderness without the manna God provided each morning, the soul cannot long endure on memory and emotion alone. It requires sustenance that only He can give. Attending daily Mass is not a discipline — it is a lifeline. Nothing can replace what is received there, because nothing else is Him.

Susanna and Helen

Throughout this entire journey, my dear friend Susanna was quietly, faithfully praying for my return to the Catholic Church. Her approach was gentle yet firm — never forceful, never impatient — because she was well-catechized and knew how to defend her faith with both conviction and love. My best friend Helen, also Catholic, listened to years of my Protestant preaching without ever wavering in her own beliefs. She never argued, never pressured — she simply remained. Flanked by these two steadfast Catholic women, the restlessness that had churned in me for so long finally grew still.

My Prayer

Dear Lord,

Grant me continued insight and direction for this blog. May Your Holy Spirit pour out wisdom — wisdom to choose words that reach the hearts of those who are searching, hurting, or lost on the road to You. May this first week of Advent be a lamp for their feet and a light for their path.

May what is written here bring enlightenment, moments of laughter, and above all, a deep and lasting hunger to seek Your face.

Amen.

Thanksgiving is the countdown to Christmas.

My daughter Sonja makes all the desserts for Thanksgiving.  After a long day at work, Sonja was excited to start her baking and for the first time her son Jacob helped.  Then it happened, Jacob  accidentally dropped egg shells in the pumpkin pie mix.

You should always have adult company when preparing  meals for a big gathering; never do it alone. After a short phone call and by the tone of Sonja’s voice, I knew I needed to pay a visit.

I got there in time to cool down the emotional temperature. Both of the boys were in their rooms, and on this busy night Russ was at Jujitsu. By the time I arrived, Sonja  had already made a turtle cheese cake, mini pecan pies and was straining the egg shells from the pumpkin pie mixture.

They had not had dinner, so I texted Russ the biggest fast-food debacle. After the messed-up food order, all was back to normal.

Be A Servant

Mike has always graciously prepared all of our Thanksgiving meals. But we are older now so this undertaking of hosting and preparing dinner has made us realize that, as much as we are unwilling to admit it, we are slowing down. Working alongside Mike in the kitchen has changed; for the first time, he welcomed my assistance in the production of the feast. In the past he would not have wanted any help whatsoever.

We were both up at 5:30 a.m. to get the bird ready. My job consisted of chopping celery, mushrooms, and onions along with cleaning up afterwards. My favorite part of Thanksgiving morning is that Mike traditionally makes breakfast. As the eggs were sizzling, we heard the front door open. I had a feeling it was our son Mikos. He was just in time for breakfast, but the real reason he came was to help.

Mikos had to transport the turkey from the refrigerator in the garage to the kitchen. He also had to cut up corn tortillas for the stuffing and helpe Mike with other tasks.  It was so nice having him around to help. I believe in the near future Mike will reluctantly pass the baton to our son.

Take A Long Walk

Mikos brought Rosie, their golden retriever, so after we had finished our tasks, we walked for four miles. We wanted to visit Mikos’ old middle school to see the tree and read the plaque that was dedicated to his middle school friends who lost their lives weeks apart. Like all public schools, because of all the school shootings,  the gates were locked.

Long walks clear your head, and it’s always a bonding experience. On this day I walked over six miles.

Enjoy The Feast

Jenny, our daughter-in-law, prepared three side dishes and as usual, the dinner was beyond great.  We had great conversation, then it was time for dessert and Bingo.

Bingo 

For the past five years we have played Bingo. I buy all the gifts at a deep discount and warn all winners that each gift is worse than the next. Since I am the caller,  sometimes I transpose the numbers, like calling out “O 17” instead of “O 71.” Because of this, Jacob (Cubby) is assigned a sit next to me to double check the numbers.

Forming A Clean-up Committee

I had already cleaned the stove, so I thought I was way ahead of the game.  Jacob,  like Mike, is a great servant. He started by picking up all the plates, including the chargers.  Our granddaughter Maddie was a great help by washing the silverware. Will dried all the chargers and stacked them up for storage.

The best advice I can offer to a guest is to help with the clean-up. I, like Mike, am a loner when cleaning the kitchen. But this time I welcomed help. Mike was still entertaining his sister and brother-in-law while I was putting away the food and washing all the dishes. I was the modern-day Martha doing all the work  (Luke 10:38-42). It was fine the first hour, but then I felt anger creeping in.

I was about ready to hang up my dish towel, when I noticed on the kitchen table the turkey. The turkey was still sitting in the same greasy pan!  “Oh, hell no!” I said to myself. I yelled for Mike to come and help. In a loud voice I said, “I can’t do this. You need to take care of the turkey!” We still had guests so Mike was kind in his reply “Ok, what do you want me to do?” The dialogue went back and forth, and I was getting a little more agitated each time. Needless to say, I took this anger to bed.

Anger can take an ugly turn, so the following morning I went to Mass and to Confession. I poured out my heart about who and why I felt such anger. I felt guilty because my speech seemed rude, but being absolved of my anger set me free.

The Christmas Card Picture

I informed our family that we were going to take our Christmas card photograph on Thanksgiving Day. None of them wanted to participate. So I suggested they come to our house on Saturday for the photograph. I asked my sweet neighbor, Victoria, to stop by at 2:30 for the photo shoot. After 35 shots, we finally agreed on one picture.

My Prayer

Dear Lord, I thank You for allowing us another year of good health. Lord, bless Mike for all the hard work he has done this week: putting up the outdoor decorations, cooking the meal, and the love he puts into all that he does. Lord, bless Russ for helping us by getting all the boxes down, setting up the trees, moving furniture and hanging lights. Please bless Mikos, who was so gracious in helping by preparing the meal.  Bless Jenny for the love she put into all the delicious side dishes that made them taste better. And bless Sonja for her thoughtfulness and loving care in preparing all the beautiful desserts. Amen.