My Conversion

by Brendan Ahearne
(Naas, Ireland.)

My Conversion

 

I was raised a Catholic. I went through all the usual indoctrination and enjoyed it all. I remember my first Holy Communion and the one rule stipulated by the nun — God bless her — Sister Alocoque who taught us all the fundamentals. The most important being: “No Communion in the hand.” Period!

This was back in the 50’s before the Church spiritually and physically was demolished by Father Trendy and his associates who drank in the decrees of Vatican II like parched alcoholics. Thankfully I was not around to see much of their vandalism!

I made my Confirmation during the 60’s and we were Confirmed by a Bishop — the slap on the chin and asked a question about the Faith. This practice has disappeared. Now any priest Confirms and it has only become a talking fest. Priests have or do not show any discipline over their flock (or should that be rabble).

First Holy Communion has now become First Holy Communion in the Hand. How sad it is seeing children being brought up to believe this is the norm. The enemy has gotten his way! Eventually the proper reception of Communion will be a forgotten memory, if the Modern Church lasts that long!

Before I decided to throw in the towel, something had to happen. I went to confession (another endangered practice). The priest behind the screen harangued me and hurt my feelings! Was this a Faith based on love? I thought not at that time — in illo tempore.

At early Mass the following Sunday, I got up off my pew and headed to the door. Off into the sunrise I went. I would never return except for friends’ weddings and funerals, but only as a token show.

So that was it. I closed the door. I told God to go out of my life. I didn’t need Him. Too many rules and regulations, too many “Thou shalt nots,” too many people on my back. Ever since Primary School it had been rules and beatings and nothing getting in. The nun in Senior Infants had taught me more about the Faith than all the hammerings I got from teachers later on.

I spent 31 years of my life wandering in the wasteland, tugging a massive chain behind me. Struggling all the time and getting nowhere. My soul by now a cesspit of horrors and bad times! There was no way out. I was not happy and had no peace.

It was a life of broken relationships, drunkenness, and even a dabble with drugs. Nothing could kill the pain in my insides.

I was an easy target for opportunistic women who drained me of money and self-esteem. Nice guys finish last. I learned the hard way. Experience was a cruel teacher. Thirty-one years of being played for a fool — people without morals, using me.

It was time to put on armour. People were not what they seemed. Most wore masks. These were dark times.

I was in a hole and worst of all I had dug it myself.

It was 2001. I was in a toxic relationship with someone who said she loved me. She was driving me to distraction. Something had to give.

Then one evening everything changed.

I was out on my motorcycle on a summer evening. I pulled into the car park of a church I’d often looked at before. The door was open. I went inside.

I laid my gloves and helmet on a pew. It was empty. The sanctuary lamp glowed red.

Behind the altar were stained glass windows of the Holy Family and Saint Patrick. The Sacred Heart of Jesus looked down on me. I believed He was smiling.

My parents had both died that year. I hadn’t grieved. I lit some candles and sat down. I began to pray. I still knew the Pater Noster, the Ave, and the Gloria.

I asked God to take me back. I had nothing to lose. Everything was gone — soul, dignity, self-esteem. I felt peace. God was healing me.

I went back to where I was staying. The woman I was with was acting up again.

That Monday morning, I awoke with a longing to go to Mayo. I felt called. I packed my bike and left Navan.

Near Longford, I stopped for breakfast. My phone rang — the unfaithful girlfriend telling me to come back. I told her off and turned off my phone.

I crossed the Shannon. I saw a sign for Knock. Something told me to go. I parked at the Basilica and walked the grounds.

I entered the Chapel of Reconciliation. I knew I needed confession. I told the priest my sins, including that I was seeing a married woman. He told me to think about the relationship. Déjà vu — driven away by a priest again.

I left Knock with a heavy heart.

I ended up in Westport. All the inns were full. A voice in my head said, “Keep going.” At a crossroads near Castlebar, I asked in a shop about accommodation. They pointed me to a village nearby.

I rode through rain and mist. A woman at a pub pointed me to a bungalow. It no longer took guests, but another one down the road did.

Maura Welsh welcomed me, made tea, and told me about the Abbey across from the pub. She said prayers were answered there.

I visited the Abbey. It was peaceful. I lit candles and prayed.

The next day, I planned to return home. But on the road I stopped at Kate Kearney’s Cottage. I felt called back to Ballintubber. I turned around and went back.

At the Abbey, I met Angela. She showed me a video about Ballintubber. She told me about a mystic woman named Margaret. I decided to wait and meet her.

Angela also guided pilgrims along the ancient road, the Tochar, ending at Croke Patrick.

I stayed the week. One day, Angela told me Margaret was in the Adoration Chapel. I entered. Margaret sat motionless. I looked at the monstrance — and saw what looked like a golden dove. It glowed. The room brightened.

Margaret and another man left. I followed her out. Angela had told me her name.

I introduced myself. She said, “Follow me.” So I did.

We drove to her home in Belcara. She made tea. I told her everything. I cried.

She told me she was a healer. She laid her hands on my back. It felt like red-hot irons. Heat spread through my whole body. Jesus was healing me.

She told me to give up women. I said I would try.

I returned to Ballintubber a new man.

That night in my room, it turned bitterly cold. I lit a cigarette. Hideous faces appeared in the tip. I grabbed holy water, prayed a decade of the Rosary. The cold vanished. I had left darkness — and it wanted me back.

I called Margaret. She said, “Come out at once. I have a message for you.”

She told me Jesus had forgiven me all my sins.

She received locutions and had written a book from the Holy Spirit. Now I knew — the image in the monstrance had been real.

I returned often to Mayo. I met a priest in Rathkenny. In the Adoration chapel, Jesus revealed His face to me.

One night, I saw a dove turn black, then into an airplane in the Host. The next day was 9/11.

Margaret had seen two white pillars in the Host the same night. We had both been shown.

One evening, I saw a man with two black dogs. His hair was white, his eyebrows jet black. He passed without a word. I later realized — he was the devil.

My unfaithful girlfriend came to visit. She wasn’t herself. That night she shook violently. There was a flash. The window rattled. Something left the house. The air smelled burnt. It was an exorcism.

She had dabbled in the occult. That night, whatever had haunted that house was gone.

Ten years later, my faith is stronger. I asked God for a faithful Catholic woman. After a pilgrimage to Rome, He answered.

I met my wife. We’ve been happy for nearly ten years.

Sed libera nos a malo.