The Knock that Changed My Life

A quiet night, an honest prayer, I drift above and see myself lying there.

A subtle knock, my spirit slips from bed, drawn to the door by something left unsaid.

I turn the handle and there he stands, 

Light all around him, love in his hands, 

Tears in his eyes yet joy in his face, 

As though he had been waiting to meet me in this place.

No questions, no striving, no longer alone, 

I was in his arms and finally came home

Chapter One

I wish I could tell you that from that moment on was all butterflies and rainbows. I didn't wake up the next morning with all the answers. I didn't suddenly understand God or religion or even myself, but I knew what letting Him in felt like. The strange part is I had spent most of my life ignoring the knocks.

The story begins before I was born. My mother is in the hospital, in labor. A bright light enters the room, and my dad sees me and my great grandmother next to the bed. He says I was in my 20s roughly, looking about what I do now. And we weren’t alone. Angels filled the room and surrounded the building. As the baby took her first breath, the room dimmed and there I was crying and covered in blood.

I grew up knowing that story with an impression and expectation that I was somehow meant for more. My childhood was beautiful. I was formed a loving relationship with God. watching Book of Mormon story cartoons, praying, and even asking him to hand the phone over to lost loved ones. My strong belief in something out there was formed by an incredible moment of an eager prayer.

As a school assignment, we were given pen pals. I was writing back and forth to a girl in China. We traveled to see family down in Utah, and I wanted to show my friends the letters. On the way home, I realized that they were gone. I emptied my bag multiple times, looked around the hotel room, and began to panic. Quietly kneeling down face to the ground next to my bag, I cried and prayed a fervent prayer asking God to help me find the letters, telling him how much they meant to me. Wiping the tears from my face, I looked up and they were there, neatly placed on top of my bag.

No one was around. To me, there was no other explanation. God had answered my prayer.

I later began to bargain with God, promising that if He brought my dad home safely from his work trips, I would go on a mission. I didn't know it then, but that was one of my first empty promises.

Now comes the moment where everything began. I'm about seven or eight and I have a dream about two towels, one black and one white, coiled in the corner of my mom's kitchen, black representing hell and white heaven. Whichever you sat in is the one you'd go to. Without hesitation, I ran and sat in one—because everyone wants to go to heaven, right? I look down and realize I've just sat in the black. My body and mind are overcome. I become possessed and run out of the window.

Waking up in a sweat and fear, I began to hear voices. My thoughts speed up and there's tightening in my chest. I prayed and I prayed and nothing worked until I ran downstairs, woke my sister up and asked her to play games with me. From then on, it came and went. I didn't have the words like panic attack or anxiety. I only knew that sometimes the world felt safe and other times something dark entered the room and only the presence of another human or my dad's prayers could make it go away.

There was no rhyme or reason for these sudden attacks of panic and anxiety. I grew up in a loving home. I was safe and cared for. There really wasn’t a villain in my childhood. There wasn’t some dark family secret or hidden trauma that explained it. The people around me loved me. I loved them and I loved God. And yet somehow God didn't answer the prayers when the fear crept in.

As the years moved on, I began having doubts. Things I heard in Sunday school—like only Mormons go to heaven—made absolutely no sense to me. My response, of course, entailed, well, what about Moses? And I realized I could ask questions and my parents encouraged it.

Being young and innocent, God was close, close enough to bargain with, close enough to find my things, close enough to call upon when things got dark. But somewhere between the God I loved and the God who answered and the God I began to question was a new understanding of a God I didn't want to know. I never fully stopped believing in God, I just started closing doors.

Chapter Two

At first, I was just asking questions, but when I didn't get the answers I deemed satisfactory, I let the outside world answer them. The feeling from church and Sunday school was that all outsiders were evil and they would drag me down a quick and fatal road to hell. Those who didn’t share our particular line of faith were condemned, even so far as the mainstream Mormon church. I pictured heaven like a destination on a map, seeing all the different ways to get there and the different starting points. There was no way that Mormons owned every road. 

