How A Patient Saint Led Me Home
My Journey with St. Teresa
Growing up, my father always told me, “Complete your Confirmation, and after that, you decide.”
He meant it — once I received my sacraments, my spiritual path would be mine to choose. He also had another line he repeated often: “You don’t have to believe what I believe, but you’ve got to believe in something.”
My dad was our spiritual rock. After high school he even went to seminary, discerning life as a Brother. Thankfully for my sister and me, his true vocation turned out to be husband and father. Phew.
After Confirmation, I drifted from the Church. Looking back now, I’m deeply grateful he insisted I receive all my sacraments on time. More on that later.
And now… I have to resist the urge to slip into Sophia Petrillo mode from The Golden Girls:
“Picture it…”
It was the late eighties, early nineties, and I had fallen pretty far from the Church. Near my house was this funky building called a Mart — basically a pre‑mall mall. It held everything: antiques, tires, food stalls, knick‑knacks, random shops, and tucked inside… a strange little bookstore.
I’ve always loved books — borderline obsessed — so naturally I wandered in. It turned out to be a new age/occult shop, which absolutely captivated my still‑forming mind. This was the late eighties, when these shops were still fringe. And I was drawn to the fringe. To quote Lydia Deetz: “I myself am strange and unusual.”
One book stood out above all the others: A Guide to Lucid Dreaming.
If you know anything about me, you know how important dreams are to my writing and imagination. Most of my ideas come straight from dreams. I also had sleep disturbances growing up (night terrors — which, by the way, affect everyone else in the house WAY more than the sleeper). So, the idea that I could be conscious and do whatever I wanted while dreaming? Huge bonus. I bought the book.
It began a long chase for secret knowledge — a chase that feels impossible to satisfy without the one true God. I didn’t know that then. What I did know was the messaging I absorbed: that women in the Christian world were second‑class. That message was everywhere. And in the middle of the feminist movement, it felt reasonable.
That’s the danger of messaging — covert, targeted messages always feel reasonable.
And I will repeat this until the end of time:
The devil will never make you do anything, but he will absolutely help you justify it.
I spent years going deeper into the mystical and the Wiccan. If I had a decision to make, I would pull out my tarot cards. I wanted to know everything — the future, the unseen, the things we are not meant to know. “Want” isn’t even strong enough. It was a Need. Insatiable.
And yet… if someone asked me what my religion was, I always answered: Catholic.
Even at my deepest point in the occult.
I knew — somehow — that if I ever married, it had to be in a Catholic Church, to a Catholic man.
That pull home never left me.
I just ignored it.
I never saw anything frightening during those years. No demons, no encounters, as some people describe. Honestly, the harder I tried to meditate into “deep levels,” the more I just… fell asleep. Every time. Now I know: my guardian angel was working overtime.
And so was my patron saint.
During one of my many book-buying sprees, I picked up a book that caught my attention — Interior Castle by St. Teresa of Ávila. A book about meditating? Of course, I was on board. I didn’t read it right away, but when I finally did, this 16th-century Spanish mystic planted a seed in my soul.
Around that time, my husband came home excited about a young priest he’d seen walking through town. (He’ll share that story himself in an upcoming episode — it’s even more magical than mine.) My husband went back to church, and after some gentle convincing — because I still had some old wounds from childhood — I agreed to meet the new priest.
Truthfully, I was nervous. Some small part of me wondered if I might burst into flames walking through the doors.
But the meeting was beautiful. It led to my first confession in… I don’t even know how long… and a mini‑exorcism to renounce all the New Age practices I’d been involved in.
Liberation.
Liberation from the constant need to know more.
Liberation from the beliefs that had twisted my view of the Church.
Liberation from the lies.
It all melted away.
I was home.
True to my personality, I dove in. I went through RCIA with my stepson — his first time entering the Church, my re-entry. I learned everything with fresh eyes. I was, and still am, on fire for Jesus.
I reread Interior Castle and bought the rest of St. Teresa’s works. I still marvel that a nun from over four hundred years ago speaks directly to my heart.
Why is she so special to me?
Because when my stepson was preparing for Easter Vigil, we pulled out our sacrament paperwork… and there it was. My handwritten Confirmation certificate. And across the top:
St. Teresa of God.
I had chosen her.
I had forgotten.
But she had not forgotten me.
Shock hit me like a wave, and happy tears poured down my face.
My patient friend from four centuries ago had guided me back home to Jesus.
