When God Spoke
How does conversion happen? One woman's story
By Angela Darrow Flynn
Where does conversion begin? Can anyone really answer that question? Maybe God's voice is always there, just waiting for something or someone to come along and strip away the noise that's the world, so finally the message can be heard. It's really easier just to say where I began....
I wasn't meant to be. I was conceived out of wedlock to a 17-year-old mother, and my grandmother would have forced her to abort me had the pregnancy test been positive. Five months and five tests - all negative. I guess God had already begun to speak.
I was born late at night on April 27th, 1964. My mother declined the opportunity to see me - fearing that she'd never be able to give me up once she had smelled that sweet baby smell and touched my skin.
The people who would be my parents were quite a pair. My mother had grown up in poverty in Kentucky. My father, on the other hand, came from a long line of New Englanders and grew up in a comfortable, middle class family. My father is a retiring, scholarly man, blessed with a dry wit. He should have been a university history professor. But my grandmother had other ideas for her only child and like a dutiful son he obliged. He became a minister of the gospel in the Church of Christ. He preached for small churches while in college and took his first assignment in a small church in Kentucky immediately after completing his degree - in history!
My parents met through a mutual friend during my father's last year in college. They married the summer afterward - he was 21, she was 18. I think they expected their lives to follow the path of many young couples in the 60's. She'd do some appropriate-for-a-woman job, like retail or office work, until the babies came, and then she'd become June Cleaver with the perfectly kept home, obedient children and, of course, the obligatory pearls.
But six miscarriages and a stillbirth later, the young couple, now living in Florida, wondered if parenthood might not be in the cards. The friend who had introduced them suggested adoption and wrote a reference letter to the Children's Home Society. My parents interviewed, and were told it would be 6 to 12 months before they heard anything more. But events were unfolding which would change their lives - and mine -- in weeks, not months.
My teenage birthmother had decided reluctantly to give up for adoption the baby she was carrying. The only thing she had asked was that her baby be placed in a Christian home. To most of us, that seems a very general request. The social worker, however, saw serendipity. The young mother had been reared attending the Church of Christ, and the social worker had just interviewed a young Church of Christ minister and his wife. I suppose to some it's coincidence. But you see it, don't you, the hand of God?
Childhood: I remember church potlucks, and singing from hymnals before I could read. I remember how, before the closing prayer, my daddy would stop and hold out his hand so I could walk with him to the back of the church. I was the adored only child, my paternal grandmother's only grandchild and the first-born grandchild to my mother's parents. I was blessed with love.
Years went by. We left Florida for Kentucky and then Allentown, Pa. Living in Pennsylvania we were surrounded by Catholics. My father knew little about them, but he was curious. He had heard that the Catholic Mass was in English now, and he wanted to know what they were saying. He planned a trip.
From Allentown it's an easy drive into New York City. I remember the subways, the Statue of Liberty, and the Empire State Building. I remember going to the big Manhattan Church of Christ on Sunday morning. But my most vivid memory began later in the day, when my father took us all to St. Patrick's Cathedral - to Mass.
It was an amazing experience. The church was being renovated - scaffolding and tarps everywhere. But nothing can diminish the glory of God expressed in that place. Throughout the liturgy my parents sat still - never standing, kneeling, singing or responding. In my soul, I was ashamed and sad that we were not participating. God was speaking. And I felt sadness as we ignored that voice.
After that profound moment, you'd think the story would really heat up, but it doesn't. I went on to move a few more times with my parents. I was a dutiful daughter, sought baptism in fifth grade, participated in our church's youth group. My parents sacrificed to send me to a private Church of Christ affiliated high school and then a similarly affiliated college - my father's alma mater. And for years that moment in the great cathedral receded into my memory.
But there were undercurrents at play. I was made in the womb to a tune and a beat; my soul was formed in music, and even my non-musical parents saw that it had to find expression.
The Church of Christ forbids musical instruments in worship, and women are not allowed any leadership position in worship or teaching. Additionally, they forbid choirs and solo singing. Fortunately congregational singing is approved, so my father encouraged me to learn music, singing and even directing. I was frustrated, though. I was musically gifted and educated, yet forbidden to use my gift for God's glory.