Then, in my mid-teens, Jason came into the picture. Being stubborn and needing to make my own mistakes, I had no moral issue with premarital sex. The idea that don't do it because God said so, simply wasn't a good enough answer for me. And so one thing led to another with Jason and me, and we got caught. The traditional way the church would handle this is to get married. My grandpa was a council member, one of the 12, and he explained what we did was equivalent to murder. When you take somebody's virginity, you can't ever give it back.

And so he told us to abstain from the sacrament, Mormon communion, and once we had learned our lesson, we needed to get re-baptized, ending with the decree of getting married. Now I was simply just too young to be married, so my parents shut that down. Other consequences were handed down, and we still refused to go along with them.

Things escalated and I felt I had been branded the harlot and Jason the rapist. I had always thought that church was for sinners, not for the saints, but it became abundantly clear that this church had the opposite in mind when they barred Jason from even walking in the door and refused me communion.

I couldn't deny my past experiences, which wouldn't allow me to call crap on the whole thing, but religion, organized institutions, those were made by humans and corrupted. They were wolves hiding in sheep's clothing. My temperament of pride and self-reliance really began to take deep roots. My choices were mine and mine alone. If they were wrong, I was the one who would take the punishment and move on.

I stopped going to church. I stopped praying. I became a defiant liar who was so wrapped up in herself that she couldn't see all the damage she was causing. I was the only one who was allowed to be hurt. I was the victim.

The vivid and physically intense dreams continued, and God still kept knocking. He never left.

Driving home from practice one evening, I was behind someone who was clearly drunk, swerving all over the road and driving ridiculously slow. Tailing him in hopes to pass, I never was able. On the next corner, he sped up and was driving like he’d stolen the thing. By the time I caught up to him, his vehicle was parked in the middle of the road. Maybe he got a flat tire. Maybe he needs help. I pulled up slightly behind him. Getting out of his truck, wild, long hair, burly, broad and huge, death in his eyes, I was frozen with fear.

I knew my time was up. This man intended to drag me out of my car and do only God knows what. As he was screaming and swearing, he came to open my door, but as soon as he had touched the car, his vehicle began to roll backwards. Snapping out of it, I put the car in reverse and hightailed it out of there.

I was given yet another reason I couldn't deny God. But I was still so hurt that even when the knock nearly kicked the door in, I refused to open it.

I left and went on the way of the world, becoming enlightened by the real world. My argument shifted from proof of God to the non-existence, how things were just coincidence, the darkness that overshadowed me was just the crazy that ran in my family.

As life moved on and I became increasingly more selfish, racking up countless sins, a moment of sleep paralysis entered and disturbed my peace. I was sleeping, yet wide awake. I could see everything, feel everything, just as they were. A dark cloud came over the top of me. I felt suffocated and terrified. I tried to wake up, but couldn't. I tried to pray, but that didn't work. As panic set in, my blankets began to move. From the foot of the bed, I could feel something grabbing and pulling. I held on for dear life, playing a sort of tug of war with my sheets.

Just when it felt like IT was going to win, Jason walked in and I was released, waking immediately. Telling myself this was just a dream or this was just my imagination, I tried not to let it affect me. Looking back, this was a moment of God screaming at me, "Wake Up!"

A moment of "what's the point" came from a mushroom experience. In the beginning, it was beautiful, but by nightfall, it became horror. I was so tired and wanted to just sleep, but the trip wasn't done with me yet. Me being proud and feeling like I had control told my body and mind to be done with it all. When that didn't work, I became angry. I felt empty, and I had a glimpse of what life without purpose felt like. I was so irritated and irrationally pissed at the thought that there was nothing more than this. No life after death, no God, no real meaning.

We are just going to wake up in the morning, laugh about the story, and move on. I had built an entire philosophy around being strong enough to save myself. That night, I felt the lie in it. I believe that I was given a glimpse of Hell. 

