I was born Jewish (mother) and baptized and raised Catholic (father), but I didn’t come to Christ until age 46. Though my parents were raised in their respective religions, neither was religious when I was growing up. My mother chose to be baptized so that my older sister and I were raised in one religion, Catholicism. We still grew up with Jewish cultural aspects like food, and by birth, culture, and how she felt, my mother never stopped being Jewish. But my family went to church, and my sister and I had to attend CCD (Catholic evening school) once a week until my sister quit, so I was then allowed to in fourth grade. Over the years, our Mass attendance dwindled until we only went to Christmas Eve Mass, and then, in my adulthood, nothing.

My church experiences in the CCD years were very oppressive. I had to go to Confession, in which I spilled everything and was made to feel guilty about my reactions to childhood trauma, which went unrecognized by the church. The prescription was “say ten Hail Mary’s and twelve Our Father’s” as if that would solve everything. On top of that, the church seemed as dark as my feelings, and at my First Communion, I had to share a chalice when the girl in front of me had the worst cold, leaving me and everyone behind me horribly ill.

As a young adult, I explored Buddhism, but I missed God, though I didn’t have a consistent concept of or belief in Him. I sporadically searched for a faith home, alternating between Buddhist, Catholic, Presbyterian, and Anglican services. Yet, I never could fully believe in any of it … I just went through the motions hoping to, and at church I often chose to not take the Eucharist.

I later spent several years in Reform Judaism, including chanting Torah and teaching kids to read Hebrew, both of which I loved, along with the learning (and today, my Judaism still informs my Christianity, which I see as the Messianic continuation of Judaism). I got to where I swore I’d never again set foot in a church, cross myself, or kneel. This was a reaction to the oppressiveness of my childhood church; locked church doors (except for service times) due to violence in the US in my adulthood; a lack of belief in Jesus as God; and a need to explore the long-neglected Jewish side of me. But through all my dedication to Judaism and Temple, I was still confused about the identity of God: the universe, energy, love? (Now I know He is love.) It all seemed too abstract, and I had too many struggles, unable to find my way through that abstraction.

In September 2021, I followed one of my dreams: living in Perugia, Italia, before starting a Master of Arts in Italian. Perugia immediately became home thanks to its community-orientation and people who became family, so I kept going back for ninety-day stints — almost one year total. My first time there, I violated my rule of never again setting foot in a church: I entered the Cattedrale di San Lorenzo (Cathedral of Saint Lorenzo) to tour it. I ended up sitting in a pew, settling into a familiarity that felt different: more openness and light, less dogmatism. This became a tiny, vital crack in my soul, but it would be another three years before that crack fully opened to Christ. I eventually also violated my rule of never again crossing myself and kneeling, and I sporadically attended Mass and took the Eucharist. I didn’t yet believe in the Virgin Birth or the full meaning of the Crucifixion, but I started to ponder the Cross in “safely distanced” terms, like how we’ve all known sacrifice (though none like Jesus’). When I moved to Sakartvelo (the country of Georgia), this continued in the Catholic churches here.

Though the crack in my soul gradually widened, I continued to be self-centered and thus self-destructive due to unresolved emotions around the past, plus easy overwhelm at everyday stressors, which autistic people like me feel. In my almost daily meltdowns, I vilely denied and cursed God, including slinging hate at Him and promising myself to Satan if Satan would make something happen when God would not … there wasn’t a light at the end. But each time I attended church, the crack widened: I wanted God to be real and to know Him, but I didn’t know how to get there. I was still seeking, as always.

Then on Tuesday, 24 September 2024, in my apartment in Avlabari (Tbilisi), I watched the film I Can Only Imagine. I was struck by how Jesus had transformed Bart Millard’s father from a raging abuser to a loving and Christ-adoring father; per science, his brain shouldn’t have changed so much since there had been frontal lobe damage from an accident. In that moment, I wanted to believe in Jesus as God, to know Him, and the crack in my soul suddenly and fully opened: Jesus — Love as love really is: pure and unconditional — powerfully filled me. I half asked and half said, “Jesus,” and He powerfully filled me again. I continued to sit there in His love, knowing who my God was and is, and I can never unknow it. I am eternally thankful to Him, and I eternally love Him.

Like with Bart’s father (in some similar and some different ways), Jesus saved and transformed me. I accepted the Virgin Birth and began reading the New Testament, and after two more months, I accepted the full meaning of the Crucifixion, having started toward that by first accepting His forgiveness. I confessed to Jesus, handing Him my sins and pain, ultimately recognizing that the latter was intended to teach me, not make me needlessly suffer. And in that pain, I felt His love all the more.

