My story begins in 1988 when a close friend gave me a copy of Wayne
Weible's "Miracle at Medjugorje" newspaper story. Six children were reportedly having visits by
the Blessed Virgin Mary. These children were receiving messages or secrets for the world. The author,
himself a Lutheran, was asked by the Lady to write her story and tell the world.
The article really caught my interest and provoked real thought, even
though I was a non-practicing baptized Christian non-denominational. Yet the stage had been
set for the Lady's plan for me, for which I was totally unprepared.
This close friend of mine, who gave me the newspaper article, then
journeyed to Medjugorje in November 1988. He returned with a rosary for me. My friend, a Catholic, had
not been to church in probably 20 years. But he returned from Medjugorje full of enthusiasm. He
had gone to confession, attended daily Mass, recited the rosary every day, heard the stories from the
visionaries, climbed Mt. Podbrodo and Mt. Krezivic and was truly reborn into Christ. I listened
to him go on and on about all this praying, especially the rosary. I looked at him and said: "OK, but
prayer doesn't mean anything unless it is from the heart." I stressed that you could do all the rosaries
in the world and attend church forever, but unless it was from your heart and not just imitating what you
saw, it didn't mean anything. I was adamant and stubborn in my position.
Perhaps a brief account of my own religious upbringing would be in order.
When my dad married my stepmother, she made sure we all went to church on
Sundays and attended summer church camps. We belonged to a Christian non-denominational
church where we sang acappella because we were not allowed to have musical instruments of any
kind. The sermons were very literal, strict, and full of fire and brimstone.
I grew up amongst mostly Catholic and Jewish persons. I questioned what
they were learning and judged that they couldn't be right, if it didn't come from the Bible.
I had no clue, as to why Catholics did not eat meat on Fridays except
some "Church bureaucrat" said they couldn't. And confession! No, no me! I wasn't about to tell
anyone my sins, much less someone who was going to make me say something called a Hail Mary. I
gave many lectures to my friends over the years about repetitious prayer. I chastised the Catholic
faith many times, All the way from the Pope to priests and nuns.
However, as a child, I would go into the Catholic church with my friends
on Friday nights, when they would go for confession. Then I felt that I was in the holiest place
ever. There were statues on the walls, candles everywhere. There were confessionals with red velvet on them.
There was the altar. And, of course, my favorite thing was to light a candle. (Only a nickel then!)
As I reflect back on all of this, I find it ironic how I felt such holiness in a place that I had criticized so
God bless you, dear reader. More of Kathy's story coming next week!