Again, self-reliance let me down. I was pregnant with my first. Jason was out of town working. It was late at night and he had come home early and surprised me. Being excited and doing what most couples do, I was extremely disappointed when I woke up and realized that it was all just a dream. It felt so real. I was in the exact same spot in the bed as the dream, and the room was the same. I tend to have very realistic and physical dreams. Anyway, I went back to sleep to my and to my joy, the dream restarted.

In the middle of the act, I came to my senses and knew this was just a dream. I looked at Jason on top of me and asked, "You're not Jason are you? He's gone." And at that moment, he smiled and got off me and turned into this black swirl of a spirit. I woke up screaming at the thing to get the fuck out of my house.

Recounting my experiences with my parents, they would always reflect back to my dad's vision. They felt I was doing better, coming back to God in some way. That's why the attacks were ramping up. But that wasn't true. He never left me alone, even while I was causing incredible amounts of pain, doing the devil's bidding.

For years, I thought freedom meant nobody could tell me what to do, what to believe, or what I had to become. I had finally gotten what I wanted. No church, no rules, no God to answer to. The problem was, I was beginning to discover that I wasn't enough.

Chapter Three

I wish that I could say that after these terrifying and intensely real moments, they had me running to God. They didn't. If anything, he began slipping back into my life through places I never would have expected.

Apparently, the beginning of my return to the door was not a church, a Bible study, or some great act of repentance. It was me drunk and in a bathtub. I had just recently watched The Passion of the Christ and sitting there soaking with my many glasses of wine, I began thinking of His Passion and how beautiful the story was—even if none of it was factual. The myth itself held so much power.

After that, I read The Reason for God and loved it, yet it made me so angry again at Mormons. It felt as if they were saying Jesus isn't enough. I began poking holes in the Mormon theology, made an offer with my parents to read the Book of Mormon if they would listen to a few anti-Mormon podcasts. My love for Jesus began to grow and I got vexed when others seemed to diminish his sacrifice.

A year later, Jason got sick. Doctor after doctor, we couldn't figure it out. He lost a bunch of weight, couldn't sleep, couldn't work. This in turn brought up a bunch of trauma, from both inside and outside our marriage. Physiologically and psychologically, he was wrecked.

Finally, the diagnosis of celiac was given and it felt like there was something I could do. I tend to be a bit blunt to the point, not very compassionate, like at all, not nurturing. I’m a find-it, fix-it, move-on kind of person.

I booked Jason a breath-work session in hopes that it would help with his stress and anxiety. He went in and returned, booked me a session. At the time, I didn't feel like I needed one, but looked at it as a chance to relax and try something new.

I went in not knowing what to expect. All I knew was that I was going to make the most of it. She laid me down, put me on some music and led me into a steady and deep breathing pattern. After a minute or two, she told me to set an intention for the session. Feeling the strain in my marriage, I set the intention on how do I help, slash, fix Jason. She then asked me to visualize a golden ring that was circling around my head. It would flow from the top of my head over my body down to my feet and back up as it ascended into the heavens.

As I saw the ring disappear into the bright heavens, a hand appeared as if I was underwater and a hand was reaching beneath the surface to pull me out. Think of Peter. I physically reached up to grab the hand and the moment our fingers touched an energy so pure, so peaceful and so unbelievably clean went through the tips of my fingers all the way down to my toes. Pure, unadulterated love—the kind of love I’d only ever caught slivers of through the love I feel for my kids or my husband or my family.

And then the voice came and said, "He's not alone." Bursting into tears, I realized I've always been trying to fix Jason, trying to change him into the man I want him to be. I knew then that it was not my job to fix him, it's my job to love him. A job I have failed to do from the very beginning. So I gave him to God, trusting that he is in far better hands than I could have imagined. 