In my senior year in high school, we were assigned a paper on any religion we chose. Are you surprised that I chose Roman Catholicism? I knew nothing of the Faith at that point. I read books on the subject, but my teacher encouraged us to personally interview a cleric or leader in the religion we were researching. So I pulled out the phone book and looked up the Catholic church near my home -- right around the corner, actually. I called and made an appointment with Fr. Michael Larkin.
The Church of Christ saw popular music as evil, dancing as a sin, and the world as a spiritually dangerous place. In contrast, Fr. Larkin welcomed me into his home with a Top 40 radio station playing in the background, and offered me soda and cookies. He answered my questions with humor and insight. My parents were good people, but Fr. Larkin was the first "religious" person I had met who seemed really to love life. Not just love it, but relish it.
I remember Fr. Larkin walking me to the car when my mother came to pick me up after the interview. He said (Oh, did I mention the Irish brogue?), "Mrs. Darrow, now you know I wouldn't be trying to convert your daughter, I hope?" She smiled and said something like yes, thank you. But it was done.
I rode my bike by the rectory a few more times my senior year to see Fr. Larkin, just to say hi or invite him to come to something at my church. He continued to be warm and approachable.
Then I went away to David Lipscomb College in Nashville, Tennessee, and my life took its first obvious detour from my parents' plan. A strict home had not prepared me with discipline of my own. In college I found a boyfriend, Gary, and quickly fell "in love." We had little self-control and even less knowledge; not surprisingly, I eventually found myself pregnant. We married. He was 20; I was 19. We had made a mistake and thought we were fixing it. It was all we knew to do - I would never have considered terminating the pregnancy. I couldn't imagine giving up the only blood relative I would know in the world, the child I carried.
We struggled financially in those years. I dropped out of school and we moved several times. Eventually, Gary enlisted in the Air Force so they would pay for him to finish college; after an initial assignment, we transferred back to Lipscomb with one year available to graduate.
I knew my calling in life, but I was also a young mother with a toddler. Faced with preparing and performing both a Junior and Senior recital in two semesters for my music degree, I reluctantly settled for a degree in psychology and only a minor in music.
My husband and I then began our Air Force travels, and God became more persistent. We arrived at Williams AFB, Arizona, for Gary's pilot training, appearing for all the world like a happy young Church of Christ couple with a four-year-old son. I taught Sunday school to toddlers and my husband led singing on Sundays.
Being a female musician in the Church of Christ was limiting, so I joined a women's glee club through the Officer's Wives Club. It was hard to remember so many names, but one woman I could remember - her socks always matched her outfit perfectly! Socks. That sounds like such a stupid reason to remember someone. Perhaps God put those socks on her feet.
Her name was Julie. She'd been married for years to an alcoholic and, after leaving him, had been a single mother for even longer. Finally, God had sent a good man into her life and she found the happiness she so deserved. Julie was also a devout, informed and practicing Catholic.
Julie was ten years older than me, but we became good friends. Our kids played together, we went shopping, we ate together at the Officer's Club. We talked about religion, but our conversations usually consisted of my aggressive questions and her hesitant answers. Eventually she asked not to talk about religion. So we didn't and our friendship flourished. Unbeknownst to me then, Julie kept praying!
On All Saints Day, 1989, I called Julie to go to lunch. One small problem, she said. She had to go to church first. Did I want to meet her there? "You have to go to church? Today? Why? What is All Saints Day? No, I'll probably just meet you afterward." I hung up, and then God started whispering. The chapel at Williams AFB was right behind my house. It took maybe two minutes to get there - five if I walked. How do you describe the voice of God? Especially when you don't recognize it yourself? But it was there, and I listened. I went to Mass.
That 1971 liturgy at St. Patrick's in Manhattan had been a long time ago and I was pretty clueless. Julie showed me how to follow along in the missal and poked me when I needed to stand or kneel. During the sign of peace, the priest came down, shook my hand, and said, "Peace be with you." I thought I was doing great when I replied, "And also with you." Julie giggled.
