4-H Club Memories and Catholic Apologetics

I found 4-H Club overwhelming as a child. The pledge with its four-H motto. Head. Heart. Hands. Health. The procedure of each meeting, like we were some CEOs of a Fortune 500 hundred company or something.

And the Howard County Fair. I was as afraid to face the judges in the baking division as a child is to face Mom and Dad after he misses curfew. And one was expected to enter something. Baked goods. Hand-sewn items. A calf or lamb.

I couldn't sew very well, and my dad was a preacher, not a farmer. So the livestock option was off limits.

Still, my sister and I entered our cheesy bread the year I was in sixth grade. We were given the opportunity to present our recipe to the judges - while an audience watched us -  live - like some kid- version of the FoodNetwork television show.

We had practiced our Cheesy Bread recipe schtick. We had it down.

The day of the presentation, I fell into the set dialogue and introduced our subject matter.

"Hi. I'm Denise Johnson and this is my sister Karlene, and we're from the Saratoga Presbyterian Church."

Dad was in the audience. His laughter cut through the murmurs and County Fair noise in the big tent. I paused. What was so funny? My sister looked at me. Her eyes spoke volumes:

I can't believe you just said that.

That's when it hit me. I was supposed to say that my sister and I were from the Saratoga Sunbeams 4-H Club.

Instead, I had told the entire audience that my sister and I were from the Saratoga Presbyterian Church.

That's how it is when your dad's a preacher. It is everything. It is such a big part of who you are that you fall into the image, the inheritance, the identity of it - even when you don't mean to do it.

I am a preacher's kid.

Forget Saratoga Sunbeams. I had just told everybody that we were Saratoga Presbyterians. And my dad was falling off his chair. Laughing.

I haven't changed all that much.

Sure. I'm Catholic now, but even when I don't mean to do it. Even when my mind is somewhere else. Even when I'm dog tired or one Margarita into the evening or at a ball game or a party or a family reunion. It comes out.

Hi. I'm Denise. And I am from the Catholic Church. You think I'm here to make some bread or buy some groceries or get my daughter's back-to-school physical, but you're in for a surprise.

I'm here to tell you that I'm Catholic. All the rest of it is a setting, a backdrop, a epoch that appears to be focused on some unrelated event.

You are wrong.

I'm from the Church of 2,000 years. Go ahead. Give me a script. I'll manage to find a way to say what really matters.

You think you are here to witness a food demonstration. But I'm here to evangelize.

I can't get around it.

I've stopped trying.

And the best part of all? I can hear Dad laughing.

That's my girl.

4-H Club Memories and Catholic Apologetics

Preacher's Daughter

It seems like my dad always waited until nightfall to realize that he’d left his Bible on the podium at church. I enjoyed having a minister for a father, except at that moment in time. He’d casually lift his eyes from a bedtime snack and say, “Why don’t you run down to the church, Sis, and get my Bible for me?” I’d roll my eyes and groan, “Oh, Dad.” The idea of going into a church at night – by myself – just to fetch his Bible was not my idea of fun. It sounded more like a good way to see a ghost or something. If I hesitated further, Dad would smile and add, “If you do it, I’ll let you be my daughter.” After more eye-rolling, I’d pull myself out of the chair and trudge down the road to a darkened Presbyterian church and let myself inside.

Suddenly, I would shift gears, dashing full speed through the narthex and frantically feel along the far wall for light switches, the whole time praying, “Please, no angels. Please, no angels.” Then, I’d run like a maniac to the platform, now praying that the Bible would be right where Dad had indicated so that I would lose no time to a search effort, and finally, Bible in hand, I’d run back down the aisle, hitting the light switch in one fluid motion, as I passed through the narthex and out the church doors. I would barely drop the pace as I headed for home.
Now that I’m older some things have changed. For starters, I’m Catholic now. If you look closely at my conversion, it’s almost like Our Heavenly Father asked me to do the same thing my earthly father used to ask of me.