After Jesus put me in my place, I started thinking of the cross and being so upset and mad at those who could beat him, accuse him, kill him. Then came the shocking realization: I was—and am—that person. I'm the one who called for his crucifixion. I was the one who whipped him. I was the one who nailed him to the cross. I also was the indifferent one in the crowd and the one begging them to stop. My whole life, I believed my own lies, that my choices were my own and they didn't affect others. But here, the perfectly beautiful and innocent victim paid the ultimate price for what I had done.

I no longer wanted to hurt him.

And then I did what any reasonable person does after having a profound encounter with Jesus. Absolutely nothing.

Maybe I had a new look on life. Maybe I became a slightly better wife. But what I do know is that I had a cool experience. I had no idea where this would lead, but I know now it was a huge step towards the knock at my door.

That moment didn't make me religious. It made me reachable.

Chapter Four

There was still one thing I was absolutely not looking for, religion. Jesus was one thing, church was another, but strange things started to happen. A random woman feeling the urge to pray for me, conversations about faith with complete strangers, similar messages of specific scripture being talked about from completely different sources.

Life started to change, drastic shifts in my professional and personal life were taking root. Jason and I both agreed that he would quit his job and allow me to take on over the finance aspect of life, allowing our kids to have a full-time parent at home.

As a part of that, I needed to get my work into galleries. I called in a favor from a good friend to introduce me to a gallery in Bozeman. I planned on going over the day of Troy's show, the friend. I got my portfolio ready, brought a painting, and made sure to look professional.

By the time I got to Bozeman, I realized I forgot something. So I pulled into Staples to buy the missing item, and on the corner was a woman selling roses. She held a sign saying something about how she was just trying to feed her family. I pulled whatever cash I had and gave it to her. In return, she gave me two roses. Great, I thought, one for Troy and one for Adam, the owner of the gallery.

When I arrived, I gave Troy his rose. He went on to tell me he had a crazy encounter that he deems was from God. A woman who had just lost her son to suicide was walking down the street and looked in the window and saw his paintings. She burst into tears and told him that she felt her son had brought her in there. Aspens were his favorite, and Troy paints the most beautiful aspens, giving all the credit to God for his gift and his career. She bought five pieces. The next day, a group of young adults came into the gallery and talked to Troy about Jesus.

He told them the encounter and they asked if he'd like to go join them for dinner. The waitress who was working the table seemed to be down in the dumps and the kids asked Troy if he would share the story with her. They felt she needed to hear it. After he told her, she seemed to perk up a little bit. They asked her about the tattoo of a rose on her shoulder and she began to tear up and said it represented someone she had recently lost. Feeling so moved, they were brainstorming ways to get her a rose.

all the flower shops being closed, Troy said, you'll never believe this, but I have a rose on my easel right now, just two doors down. He went and gave it to her.

A few days later, Troy called me up and told me the story. I absolutely loved it, seeing how I recently had my breath-work encounter with Christ.

A few months went by. And some of my favorite podcasters had hosted exorcists on their shows. In a Sean Ryan episode with Father Dan Rehill, he had mentioned that when people pray a novena to St. Therese, they mysteriously receive a rose. My spidey senses tingled and I had to rewind it. The idea that saints choose you—that you don’t choose them—really struck me.

That's when Catholicism first entered my vicinity. I started listening to the Bible, which led to crazy questions and ideas. Maybe there were multiple gods and ours was just the vampire that didn't drink human blood, but blood was nevertheless what he needed. more conversations between family and friends were had.

I bought Bible stories to read to my kids. I was edging ever closer to the locked door. I started having creepy dreams. heavy things and hearing things in the middle of the night. I thought nothing of it except maybe to get my dad over to dedicate my house. But I'm a procrastinator and won't do anything until it's typically too late. This time it was too late or possibly turned into the perfect storm.

It's November 2026. Jason is in eastern Montana hunting. I put the kids to bed. They kept stirring and waking up periodically through the night. Finally, I give up and bring them into my bed.