And here, apparently, God decided to pick up the pace. In walked Erin. Actually, she drove in on the heels of a great big moving truck and took up residence across the street. And in my heart. The sister I'd never had came into my life and changed it. Erin's husband, Doug, was a trainee pilot, and Erin was a musician. Erin was also Catholic.
What followed was arguably the best year of my life. Erin and I did everything together. We sang in the glee club, we ate lunch. We even pooled food in the evenings and would all dine together three or four nights a week. On weekends, we stayed up late watching movies all together or would pair off in teams for a fierce game of Rook - usually girls against the boys. We often talked religion too. Erin's husband was from a sect of the Baptist Church that we all thought was a little odd, so generally we found ourselves on the Catholic side of these friendly debates.
One thing is inevitable in life. We will eventually say good-bye to those we love, and sometimes sooner than we're ready to. Doug was reassigned; Erin was going to California. I thought I was taking it pretty well. We helped them pack and even drove in caravan to their new home in San Bernardino, California. Then it came time to go, and I left a piece of me behind. I sobbed for almost an hour on the way home. Gary was angry that I was so sad when I still had him. I don't think anyone ever understood the loss I felt that day.
Not long afterwards, two wonderful chaplains arrived at Williams, one Catholic and the other Church of Christ. They were good friends, kind of like Erin and I. I was becoming increasingly unhappy in the Church of Christ. As a woman I was so marginalized, forced to watch while men less talented or qualified than I took the lead. At the Catholic chapel, I was sought out for my skills and even asked to direct a choir at Easter. Finally we stopped attending the Church of Christ altogether.
Gary and I were struggling with infertility. After medical intervention, a miscarriage and a full rosary on Julie's part, I became pregnant and gave birth to our second son. Then Congress announced the closing of Williams AFB, and everyone scrambled for a new assignment. We moved again to Mississippi, and then after just a year to North Carolina.
It was during training for this last assignment that tragedy struck. Gary's father, Bill, a flight test engineer for Lockheed GA, was killed in the crash of an experimental aircraft. So much of that time is a blur. Erin and Doug dropped everything and brought their new little baby across the country to attend the funeral. The Church of Christ where Bill had been a deacon rallied around the family. But a good and loving man was gone at age 46.
We went on to Pope AFB. Almost immediately, my husband's new unit left for Bosnia, and I knew no one. Trying to make friends, I auditioned for a community theater production of Guys and Dolls. One night the music director and the accompanist were both trying to recruit me for their respective choirs. The accompanist, a Methodist, promised that I could be a soloist in his choir. Yes, replied the music director, but my choir's going to Rome to sing for the Pope. God spoke.
Singing in a church choir when you grew up thinking choirs were sinful is a new experience. Singing in a Catholic choir is downright challenging. What do we sing now, oh, we're supposed to stand, why did the priest say that? It was a hurdle, and I was hesitant. Our local Church of Christ was buzzing about my singing with the Catholics. And there was no money for the Rome trip. Finally, Gary and I agreed: If the money became available by the end of December, we would both go; otherwise, no more choir.
At the beginning of December we got word that a lawsuit resulting from my father-in-law's death was being settled. A fourth of the settlement was Gary's and mine. Quite unexpectedly, we could afford Rome. God spoke.
Ever since leaving Arizona, I had been spiritually restless. I'd read so many books. I attended the local Episcopal church on Holy Days and would circle the block just to drive past the Catholic church. During this time, I searched for and was blessed to find my birthmother. Sadly, just eighteen months after that reunion, she died of breast cancer. So much had happened in such a short time. In the days and weeks following my father-in-law's death, I sometimes wondered just what God intended for me. But at least now I was listening; and the voice was no longer just a whisper.
Our choir was to sing for the papal Mass on the Feast of Sts. Peter and Paul. Gary was deployed in Iraq, and we had agreed to meet in Rome. So late June rolled around and there I was, a Church of Christ preacher's kid, on a plane bound for Rome with a bunch of Catholics to sing for the pope. Doesn't that sound like the beginning of a bad joke? And my assigned seat was next to the parish priest accompanying us as spiritual director!