Sis, I want you to walk down this road where you’ll find my Word Made Flesh. At that point, I probably rolled my eyes a bit. I know I asked the Lord, Why me? Why not ask my sister or brother? Or start with my husband, at least. The idea of becoming Catholic wasn’t an easy road to go down alone.

Then, the Lord smiled and said, “I’ll let you be my daughter.” This time it was no joking matter. I reminded Him that I would probably make mistakes and look like an idiot sometimes as I fumble for the lights. But I want to please You, Lord. I want to follow You, wherever the journey leads me.

Conversion is like that.

The Father sends us on a mission. Sometimes fear of the unknown makes us want to say no, but we submit anyway. We dash in and dash out, seeking the first light switch we find, hoping to make it through the journey without experiencing anything that is too life-altering, when the way of real obedience is to walk at the Lord’s pace, even if it is through the dark night.

Preacher's Daughter

Roman Catholic Preacher's Kid

Roman Catholic Preacher’s Kid

My journey from Protestantism to Catholicism is as complex and beautiful as the God who orchestrated it.

During my early childhood, my father was a Wesleyan minister. When I was eleven, Dad changed denominations and became a Presbyterian minister. Dad’s faith journey wasn’t easy. He had high regard for the Wesleyan focus on holiness and sanctification. But his scriptural study had given him a new appreciation for infant baptism and many other things which the early church held sacred, things spelled out in the Apostle's Creed, things that were more Presbyterian than Wesleyan. The importance of seeking God’s Truth at any cost was the most important faith lesson my father taught me.

In October of 2003, Dad underwent surgery for a herniated disk. Six weeks later, an MRI showed that Dad had developed a massive staph infection and sustained a fracture to his back. They began immediate intravenous antibiotics and put Dad in a back brace. Before the medication could work, Dad died unexpectedly of a pulmonary embolism. It had not been an easy death. He was only sixty and had spent the previous eight years battling a number of neurological disorders as well.

Following his death, I went on a quest for answers as to why the Lord of love and mercy would allow my dad to endure such suffering.

After a lot of seeking and searching, I found the answer in a book by St. John of the Cross. In his book Dark Night of the Soul, this saint explains that we should rejoice when we go through profound suffering, because God has not abandoned us, even if it seems like He has, but rather He is making good use of us (Starr translation 138). Protestants believe we are to pray for healing from our suffering or for strength to endure our suffering. Protestants do not subscribe to the teaching that they are to “contribute to the good of the People of God by freely uniting themselves to the Passion and death of Christ” (Catechism of the Catholic Church 1499). In other words, they do not see the eternal value for the Kingdom of God in simple or profound human suffering. To them, suffering for the cause of Christ is primarily limited to persecution for one’s faith. What about a sore throat or a herniated disk? Could those be crosses as well? Could they be united to Christ's suffering and somehow be efficacious for the Kingdom of God?

While my father’s life taught me to seek the Lord for answers, his suffering provided me with the question the Lord wanted me to ask. By asking that one question on suffering and by seeking with all of my heart for the answer, the Lord was able to lead me home to the Catholic Church.

When my father died, I inherited much of his personal library, and I perused those books in a quest for answers. Once I had exhausted his library, I borrowed books from Saint Louis University library and purchased others at a local book store. By June, I had read some fifty books, including Confessions by St. Augustine, Dark Night of the Soul by St. John of the Cross and The Interior Castle by St. Teresa of Avila.

I suppose my life as a Protestant was over at that point. When a Protestant falls in love with the saints, there’s no turning back. That’s how it was for me.

That fall, I enrolled in RCIA classes and began to explore the tenets of the Faith. I learned that the Catholic Church places a high premium on holiness and sanctification, AND they hold firmly to all that the early church taught . . . because they WERE the early church. I had followed Truth, and I had found my way home. On August 14, 2005, in the Year of the Eucharist, I received Our Lord, Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity in my First Communion.

Roman Catholic Preacher's Kid