Laying in the middle with a kid on each shoulder, something dark and heavy entered the room. This has happened before, but something about it felt more real, more dangerous. The room went deafeningly quiet. The cloud felt so thick you could slice through it. It came in and pinned me down, sat on my chest. I couldn't move, couldn't scream. I prayed with every ounce of my soul, yet no response. The cloud got heavier. I strained to lift my head and it got slammed back down. I could feel the blankets moving at my feet and arms from the struggle to get up.

My prayers weren't working. My body strength wasn't enough. Panic, anxiety, and fear set in. A thought popped into my head that if this thing gets me, I'll wake up to dead kids. With that realization, I fought even harder, went deep inside to access whatever reserve of strength I had left. I was able to open a sliver of my right eye and felt a bit of relief for only a split second before my eye was forced shut again. Then something cold, something dead, long, bony hands wrapped around my neck and started squeezing. I don't know what happened, but it all vanished after it got its hands on me.

I woke up sweating, trembling, and scared.

It's 2 AM and I call my dad. He answers on the first ring. What are you doing awake? Can you come dedicate my house? He didn't ask any questions, just got my mom and drove down as fast as they could. My doors were locked and I needed to get up and unlock them before they showed up. Absolutely terrified, I mustered up the courage to run to the front door, unlock it, and sprint back. That 5 minutes of waiting for them to get there was the longest wait of my life.

When they came in and asked what was going on, I started bawling. I told them the story. My oldest son had woken up and heard most of it. My dad then prayed and asked if one of them should stay. Feeling like this was a test of faith, I told them to go, but I'd call if I changed my mind.

After they left, my son told me he didn't feel safe and wanted to sleep in the other room. So we called grandpa again, asking him to come back down, and we hightailed it to the other room. My dad shows up promising to protect us. I told him he could sleep in my room, which wasn't advised, sleep on the couch or there was an extra bed in this room. Thank God he opted for the extra bed.

Still scared, I felt safe, dad was here. He started to snore and I snuggled in with my two littles. All of a sudden, his snoring stopped and he began to whimper. Me being exhausted and frozen with fear, I felt I had no other option than to let go and try to get some sleep. I drifted in and out of sleep. The attacks kept coming. This time they were further off, not so intimate. When I was able to break from the spell, I'd look over at my dad and still see him whimpering and rustling. The horror story continued as I heard scurrying and movement throughout the house.

I thought about putting a salt line across the door, but was just too paranoid to get up.

At about 4am, I woke up from another attack lying there, chest throbbing. An evil, dark, Gothic voice spoke in a language I couldn't understand. It had come from my dad. This was it. The thing got to him. In about 5 seconds, he's gonna rise and kill us all. So, completely paralyzed with fear, I didn't move. I didn't know what to do. I didn't run or fight. This was the end. I drifted back into an unnatural sleep. A loud crash finally woke us up and daylight started to break.

The nightmare was over. We were alive. My dad looked at me from across the room and said, I fought that thing all night long, Whitney. So I wasn't crazy. This really happened. It didn't just come for me, but for him too. He told me he chased it around to the ends of the earth. He has had many encounters with spirits and angels throughout his life, and he says he has never felt or met anything so evil, so dark, and so old before. .

Both relieved that it was morning, we went and found what caused the crash. A book from my shelf had fallen, no particular book of consequence. My sister-in-law came down to watch the kids for the day as planned.

Dad left and... Feeling like I had the world’s worst hangover, I went to take a shower. Thoughts of the hours before haunted me and I began to break. Jason wasn't scheduled to come home for another day or two. My parents were leaving for a work trip. How could I stay here another night? Could I ask one of my brothers to stay over? After what I thought I’d seen happen to my dad, how could I trust bringing anyone else into that house?

The anxiety was too much so we packed up the kids and left for Bozeman. Before we left, Danica and I went into town and bought some sage, came back and smudged the ever-loving shit out of the house. leaving the sage smoldering with a secret hope that it would burn the whole thing to the ground.

