Rugby and the Miracle of the Mundane: A Love Story
My big "C" conversion story, condensed. But t's not over yet.
Lord, I am not worthy to receive you…
I was 16-years old attending a Catholic school Mass and my teenage head jerked up reflexively in defiance at those words. I saw the priest at the altar through my narrowed eyes and would have stormed out of that church if not for the obligation and plaid uniform that shackled me there with my Catholic school peers. There were alarmingly few of us who came willingly, and even fewer who bowed down with real humility. I shook my head with anger at this man who called himself Father…
Not worthy? I AM worthy, you loser.
A few minutes later, I watched some of my classmates approach the altar. They called themselves “Eucharistic ministers” but I knew what many of them really were. They were just like I was—mocking, defiant, and immersed in the decay of the world. I stepped into line like a prisoner on the march and received the Sacred Host from a girl with a jaded look in her eye. I knew her. She was a drug abuser, a people user, an unbeliever. Body of Christ, she said as she placed the host in my hand. But I only heard the message of her life which said: I will not serve.
I didn’t really care how she lived her life and I didn’t have any intention of changing mine. It was the compulsory hypocrisy that bothered me. I wasn’t wrong about that, though I was wrong about many other things.
It rankled that I marched up with everyone else, not at all believing that the little white host was anything other than a piece of bread. For the most part, our youthful vision had been formed by a secular devotion to personal power and pleasure, and my own imagination was bound by the limitations of what I thought greatness should look like.
Like most details in a life of faith, the miraculous is invariably bound up in the mundane. We tend to miss it because we have been raised on the milk of video games, superheroes, and Hollywood; not much impresses us unless it can fly, make us dance, or at least engage a magnetic force field around our sufferings. Miracles are the necessity of suffering and age, but the young and healthy? Not so much. The modern culture of youth sees itself as the miracle and answer. Absent a need for a cancer cure or money to pay the bills, the imagination is still bound by fiction. The preference is to remain comfortably in a life of fun, pleasing schedules, strong health, reliable work, healthy relationships, adequate income, and safe streets. The unfortunate consequence is that we are rendered blind to the truly miraculous.
For the entirety of my school years, the miracle of the Eucharist appeared to me as nothing more than the smallest and dullest of objects; a symbol of compulsory church attendance and the tedious machinations of institutional education. My spiritual preference was the immersion in occult practices that felt like something—that swept me away from the banality of this robotic lifeless procession and profession. By the time I was a teenager, I met Christ (or who I thought Christ was) with carelessness and then defiance.
I was a feminist. I hated patriarchy. I hated weakness. I hated myself.
I bow before no one. Least of all, this Jesus who shows me nothing, speaks nothing, looks like nothing.
In those painful years, I found the silence of the tabernacle oppressive. It looked old and I wanted to be young. I hadn’t yet learned about the miraculous of the mundane. I didn’t recognize Him in the smallness because I was too busy waiting for the astonishing. How fitting then that He would make Himself known to me in a small, cold chapel where I expected nothing at all.
Truth be told, I was only kneeling in that chapel for love of a man. When you are a worldly girl of eighteen what is more motivating? I wasn’t looking for a miracle, just protection and love. I found both where I least expected them. The fact that I was in that place at all was something of a miracle. I was supposed to be traveling…
I was a rugby player. A small and terrified rugby player at a state university. I had never played before but I learned quickly that I had to run fast if I didn’t want to get roughed up by some of the toughest looking young women I’ve ever seen. Having only a rudimentary knowledge of the game, I managed to run swiftly enough to earn myself a starting offensive position on the roster. Frankly, I’m not sure they had anyone else for the role but I liked to think I was somebody.
When our first game was scheduled against Michigan, I was excited to get on the road and play. Not only would this mean real competition and adventure, but I would also have a great excuse to miss a Catholic retreat that I was hesitant to attend. I had been invited by the man I loved but… happy clappy Christian retreat vs. trip to Michigan? That was an easy decision. I’m sorry, dear, but I can’t come because I have committed to playing this game.
Things changed about a week before we were scheduled to travel when I overheard a conversation on the practice field between our coach and our team captain. They were discussing the trip and the details associated with the first game. We would stay at the rugby house in Michigan, party hard, and continue the tradition of the topless dance from the first point scoring female of the season.
I didn’t know much about rugby, but I did know that the first scoring female of the season (if we were indeed capable of scoring any points) would very likely be me.
No. The word started as a sad little whisper and steadily rose to a panicked crescendo…
NO!
For years I had longed to escape the filthy prison of youth culture in which I was fully and regrettably engaged. I yearned for the freedom to be happy and good and didn’t even know what that meant or what it could look like. I thought I was just an ill-fitting human. When I met my boyfriend, with his strong Christian identity, I breathed freely for the first time in many years and relished the first steps to recovering feminine innocence. I was learning a little at a time what it meant to be made in the image and likeness of God and what that means for every aspect of life and death. And now? No. I wouldn’t go back. I would never go back.
So I ran away. No call, no show. Not the most respectful but it’s what I had in me. I didn’t want to be convinced or shamed and I ran.
So hey, I changed my mind about that retreat. Is there still room for me?
I never made it to that Michigan game. Instead, I found myself kneeling for two hours on the marble floor of a cold little chapel just a few feet away from my Eucharistic Lord encased in the shining monstrance. I focused on that little white host because I wanted more than anything just to experience the reality of Divine Love. My soul still retained enough innocence to desire that gift, the elusive treasure that the world offers but can never produce. And my will was at the bottom of its reserve and ready for a Savior. I knew enough—from the gentle instruction of my future husband—to call on the name Jesus, and I gave my emotional assent to belief.
