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<\/a><\/div>\nThis is the post that launched the good ship YIMCatholic into the open sea of the Catholic blogosphere\u00a0 one year ago yesterday. (August 17, 2009). As you can see, it garnered all of three comments, the first of which didn\u2019t show up until three weeks later. So,\u00a0 from that shaky beginning, how do you explain the following?\u00a0 One year, \u00a0645 posts, two partners, and 186,600\u00a0 blog views later, YIMCatholic has managed to make it one lap around the track. Whew\u2014Talk about a long lap!<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n I want to thank all of the readers, Google followers, Facebook fans, Twitter followers, etc., and friends in the world of Catholic blogs, who have taken a few moments out of their precious time every day (or so) to stop by this space. I also would like to thank the many friends we have made along the way. They have helped to build this community, and bring it to where it is today. Kevin Knight of New Advent<\/a>, Elizabeth Scalia, aka\u201cthe Anchoress\u201d<\/a>, Deacon Greg Kandra of The Deacons Bench<\/a>, Julie D. at Happy Catholic<\/a>, and the many, many others (see blogroll in sidebar!) that have shared this journey with Frank, Allison and me; they have helped present our work to others so that we three could share our experiences of being Catholic with other Catholics, those in discernment, and those who just wonder why we continue to reflect on the most compelling question of all: Why I am Catholic?<\/i><\/p>\n Here\u2019s to hoping, and praying, that we will celebrate many more anniversaries for YIMCatholic into the future! Now, dear readers, to the post that started it all\u2026<\/p>\n When I was in fourth grade at The Blake School in Hopkins, Minnesota, I met my first Catholic. He was a boy in my class, who invited me over to his house one day. I don\u2019t remember a crucifix or a Madonna; I don\u2019t remember the term catechism <\/i>or CCD <\/i>being mentioned; I don\u2019t even remember my friend\u2019s name or what he looked like. All I remember is Butler\u2019s Lives of the Saints, <\/i>on the bookshelf above his head.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n Catholic <\/i>was strange, alien, suspect in my Midwestern, Protestant world. Forty-seven years later, when I told my father that I was converting to Catholicism, his first reaction was, \u201cMy mother would roll over in her grave.\u201d Maybe that\u2019s where the prejudice came from: his Methodist parents, although he himself never showed any anti-Catholic prejudice and was beamingly proud of my conversion. Yet despite the bias of my upbringing, I knew, even at age nine, that the saints were something else again.<\/p>\n We attended a Congregational church in our community outside Minneapolis. It was a beautiful white building with nothing on the walls except high, clear windows that let the Sunday morning light pour in. I remember no stained glass, no Stations of the Cross, no iconography whatsoever except for a naked cross at the head of the nave. Nothing spoke of the saints.<\/p>\n In Connecticut, where we moved when I was ten, my parents scouted for a church and ended at an Episcopalian congregation in the rolling countryside north of town. Here the walls were stone and the light streamed in from one side only, through large, sliding glass doors that overlooked an upscale garden. As I recall, there was stained glass above the altar, but no saints anywhere to be found<\/p>\n In Connecticut there was one intriguing set of symbols that I did not remember from our church in Minnesota. When I was twelve, I took confirmation classes, which qualified me to kneel at the sanctuary rail and take communion one Sunday a month\u2014the statutory Episcopal limit, it seemed. Along the rail, there were cushions for kneeling that had been slip-cased in needlepoint by some industrious members of the altar guild. From left to right, against a blue knit background, were the traditional symbols of the twelve Apostles: keys for Peter, an X-shaped cross or saltire <\/i>for Andrew, a carpenter\u2019s square for St. Thomas, the gruesome saw with which St. James the Less was martyred, and so on. I must have asked about these symbols, and it was probably my mother who gave me the answer. She is knowledgeable about cultural history, and it was her mother, not my father\u2019s, who would rattle teacups around Lake Minnetonka in Minnesota by converting to Catholicism after my grandfather died, when I was about twenty-five.<\/p>\n The symbols of the Apostles were like Butler to me: clues to hidden treasure, hints that behind the spare Protestant storyline of Nativity, Crucifixion, and Resurrection, there was a secret language that filled in the gaps, enlarging the simplistic narrative into an epic of adventure and glory. I was in my twenties before I understood that this epic was Catholic.<\/p>\n By that time, I had wandered, alternately on fire and lukewarm, through several years of wishing to live right. <\/i>In this there was a certain amount of adolescent cluelessness, and in the psycholingo popular at the time, I thought I was experiencing an identity crisis. But my late adolescence was driven by something more: a search for spiritual exemplars and ways of living like them. If I had remained a churchgoer after leaving Greenwich for boarding school in tenth grade, I might have found my way to the saints much sooner. But in the everything-overboard mentality of those Vietnam War years, I probably would not have been satisfied with anything familiar.