Broken and afraid, Jason didn't believe the story. He believed that I was actually terrified, he just couldn't fathom the demon. As I told the story more, he began to get more irritated. He was mad at my dad for feeding into the campfire effect. He was mad at me for openly talking about it in front of the kids. I wasn't going to be told I was just crazy this time. This time felt more real than life itself.

I felt alone, desolate, and without a sense of direction. I cried all the time. I couldn't work. My stress levels were through the roof. Jason had made plans to go to the trampoline park in Missoula and meet up with friends and cousins. He told me to take the day off and come with him. I cried the whole way up, lost for words, lost all-purpose, basically living in a PTSD state.

I remembered back on the podcast episode, the confession was stronger than any exorcism. So I looked up confession times and at churches in Missoula. I had Jason drop me off at St. Francis Xavier, found a priest, went into confession and told him my story. He gave me a rosary, told me to set a prayer corner in my house and to find a community of believers I needed to shore up my weak spots. I clung to that rosary for dear life, took it everywhere, slept with it. I started making rosaries for everyone.

Okay, enough was enough. It was time to find a church.

Since the Catholics were on my mind, that's the first place I chose. My mom, Danica, Jason, and the boys and I went to St. Mary's before the remodel was done. So we walked into a gym and it felt like AUV all over again. But something happened when the sign of peace was given. I teared up and thought of how beautiful it was. I then went and took communion because, hey, I have to experience it all. And at the end, the St. Michael's prayer struck me to my very being. After that, I continued to go to St.

Francis. That's where Ryan saw me, shocked and asked what I was doing there. I had no effing idea. I was so lost and so broken, I didn't know what I needed. He told me about OCIA.

I wandered into that class with a box full of rosaries I had made to be blessed and proceeded to tell John that I thought the snake was the good guy in the story.

From there, things began to snowball, coincidence upon coincidence, or what I would like to say now is grace upon grace. My dad had called his brother, who has had his own crazy mystical experiences, and asked him about this particular demon. He then went on to say that this one is in fact evil itself and to be careful. He also gave me hope by reframing my mind that this was a moment to change, an opportunity to grow and get better. He also let me know that he was able to see my grandpa, his dad, and someone from my mom's side guarding the house.

That is something I'd like to believe is and was true. Okay, so now I had a chance to change. To become better.

But why did going to mass make me sick and nauseous? Stubborn, I persevered, kept going and continued with OCIA, asking as many hard and sometimes blasphemous questions I could. I'm no idiot. Organized religion is full of wolves and snakes and corruption, but I was also so curious. I began reading books, listening to podcasts, researching. like the true story of the true history of Catholicism, why we're Catholic, and the Pints with Aquinas podcast.

I knew I needed this deep down, but I knew I needed to stay afraid, to be forced to keep going. I held onto that demon, that fear, so closely so that I could stay the course. And by doing that, he came back again and again, just further and further, dreams within dreams.

Fear had gotten me to the door, but fear wasn't enough to walk me through it. If I was going to believe, I had to make, it had to make sense.

One Sunday in mass, feeling nauseous and sick as always, I took the chance to really ask why. What was this? I burst into tears, uncontrollable sobs. I was only two rows from the front and felt like everyone saw my desperation. I always told myself I didn't need this. I didn't need religion to be a better person. I could have Jesus and that was good enough.

But I also told myself to walk through the doors that opened, realizing my pride and my poverty. It struck me that maybe all I was doing was peeking through the door and what I needed was to march through, abandon all my honor and let go.

Ryan knew a little of what was going on with the demons. And when he saw that, he gave me an altar candle after mass. Sometimes the moments with the greatest impact aren’t the over-the-top miraculous ones. A simple act of kindness and a candle to reaffirm that I was on the right track.

I've always been a rational thinker, an independent force, and a confident idiot. OCIA had got me thinking and testing my beliefs, but although I promised to let go, the rational side came back and put me in my place.