I remained silent for most of the flight. Fr. John read a book and so did I, but my brain was working. About what, you ask? Eucharist. I wanted it. The hunger had been a long time in coming, but now it was here. Finally, six hours or so into the flight, I turned to Fr. John and asked the big question: "Father, what about communion for those of us who are not Catholic?" He paused, thought for a moment, closed his book and turned.
"This is what the church believes about Eucharist," he said. "We believe that during the Eucharistic prayer, the bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ - it's not just a symbol." "That's what I believe," I said. He went on. "The church says that under special circumstances, those who believe in the Real Presence can receive Eucharist if they are without recourse to a church or clergy member from their tradition." I nodded solemnly. "I cannot tell you what to do," he added, "only what the church has said." I nodded, and he went back to reading.
I can't fully explain the evolution that took place during those nine days in Rome. I left the U.S. hearing a call to the Catholic Church and fighting it all the way. But there I was, singing with the choir at Mass in St. Peter's. I had a solo during the preparation of the gifts and I have never felt so humble. I realized as I lifted my voice - "The Lord is my shepherd" - that it was touching corners of that hallowed place that had been touched by so many other voices before. I was moved and humbled. God didn't speak. God sang!
The fall over the conversion precipice came without warning. We had been to the great cathedrals: St. John the Divine, St. Peter's, St. Paul's Outside the Walls, Mary Major. And then we went to Assisi. After a wonderful tour, we descended into a crypt below the church for Mass at the tomb of St. Francis. The tiny, humble space contained a pretty sad organ that actually started to fall apart while our organist played. I remember only the end of Fr. John's homily. He challenged us to emulate St. Francis and embrace the leper. And I realized suddenly that I was the leper, and here I was embraced by the church, by all the people seated around me. When the time came, I stepped up to Fr. John with hands cupped, gave my "Amen" to the body of Christ and, figuratively, I fell - fell in love with the church, fell into the embrace of St. Francis. I could not sing, so strong were the tears. Then the tears of the women around me began to flow until none of us were singing, just weeping. We cried, God spoke, the angels sang a welcome.
The story doesn't end there. I went home believing Gary had had the same experience as I. He hadn't. In fact, he was horrified at my intention to join the church. But I began attending RCIA inquiry, went through the Rite of Acceptance and entered the catechumenate. And I hungered for Eucharist, because I had tasted the sacrament and was now fasting, waiting for my full initiation.
During this time, the stress on my marriage reached an all-time high. At one point Gary threatened to make me choose between him and the church. At Easter Vigil, I was alone. As the fourth reading was proclaimed - "For the Lord has called you like a wife forsaken and grieved in spirit, like the wife of a man's youth when she is cast off, says your God..." - I cried in sorrow that this, the greatest night of my life, perhaps marked the end of my marriage. Gary and I separated a month later.
I walked through a very dark time then. Only Eucharist sustained me. My marriage did, in fact, disintegrate. At my lowest point, I placed on my refrigerator a simple brass plate engraved with words from Jeremiah: "For I know well the plans I have in mind for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare, not for woe! Plans to give you a future full of hope." I had to believe it or what was it all for? Why had God brought me to this point to leave me alone?
But God never leaves us. God is that friend who doesn't have to speak to be comfortable. And that future full of hope promised in Jeremiah came in more ways than I could have imagined.
Today my sons are practicing Catholics. The youngest prepares for confirmation in a year and the eldest directed two choirs for Catholic student centers at Florida State University. I've found my calling as a Director of Music. I am married to a wonderful Catholic man whom I met - Where else? - at Mass! And on a Sunday morning in the final weeks of 2000, God blessed us with a beautiful daughter.
A few months later our friend Fr. Phil Tighe took our little princess from the arms of her godmother, my beloved-like-a-sister Erin, and immersed her into the watery grave of Christ's death, bringing her up from the font into new life. She didn't cry, not at the chill of the water, not at the noise of applause from the Easter assembly. Instead she seemed to be listening. She heard; God spoke. Let the church say, "Amen."