My parents came to the U.S. as Cuban refugees in the 1960's  to escape Castro’s communist regime and for  freedom of speech and religion. My dad had to leave parents and sister behind In Havana. My mom’s whole family made it in.  My mother graduated from Chestnut Hill college in Philadelphia where she was blessed to acquire a scholarship. My father had to go through Spain first and jump through some hoops to get to America, but he made it. He studied at Villanova and then transferred to Saint Joe's. My parents met in Philadelphia on a blind date set up by mutual Cuban friends. They married and my mom said good bye to her twin sister, who was headed for the convent. Papi (Dad) worked as an accountant for Sperry Univac and his company transferred our ever growing family around. The three eldest girls were born in the U.S. and, from the USA, we headed to Rome, where my brother and I were born, to Puerto Rico where two more siblings were born to Mexico City and then back to the USA again in 1981. I was six when I came to the US and was considered an American citizen born abroad. We spoke only Spanish in the home and, as a result, we are all perfectly fluent in both English and Spanish. In the eighties this was not politically correct and I recall strangers coming up to my family rudely as were shopping or speaking privately amongst ourselves and saying, "Speak English, you're in America!". Teachers would often assume that being bilingual was naturally a disadvantage and would place us in lower reading classes, despite the fact that our English was perfect and without accent. My mom would often fight to get us tested and, sure enough, some of us would place in the excelled reading levels. On the outside, our white Caucasian skin, and green or blue eyes would help us blend in until somebody would hear my mother's accent or my father's. It was bizarre. All of a sudden, they saw our skin as dark. It was as if we were not allowed to be counted amongst the white. Or they would say, "but you don't look Cuban!."  I realize it was lack of education. Hispanics come in all shapes and colors. We belonged to our neighborhood parish but never felt quite at home. In our affluent suburban neighborhood we were known as the "dirty Mexicans". This may sound crazy but it was the eighties. I had known sunshine and happiness in my little Mexican preschool only to come to the North and experience unwelcome both at home in and in school. Some kids were downright bullies and the nuns and teachers turned a blind eye. So, my siblings and I took shelter in each other and in our numbers. There were seven of us, after all, and we were all close in age. If somebody messed with one of us, they would have to deal with all of us. This worked to our advantage during snowball fights. We switched to the neighboring Italian parish and felt quite at home amongst the Latin-minded Italians. My parents had loved the time we had lived in Rome and the friends we had made. We liked our Italian friends and as time passed and the culture slowly changed, we felt more accepted. Or maybe people got used to us and came around a little more. Nonetheless, it was in our Catholic church were we all connected, and where were part of the same family. So they raised their 7 children in a devout Catholic home where they laid a strong moral and catechetical  foundation for Christ  in our lives. We went through all the sacraments. Our parents promised us to God on our baptism, we reconciled ourselves to Christ at reconciliation, we became one with Jesus at our Holy  Communion and later, as young adults, chose for ourselves the faith and became soldiers for Christ  at confirmation.  I didn’t fully understand or appreciate God’s graces that flowed from those sacraments then but later, I came to understand how they had. As I entered adolescence and young adulthood, I rebelled against God, my parents and my faith. Our home was sometimes filled with strife because of my parents' marital problems so I did the exact opposite of everything I had been taught. Looking back at the different moral and physical dangers in which I put myself, it’s hard not  to see God’s protection on me. Thankfully, God brought my husband, a believer, into my life and marriage and motherhood settled me down. At this time, my parents divorced and sole our lifelong home. I started really grieving a place called "home" and trying to create what I thought I missed out on in life. I kept coming up short in my own marriage, too. I was seriously unhappy and a negative bitter person. I kept looking backwards and all the disappointments in my life and blaming my parents. In my early 20's, when I was pregnant with my 3rd child,  my heart-hunger drew my towards God. I opened up my bible again.  I started listening to Christian radio and music. Even though I had picked up my rosary again, I had excused myself from going to mass every Sunday and started going to my husband's church. This all led to an experience in his Pentecostal church one October morning. The preacher asked the congregation if anybody wanted to accept Christ into their hearts. With all heads bowed, I raised my hand. I wasn’t fully aware to  what I was saying “yes” but  I took a chance. I figured, "What the heck?". I will be forever grateful to that little church that changed my life. From that day forward,  my awareness of God’s presence and His desire for relationship with me was awakened. I felt deep contrition for all the ways I had sinned against Him and a deep desire to Love him back. With a new bounce in my step and a lightness of heart, I delved into scripture with zeal. I was done with the Church and ready to disprove the faith of my parents. I knew it all. The Catholic church was "dead", a religion of works and not faith and I had a mission to save all the poor misled Catholic souls who were missing out! Still, in all this, two things kept coming back to me. There was Mary.  I couldn't quite fit her into  my new ideas so I put her out of my mind. Unlike other converts or reverts, she was never a major stumbling block for me. I also kept coming back to "you will know them by their fruits." If the pope was misleading millions of souls with his Catholicism, why was  he bearing such 'good fruit' in the world? JP II was undeniably a follower of Christ. Where did he fit in? Other questions popped up.  Wasn't baptism the "new" circumcision, why did some denominations exclude infants?  I asked my minister and the answer he kept giving me was, "put away the Catholic books, they will only reap confusion and confusion is from the devil." My questions were left unanswered. Now, mind you, I don't want to make sweeping statements. I know not all pastors would have answered the same way. My mother was over my house one day and admonishing me for trying to get my sister to leave Catholicism and come with me. She was fed up with my overbearing zeal. And I will never forget what she said to me. She looked at me straight in the eye and said, 'I am a third order Carmelite and, watch out, because I am going to pray for you and my prayers will be heard!" It was a threat! Less than a week later, I was cleaning out my attic when I came across a book my mother had given me years back. It was Scott Hahn's Rome Sweet Home: Our Journey to Catholicism. My hands were trembling because I knew that once I opened that book I would have to deal with whatever came of it. But I wanted to be honest and I wanted the truth! This started me on a deep investigation into the history of Christendom. I began learning all the “why’s” to the teachings I had accepted without question before. Confession, calling someone "father", baptism, etc. All my inquiries annoyingly led my back to catholic explanation. It was the only one that made sense. I kept coming back to John 6 over and over again and I couldn’t reconcile Christ’s teaching with any other church’s I had explored. He was dead serious in commanding us to eat his flesh and blood but nobody was taking Him at His word. It was all over the scriptures! There was something else, there was a literal hunger, almost physical, in me for the Eucharist I had once known. I drove by catholic churches knowing I would never enter again but be filled with a deep sadness, too. Ex- Catholics to whom I spoke felt the same way; wistful for something they once had but had left behind. If there was nothing to it but mere symbol, why were we all pining away? I couldn’t shake the feeling that the Hound of heaven, Who desired to give Himself fully to me; body, blood, soul and divinity, was awaiting deeper communion with me in the Eucharist. I knew where I needed to go.  I needed to go back “home” where the Bread of Life  awaited me, with deepest humility, in the tabernacle. Humbled and adored, forgiven and accepted,  I returned To Him, like the prodigal son,  all my mind and heart. I am His. God writes straight with crooked lines.  I believe He turned my youthful days of sin and rebellion into good like only God can. If I felt needed to leave in order to come back, he wasn't going to stop me.  Every day is a new day with new struggles and joys and new chances to choose for Him or against Him. I choose for Him because He chose me first. Copyright 2010 Victoria Gisondi