In 1985, a divorced Navy veteran was running an illegal taxi service. One morning in Brooklyn, he picked up a pretty lady with hairspray and shoulder pads, in a hurry to get to her job at the World Trade Center. Along the ride, they discovered some similarities: they were both divorced, both Italian, both Catholic, both Brooklyn-born. They traded phone numbers. They started dating, and they conceived me.
Although my parents’ relationship story begins like a romantic comedy, the early years of their marriage were fraught with struggles. I have two beautiful sisters from my dad’s first marriage. He paid child support, but sadly, we didn’t grow up together. He had bad habits that infuriated my mom, and she never refrained from letting him know exactly what she thought.
Things weren’t all bad, though. Stereotypical as it may be, Italians really do feel and demonstrate every emotion to the extreme. So, while there were fierce arguments, there were also happy times of singing and eating.
There were peaceful times too. Whenever I visited my great-grandma, she was praying with wooden rosary beads clutched in her wrinkled hands. She gave me my first theology lesson.
I still remember her trembling hands over mine, teaching me to pray in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. “We pray to one God, who is three persons,” she explained. She told me that I can talk to God about anything, no matter where I am, and I remembered that.
Jesus in Amish Country
I carried that lesson with me when we moved to Lancaster, Pennsylvania in 1991. It was quite a culture shock for all of us to leave the busy city and attempt to acclimate to Amish Country, but my dad had accepted a job opportunity, so there we were.
My mom experienced a deep depression at this time. Her family and friends were miles away, she was no longer an independent working girl, finances were very tight, and she blamed my dad for it. (Eventually, my mom encountered Jesus through watching the 700 Club on Christian television. After that, things weren’t perfect, but they got better. Before then, though, it was rough for all of us.)
One afternoon when I was about seven years old, I hid in the bathroom with my dog while my parents shouted at each other on the other side of the door. As children often do, I blamed myself. “I’m the only reason they are together. I shouldn’t have been born. I want to disappear. If I was gone, they wouldn’t have to be together anymore, and then they could be happy.” These thoughts raced through my mind as I sobbed into my dog’s fur.
Then I remembered my great-grandma. She had told me that I could pray anywhere. So I did pray—huddled on the linoleum floor, squeezed between the wall and the toilet. And I experienced peace beyond understanding.
I somehow knew that God’s presence was there to comfort me. I had a deep knowing that He loved me.
Spiritual Beginnings
Every Sunday, my dad drove my mom and me to Mass. He enrolled me in Catechism classes, and I actually paid attention. I learned about the history of Christianity and the early church. I learned about the saints, the sacredness of the Eurcarist, and I received my First Holy Communion.
One night in my bed I prayed, “God, I know that I love you. I want to live my whole life for you. But… I’m not sure I want to be a nun. I’d rather get married and have children. If there’s any way that I can live for you, and also be a wife and mom, I think I would really like that. Amen.” At the time, I truly thought it was an either/or decision: living for Christ as a nun, or getting married and only having a superficial religious life. God heard my prayer, however.
What about you?
Sometimes the Lord uses interruptions in life to get our attention—like a move from one city to another, or an illness, or an unexpected turn of events. Have you ever experienced a divine interuption?
Michelle Perez 
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