It's December and a Tuesday night. The thought of going to class felt like a burden. At the last minute, I decided to go. To my surprise, it was Father Charbel and the class was packed. He began the lesson on the sacrament of Baptism. I of course interjected with many questions. He then moved to deliverance. He brought some books, oils, and holy water to hand out. This class now became somehow targeted at me. He had no idea what I was going through, but he reluctantly pushed the lesson in my direction. He reflected back on a story of deliverance and began speaking in Latin.

My head throbbed and I got a piercing migraine. When he stopped, the pain stopped. My rational brain said, duh, but my curious brain needed to know. After class, I told Cheryl what happened. She's now my godmother. And she knew what I had been going through. She confirmed that what she saw was more than just a headache. Apparently, I wanted to crawl out of my skin.

Once I finally got a chance to speak to Father Charbel, I asked if he could talk in Latin again. Caught off guard, he asked what was going on. Breaking down, I told him everything. In between sobs, I recounted every interaction I’d had.

He sat me down with a few others, gave us books, and we started praying. Mid-prayer, I got a gut punch so hard I lost my breath. Not able to breathe, I started to squirm. I got hot and nauseous, needing to throw up. I got chills running down my spine. I coughed and twitched. My skin itched and my blood curdled. After about 30 minutes to an hour, my body calmed.

I quit crying and I just wanted to go home. I was so exhausted. My husband, being rightfully worried and upset that I wasn't home yet, seeing how it was past 11, He called and I told him I'd tell him the whole story when I got home.

Something physically shifted in my body and my presence, and Jason could tell I was different. I used to be irrationally angry, like my blood would boil and my skin would crawl. I don't get that anymore. I've been delivered, and Jason could see it. He started to believe the demon story, started to come to class and mass with me. I no longer felt crazy, no longer felt alone.

The fear and anxiety started to fade. I found peace from the demons. But underneath that layer was something harder: myself, and my pride, and a new fear. Demonic fear and oppression subsided, and what was exposed was the fear of God.

Not a good and biblical fear, but a disturbing and ruthless fear. I fought so hard to not open that door, because if I did, I knew He would test me. The story of Job and Abraham rang through my mind. In my mind, God was a puppet master, seeing what all He could put us through, placing bets on our loyalty. What if I accept Him and He tests me by killing my kids or my husband? If the demon failed at that job, then God certainly wouldn't. What if surrendering meant giving Him permission to hurt me and the ones I loved?

I began to pray more, not just a personal evening prayer, but Lectio Divina and the rosary.

While on a walk, praying the rosary and meditating on the sorrowful mysteries, the cross, I got to the final mystery. I was prompted by Jonathan Rumi on Hallow to sit with Mary at the foot of the cross as Jesus took His final breath. I saw Her, looking around, angry at those who laughed, who cheered, so angry that they couldn't see what He had done for them. Then I saw Her turn to Mary Magdalene and be filled with joy, so happy that Her Son paved the way for someone so deserving like Her

I turned to Her and began to cry, telling Her how sorry I was, for it was me who had killed Her Son. She looked at me, dead in the eyes, with love and a touch of anger, and said, "Well, don't let His sacrifice be for nothing."

For years, guilt told me to look backward, but Her words asked me to look forward.

Chapter Five

So I took Mary's words to heart. I decided I wanted to jump all in, to get baptized, to commit. I talked with Jason and asked what he thought I should do. I had spent so much of our marriage putting myself first. This time, I was actually willing to wait if he asked me to. To wait another year, or wait until he was ready to do it with me. He didn't know if he was ever going to be ready, so he encouraged me to move forward.

Off to Helena we went, for the Rite of Election. Attending Mass in the beautiful cathedral I had painted before, I felt at home. This felt right. I was where I was meant to be. It was also the first time I craved the Eucharist and got upset when I couldn't have it.

And then the bishop came out, dressed in his pope-like clothing, sitting in a special chair, and I got a major ick. I cried out to God to give me a sign if this was indeed a false religion, something I needed to run from. I was willing to look like an idiot and leave mid-service. I also asked if this was where I needed to be, to say nothing or to give me peace.

