For truly I tell you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you. – Matthew 17:20-21

When asked why I converted to Catholicism it’s difficult to pinpoint an exact moment when my understanding blossomed into true belief. I’ve often said that there wasn’t a single instant which led me to the faith but many moments, both big and small, over the course of many years. Upon reflection, I think the first seeds of Catholic understanding in my life were all planted by my two wonderful parents, though we may have all been unaware at the time. 

My very first exposure to Catholic teachings and literature did not come from the Bible. I first heard and fell in love with these teachings through the eloquent writings of JRR Tolkien in his tales of Middle Earth. Bedtime stories were always a must in our house growing up and Tolkien’s were our favorite. Even before any of us were Catholic and well before I myself could read, my dad spent countless evening hours sitting between my sister and I with The Lord of the Rings open in his lap, causing the letters to come alive with his various character voices as my mom sat close by knitting in her comfy armchair. To this day, my sister and I still eat up these stories, epic recounts of the eternal struggle between good and evil and all the rays of light that can still be found in a world falling into darkness. Tolkien’s work is bursting with Catholic messages and imagery.  

My mom also planted slightly more literal Catholic seeds later when I grew up and moved away to Indiana. She gifted me with a small metal crucifix and a tiny car rosary. I was not Catholic at the time and had no intention of coming to the faith but my mom was not deterred. These she hung in my life with care and without my permission, the crucifix rather prominently displayed in the middle of my apartment living room and the rosary dangling from the rearview mirror in my car. Long after she returned to Colorado and left me to my new life in the Midwest, my crucifix and rosary still hung where she’d left them. In part, I was grateful for the prayers which came with them even if I myself didn’t subscribe to the faith they represented. They were little reminders of my mom’s love for me. I also knew that she’d look for them whenever she visited and never had the heart to explain why I’d moved them so they were left as they were, Christ on the cross watching over me wherever I went.  

I would later find myself defending Catholicism during good natured religious debates over lunch with work friends. At the time I knew close to nothing about the faith except what my parents had told me since their return to the Church. I always felt compelled to correct the more blatant anti Catholic arguments on behalf of the two intelligent and loving people who raised me. Now I understand why. Looking back, all of these seemingly insignificant moments were indeed guiding me to the faith, one slow inch at a time.