Family and society had always told me to be self-sufficient, but when I had tried to control my life, it had never worked because God has always held it, and me. I found that the vulnerability and humility in surrender — in acknowledging my sins and that I can’t do anything on my own, that I am nothing without God — is one of the most beautiful strengths and forms of love. Because of it, I started to become less self-centered, to confess and apologize to others without excusing my wrongs, and to empathize with and forgive others (all a work in progress). There were also practical effects: my needs began to be met in unexpected ways; I recovered from five illnesses in only one day each (Love’s healing); and my meltdowns almost disappeared and became much less destructive, even though like with Bart’s father, my brain shouldn’t have changed so much.

I knew beyond a doubt I wanted to be baptized in Christ–full immersion, the way He was. Yet there was one major obstacle: my infant baptism in the Catholic Church. One Catholic church and the Anglican church both said “no.” I almost settled for Confirmation, but there was an obstacle to that, too: I wasn’t going to be in Tbilisi for a couple of months, and that Catholic church didn’t accept online Confirmation classes. I was on the verge of remotely doing classes with the Anglican church. But Confirmation by itself didn’t feel enough. God places obstacles for a reason.

One afternoon, I went with the Anglican Church to Peace Cathedral for a talk on Paul-Gordon Chandler’s book about Kahlil Gibran, In Search of a Prophet. I later learned that Peace Cathedral is part of the Evangelical Baptist Church of Georgia, and that I have some Baptist beliefs, including tolerance, inclusivism, and adult baptism (the first two are also part of the Catholic Church). After an exchange of messages and a thirty-minute call in which I told my story, Father Malkhaz Songulashvili, Peace Cathedral’s Senior Bishop, said he would baptize me by full immersion and confirm me right after. When the call ended, I cried profoundly and dropped to my knees, thanking Christ and feeling His love and blessing.

On Thursday, 24 October — exactly one month after I had come to Christ, though I didn’t realize it then — I was baptized in the Tbilisi Sea, a freshwater sea run through by the Iori River. Father Malkhaz later said it looks similar to the Sea of Galilee, and this added more meaning since the latter is run through by the Jordan River in which Jesus was baptized. On the shore, when Father asked, “Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?” I immediately and with my whole breath and soul said “Yes.” I then surrendered to Father my right hand as he helped me over the pebbles into the sea, and then my left before he immersed me. The final surrender was to Jesus when Father Malkhaz said, “Just follow my lead,” and I did. The water was twelve to fourteen degrees Celsius, and while I was calm in the immersion, when I was brought back up, I had to get my breathing rhythm back. But as I took off my wet clothes in the outdoor cubicle, I looked up and said, “I was just baptized in You, Jesus,” starting to process all that it meant. I was then confirmed on the shore, anointed in Christ with oil. Other than the day I came to Christ, it was the best day of my life, and I can still feel every moment.

Even with some Baptist beliefs, I feel most at home in the Catholic Church regarding other beliefs and practices: transubstantiation; the Lord’s Prayer before, and the use of unleavened bread in, the Eucharist; kneeling and prostrating; and a greater focus on God (contrasted with the chaos of Peace Cathedral’s Midnight Mass, where everyone was raising cellphones to take photos and video and talking to each other during the Eucharist). I started attending St. Peter and Paul Apostles’ Catholic Church, and I met with one of the priests to discuss my mix of beliefs. I told him that I don’t go to confession (e.g., confessing to a priest) because of my negative childhood experiences and how I find confessing daily directly to God far more effective and transformative. He then told me that because I hadn’t gone to confession, I was now banned from taking the Eucharist. That devastated me because the Eucharist is so important to me.

So I started attending a different Catholic church, the Church of the Assumption of the Holy Virgin Mary. There, on 18 February 2025, I met with Father Mikhail (also at St. Peter and Paul), who was infinitely affirming, and I am forever grateful. He said if I feel it deep within — which I do — I can absolutely take the Eucharist … and I joyously have. He said I do not have to go to confession for that, but suggested that once a year, I come talk informally with him, including confessing if I need to. He further agreed that Christianity is a continuation of Judaism, which was validating in a way I had long needed. After talking with him, I found my heart wider open to where I realized I want to talk and confess to him (while still also confessing directly to God), even once a month or more. I also worship daily at home. And every moment is filled with God: Love.

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Since September 2023, Rebecca has been living in Sakartvelo, where she came to Christ in September 2024. Her poems are in Cosmic Daffodil Journal, Trampoline, and Everscribe, and she is working on the free-form book Journey on My Knees. She also wrote the Christian song “I Know.” 

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