Then came the moment that changed my life.
About an hour into adoration, I heard a voice yell into my heart. If you don’t know what that means, I can’t tell you because I’m not sure that I know. It was a hearing yet not with the ear. Like a strong rogue heartbeat that you feel a little bigger than all the others and makes you pay attention to life and death for minute. Whether it was the voice of God, a prompting of the Spirit in my soul, or my imagination, I cannot say; but as I gazed upon the host, I was pierced by these words:
“If I am not God, then you are worshiping nothing but a piece of bread. Do you believe?”
I realized my terrible predicament. It was comforting to pray and sing and speak belief in a way that was emotionally fulfilling. I belonged. I had an identity. I felt peaceful and good. But if this wasn’t really God, then I was the biggest idiot on earth, kneeling before a big zero and worshiping my own fantasy. A wave of clarity washed over me—not revealing the answer, but bringing the awareness of freedom and the necessity of an honest answer. I was not bound. I had no fear of staying or leaving. I simply had a decision to make.
My mind was blown open by the invitation to give intellectual assent to my actions and I ran briefly through what I knew:
Jesus claimed to be God.
If Jesus isn’t God, He’s a liar or a lunatic. (Thank you, C.S. Lewis)
If Jesus was crazy or evil, then Christianity is a sham.
If Christianity is a sham, then so is my personal faith.
But if he IS God, then His words are true because He claimed to be the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
If he IS God, then he established His Church.
If he IS God, then He gave us His Body and His Blood.
The first Christians believed it.
Over 2000 years of liturgy perpetuates it.
It only took a minute but I knew. I knew that I didn’t want to be one of the followers who left Him. He had said, “Will you also go away?” (John 6: 22-71).
I’ll stay, Lord. And for the first time, I worshipped my God, present in the Holy Eucharist, fully believing and embracing the consequences of that belief.
I believe, Lord. If I am a fool, I will be a fool for love of You. I am not afraid of being wrong. You know my desire.
When I left that chapel, there was no observable difference in the world around me and yet I had been fundamentally changed. I was a typical girl walking around a normal neighborhood, eating boring food, and talking to regular neighbors. There were no sparkles or super powers or miracles to be seen and yet, I carried a brilliant treasure. For the first time, my eyes were opened to the miracle of the mundane and nothing has been the same in the decades since.
Conversion is ongoing, and the deepest changes in me came later and are still happening. But from that moment, I could never again turn away from Christ without knowing from Whom I was turning.
In subsequent years, I have met suffering and doubt, and though I have struggled with the human face of the institutional Church deeply and many times, I have not been confused about the reality of Jesus Christ. I have encountered Him, He touched me, and I cannot wash away the mark. There is no other path that leads to life. In the countless conversations I’ve had with unbelievers over the years, none have been able to present me with a more compelling present and future than the one I have with the Lord.
I believe that the Eucharist is the Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of our Lord, Jesus Christ. If the God of the universe can be present in a tiny white host, then suddenly, it’s not such a stretch to believe that this world is flooded with miracles. If the Eucharist is truly God, then we are living a reality to which no fairy story or Superhero movie can hold a candle. But if it isn’t true, then we are ridiculous. We are not children anymore. We must decide.
Archbishop Fulton Sheen wrote that “The greatest love story of all time is contained in a tiny white host.” Thanks to a game of rugby, the prayers of my future husband, and the grace of God, I have entered into that miraculously simple love story… and I never wish to leave.
I wrote the above mini account of conversion years ago, but the photo at the top is from a recent retreat. My daughter snapped the pic of my private prayer just before I gave a talk about healing in the Church. I didn’t know she was there and I’m not a big fan of splashing the show of intimacy for content, but it struck me that it is part of my testimony that He is steadfast.
Whether my body is on the marble floor of a beautiful chapel or the worn carpet of a surprisingly ugly one, He remains. Even when my body has been too broken or ill to go to church, He remains. When grief and failure have overtaken my senses and I have had trouble reaching out to Him, He remains…
And I hope that when my hair has fully transitioned to gray and my strength is diminished, that a hidden camera can still find me with Him, just as He has always been with me.
Blessed by God forever.
Recommended (and related) reading and watching:
The Lamb’s Supper (READ)
The Eucharist in Scripture: The Lamb’s Supper—Pt 1 (WATCH)
The Eucharist in Scripture: The Lamb’s Supper—Pt 2 (WATCH)
You might have missed:
Staying Soft While Lifting Heavy
Nourishing the Catholic Celiac
I’m grateful to all of you who take the time to read and upport. If you ever feel the tug to share something I’ve written, please follow that impetus! I’m particularly interested at the moment in helping parishes establish good pastoral care for those with gluten intolerance (see Nourishing the Catholic Celiac).
In other news, I have a number of books (loosely) in draft and one has been stubbornly pushing its way to the surface. Please join me in praying that the work can be a conduit of the Holy Spirit. I’m shooting for 2025.
Speaking of planning ahead, my kids tell me there are less than 100 days until Christmas. They think it’s funny to see the panic in my eyes. I forgive them. They are also getting coal this year. But there is a beautiful gift in recalling the swiftness of the passage of time. May the next few months be the most fruitful of our lives. May God help us take nothing for granted. Blessed be God!
In Christ,
Melody
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Beautiful and generous post, Melody, thank you.