\u00a0<\/i> St. Francis was the saint who hit me over the head first, especially in Nikos Kazantzakis\u2019s fictionalized biography and later in Franco Zeffirelli\u2019s film, Brother Son, Sister Moon<\/i>, in which Francis and Clare are flower children loping through sun-honeyed fields to the strains of English folk minstrel Donovan. Over the next thirty years, as my unchurched life rolled on, other saints grabbed my attention. Vita Sackville West\u2019s biography of Joan of Arc was a thrilling discovery; I was astonished that Joan is no legend. The facts <\/i>of her miraculous life are known in minute detail thanks to exhaustive testimony recorded at her several trials. When was it I realized that the central figure in the film that had hypnotized me since the mid-1960s was himself a saint, Thomas More in A Man for All Seasons? <\/i>As time went on, I saw that film fifteen or twenty times, in the cinema, in syndicated TV rerun, on video, on DVD.<\/p>\n For about a month in the mid-1990s, I attended daily mass at the Catholic church in our town. I sat through the liturgy without taking communion until one day I stood with the other parishioners, approached the priest bearing a chalice, and heard him say, \u201cThe Body of Christ.\u201d Not knowing what to respond, I said nothing, held my hands before me as I had in the Episcopal Church, received the Host, and consumed it. I was immediately ashamed. When I got home, I asked my wife Katie, born a Catholic, what one is supposed to say when the priest says, \u201cThe Body of Christ.\u201d She told me, \u201cAmen.\u201d At that moment, I realized that I would have to stop attending mass until I was ready to become a Catholic. I was an impostor before God.<\/p>\n I never thought about returning to daily mass for the next ten or twelve years. Then one Friday night, when Katie was out with girlfriends, I ate in a restaurant, had one drink too many, and found myself in a Borders bookstore. I went directly to the two-for-one table, thinking that I might find a birthday present for a friend whose birthday was coming up. The next moment I was in front of the book that changed my life. What was it about the book that I noticed first? The cover? A striking painting of ten men and women standing side by side with their hands posed prayerfully in front of them, a multiracial gathering, including one bearded fellow who held an upside-down cross in front of him. No, not the cover.The author? James Martin, SJ.\u00a0<\/span>I knew that meant Society of Jesus, Jesuit.<\/span> Was it possible that each of the saints\u2014not just Francis and Thomas and Joan, but every last one chronicled by Butler, to say nothing of the hundreds added since\u2014was deluded or just plain wrong about the existence of God, the centrality of Christ, and the reality of human salvation through faith and works? That seemed unlikely to me, although I couldn\u2019t prove otherwise<\/p>\n All that I knew for a certainty, and the certainty has only increased, is that morning mass is the best hour of my day. I do it\u2014I am a Catholic\u2014because nothing else is better for me. Two years on, nothing else seems to make much sense at all.<\/p>\n This is the post that launched the good ship YIMCatholic into the open sea of the Catholic blogosphere\u00a0 one year ago yesterday. (August 17, 2009). As you can see, it garnered all of three comments, the first of which didn\u2019t show up until three weeks later. So,\u00a0 from that shaky beginning, how do you explain […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":143,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[36],"tags":[13,14],"class_list":["post-1754","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-living","tag-personal-history","tag-saints"],"yoast_head":"\n
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\nThere was a Catholic parish in our neighborhood, St. Sulpice, where we eavesdropped on the mass in French. Around the corner from St. Sulpice was a Catholic bookstore, where I picked up a copy of the Spiritual Exercises <\/i>of St. Ignatius of Loyola in French. I read it then and still have it today on my bookshelf. En route to Madrid we stopped at Lourdes, where I was entranced by the story of St. Bernadette and a candlelit procession of thousands chanting the Hail Mary in three languages alternately. In Rome, St. Peter\u2019s was our first and last destination, while Assisi was an Italian side trip that we made more than once. Here in a church basement I stared in stunned silence at the intact body of St. Francis\u2019s spiritual sister, St. Clare, covered only with a gauzy shroud. Every feature was clearly discernible beneath the veil eight centuries after her death. I almost thought I saw the gauze rise and fall with her breath<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
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\nNo, what grabbed me was the title, My Life with the Saints. <\/i>Francis: <\/i>the rich boy turned mendicant, the holy fool for God. God asked Francis to \u201crepair my church,\u201d and did he ever! Joan: <\/i>a shepherd girl who, like Bernadette of Lourdes, had visions that spoke to her, visions that told her to ride across war-torn France to lead the disgraced dauphin into battle and to witness the dauphin crowned king at Reims\u2014maid turned militant turned martyr, who died at the stake with the holy name Jesu <\/i>on her lips. Thomas More: <\/i>husband, father, scholar, diplomat, statesman, poet, heroic defender of the Faith, Renaissance man turned martyr and saint, \u201cHis Majesty\u2019s good servant, but God\u2019s first<\/span><\/span><\/span>
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\nThree dramatically different figures\u2014beggar, warrior, statesman\u2014one faith in common. These three saints had professed the same Credo<\/i>, said the same prayers, received the same Body of Christ, and died with the same God on their minds, in their hearts, and on their lips. As I attended daily mass at St. Mary Star of the Sea Church in Beverly, Massachusetts, and attended RCIA meetings in the old convent a block away, I was convinced that what had worked for these three saints, and for every other saint in Butler, would just have to be good enough for me. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n