We sat across from each other in a noisy pub, shouting over the ambiance of live music. And we weren’t alone—as soon as she’d asked, three others in our party turned to look at me. I wasn’t secretive about my journey. I shared mostly out of excitement, but in part so they’d understand why I didn’t know everything. Why I didn’t recite the prayers. It wasn’t due to lack of desire.

But it threw me off-guard when a Catholic asked why. I answered in between music sets and offshoot conversations, not really explaining it properly. This is my attempt to recreate an uninterrupted reply.

I’d always instinctively trusted the Catholic Church, before I’d admitted to it. There was something right about watching my childhood friends go through the sacraments, even if I didn’t know what they meant. All I knew was they were Catholic, and I was not, so I didn’t get to have a party. But it didn’t make sense—I knew God was there, too, so why didn’t I go to Church with them?

I don’t remember anyone telling me about God, but I was aware of Someone up there from a young age. It wasn’t until middle school that my family started to attend an independent church. We followed my grandfather to wherever he deemed fit to worship. Grandpa was an intimidating figure. Not in stature—he stood at a whopping 5’4″—but in his faith. He was unquestionably devout, scaring door-to-door Jehovah’s Witnesses away with his Biblical knowledge. It was in that church that I learned of Jesus, and where I got Saved with a capital S. But like most teenagers, I was stubborn. I’d stray sometimes, and then return; I’d attend church with the family, but there was little worship outside Sunday morning. I ignored it, assuming I wasn’t “spiritual” enough yet and I’d find Him eventually.

When I moved out of my parents’ house as an adult, there’d been a half-hearted attempt to find a different church. But I ended up in the same kind of independent church, with the same kind of preaching. It was comfortable, in the same way it’s comfortable to be thirty years old and still living with your parents. How you know something needs to change, but you stay there because it’s the only thing you know. Even if you suspect there are things you no longer agree with.

There were questions I didn’t know how to ask, and doubts I’d deny having. Being raised with “fire and brimstone” preaching scares you away from questioning anything, because you’ve heard for years that only your church is the real church. “Don’t get me wrong,” the preacher would say, “there will be Catholics in Heaven, too!” They may not be us, but not all of them can be bad. But they’re still wrong and corrupt.

I’d been juggling the seeds of conversion for years, unsure where to plant them. I’d toss a few onto the rocky ground, but they never took root. It wasn’t until I stepped foot onto Holy Land, witnessing the history and glory of Israel itself, that those seeds finally hit fertile soil. Perhaps unintentionally. But something did, in fact, begin to grow.

Why Catholic? Because I’ve sailed on the Sea of Galilee. Prayed on the Mount of Olives. Walked the Via Dolorosa. Not only that, because these things are the foundation of any Christian faith. But because we’d walk past a church or a shrine, and our guide would say, “This is where Catholics think this event took place.” It was intended to be a negative, but I was conflicted—because it filled me with wonder and… pride. It’s not Christians 2,000 years later deciding where Jesus walked. It’s those who had been there in the beginning, passing their knowledge down through generations of Christians. Catholics. The universal Church.

So almost a year later, when my now-sponsor clarified the teachings of the Church, it was the culmination of years of unasked questions. The clarification of unacknowledged doubts. In that moment, the Catholic Church—the “enemies” of “real” Christianity—became the Truth.