As I waited for my turn to meet the bishop, I watched all the others greet Him, and I no longer saw a man welcoming people into a church. I saw Jesus embracing those who would come home. I now had appreciation for the man who put himself in the position to be a human hand through which Christ could reach out.

By the time it came to my turn, I had no idea what to expect. He put His hand on my shoulder and paused.

It wasn't the bishop's eyes looking into mine. It was Christ. He saw me. All my faults, all my guilt, all my wounds. And He loved me. I've never felt more seen in my entire life.

Then He spoke, saying something to the effect of, "I know it's been hard I know the baggage you carry is heavy. But in a few weeks, it'll all be gone, and you'll be made new in Christ."

That was exactly what I needed to hear, so I asked if I could give Him a hug. Everything felt divine. Everything felt perfect. I was home.

I was now in the throes of Lent. Home started to not feel like a big, beautiful, ornate cathedral, but a replica trying to hide its cracks.

The marriage question was raised. Do I have a valid marriage? Was I really going to jump through hoops so some institution I still didn’t entirely trust could decide whether my marriage had substance? I knew the answer to that: no. My marriage was living on borrowed time from the beginning. I took God completely out of it, out of the vows, out of the ceremony. I clearly didn't mean yes when I said it,  and years later would be the proof.

I fell into a spiritual crisis because I wanted the sacrament so bad. I saw them as a remedy when the attacks resurfaced. And each time the attacks got worse and worse and more real. I couldn't afford another. This next one would surely be deadly. The sacraments were my sword and shield, and now I felt them being stripped from me. I was willing to do whatever it took to stay, but how much more could I ask from Jason? He had given me everything, and at every turn I told him it wasn't enough. This was going to just be another.

I was just about ready to call crap on the whole thing, when John stepped in and calmed me down and brought me back to solid ground. We didn't end up needing to go through the steps or the classes.

My prayers became less about "give me what I want" and more about "empty me, fill me, use me."

Baptism and confirmation approached. My cravings for the Eucharist got more intense.

It was finally here. I went through it. I felt like I had just finished the race. I was at peace, and I wanted to rest. Each time I received the Eucharist, I got a physical reaction. Just pure bliss and peace. A taste of what I got from that breath-work session.

Things slowed down. Real life came back. I'm not magically changed. I started to feel things slip back. Why? To be honest, I stopped reading the Word. My prayers were more repetitive. The reactions from Mass dried up.

When I was asked to tell my story, I was honored and humbled. It allowed me to look back at my life and see Catholic threads that had been there long before I recognized them. My parents going to Italy and bringing only me home a rosary. The handing off the phone to others that had passed on. The cathedrals I found myself painting. The roses. I've looked at all the small and big moments and how each interaction, whether I did anything or not, set me up to come here.

I've still got questions and still fight against pride and organized religion. But what I've learned is that I can trust God. I've never trusted anyone but myself. Others aren't perfect. Hell, I'm far from it. But you know who is perfect? God. And that perfect God loves me.

Loves You.

The definition of love is to actively will the good of another. I'll say it again. The definition of love is to actively will the good of another. If God is perfect, and God is love—if He perfectly wills my good—then why wouldn’t I trust Him?

We’re not promised an easy life. Surrendering doesn't ensure that everything will be butterflies and rainbows. But what we are promised is love.

A quiet night, an honest prayer, I drift above and see myself lying there.

A subtle knock, my spirit slips from bed, drawn to the door by something left unsaid.

I turn the handle and there he stands, 

Light all around him, love in his hands, 

Tears in his eyes yet joy in his face, 

As though he had been waiting to meet me in this place.

No questions, no striving, no longer alone, 

I was in his arms and finally came home

I used to think the most important part of that vision was that Jesus was standing at my door. Maybe the miracle wasn't that He found the door. Maybe it's that after everything, I finally stopped being afraid to open it.

• Whitney Weidow