The Revert and the Convert: Why We're Catholic, Part 2
In the first installment of our two-part series, Jenny duBay talked about her reversion to Catholicism. In this second article, Melissa Presser discusses her conversion journey.
The Convert: Melissa Presser
I’m a Jewish girl. I was raised by a Jewish family. Everyone on both sides of my family is Jewish. But God decided to make me a Catholic.
This didn’t happen overnight. As St. Edith Stein so eloquently states, "My longing for truth was a single prayer.” When she made this statement, she was referring to the entirety of her life as a yearning for truth. It’s a wonderful metaphor for someone like me, whose life was spent searching for something more.
At an early age I was sexually abused. This led to a lot of confusion about who I was, and what my identity was—not so much in the religious sense but in sense of self. But I had a grace before the abuse, a great grace. God came to me in a private revelation when I was three. I didn’t know it back then, but that manifestation of Himself would become the foundation for clinging to God, even when I thought I was walking away from Him. As much as I wanted to hurt myself, there was always something deeply embedded in my conscience telling me that I was worth something.
To learn more about Melissa’s private revelation you can read her book, Walk the Land, available in chapter installments on MissioDei.com. Missio Dei is a non-profit, reader-supported paid publication, with the mission of evangelization and spreading the Word of God.
It's unfortunate that this wasn’t the last time I would be sexually abused. This gruesome violation occurred again in my teens. By then, I didn’t have any care for myself, because I saw my body as a thing that people hurt. I wasn’t mad at God for what had happened—the anger I felt was for myself. Nobody would have known it, though. I suffered in silence. Back then, nobody talked openly about sexual abuse.
I had a constant wish for death, yet there was always something inside of me that knew suicide was wrong. It wasn’t that I didn’t think about it, I just kept thinking God had blessed me with the gift of intelligence and empathy, and there was something I had to do with that. I often reflect on those days in my teenage years when suicide crossed my mind daily, hourly, sometimes minute to minute. But God was there, still always there—in my Hebrew school lessons, my Saturday services in temple, at the Passover table and in my writing.
Out of all of the gifts that God gave me, writing is what saved me and moved me closer to these questions of truth. I had always been a voracious reader and I chose to read books about life, truth and God. I devoured everything—books on every kind of religion, philosophy and suffering. I had to believe that a God I had served for all my life wanted something better for me, that there was truth out there and I was going to find it.
I never even thought of being a Christian. When Christians approached me for evangelization, I was confused. Back then, I thought all gentiles were Christian. I couldn’t understand why someone would be evangelizing to me as a Jew. Did they not see the Jewish star around my neck?
I went several times to church because I was invited. I found it strange. People were so nice and loving, but I felt uncomfortable. My first experience at church was on Easter watching a Passion play. I looked on as the bloody God of Christians died a very painful death. It didn’t move me, it freaked me out, and what came next solidified my exit stage left. After the play, a group of Stepford-like women swarmed me.
“Oh we heard you’re Jewish. You know so-and-so is Jewish and she came into the church. Do you know so-and-so?”
“No I don’t,” I said politely. “Not every Jew knows each other.”
This experience didn’t sour me towards Christianity, it piqued my interest because I could see how misinformed people were about Judaism. It was just another experience God used to propel me towards Himself.
Fast forward many years later, as the trauma came back to haunt me and my life began to deteriorate. As the walls came crumbling down, and those horrible thoughts came back, I knew I needed help. One night as my husband and I were settling into bed, I asked this question out loud, “Who’s the best person you know. I mean the best. Someone you look at and admire and say, ‘I want whatever it is they have.’” Without skipping a beat, we both blurted out “Karen.” I had no idea our friend Karen was a Christian, I just knew that I wanted whatever she had.
I messaged her on Facebook and told her what was going on in my life. I asked her to take me to church. She replied by telling me I had a divine appointment and that we would meet at church the very next day.
As I sat next to Karen at that non-denominational church, I listened to a traveling preacher. As he spoke, I realized that he was talking about everything that was going on in my life. I turned to Karen with tears in my eyes and said, “How can you do this to me!” She looked back, hysterically crying and said, “I didn’t tell that man anything.”
After the service, Karen prayed over me, and it was the first time in my life that God felt personal and not institutionalized. I asked her to buy me a Bible. Overnight, I was supernaturally healed and God gave me the grace of knowing the New Testament without ever having read it. I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior and began preaching and teaching His word.
But soon after my conversion I felt myself wanting for more. I longed to pray in a chapel setting, but I couldn’t find one. Churches were closed during the day and there was nowhere to pray, except for the Catholic Church. As a Protestant, I certainly wasn’t going to do that.
For six months I writhed in my skin with this uncomforting feeling. We had a Catholic Church down the street from where I used to work, and I would sit in the parking lot and cry during my lunch hour, telling God I couldn’t go in. One day, a friend of mine at work who was Catholic told me he was going to take me over to the chapel, that he would go in with me. We sat before what I now know was the Blessed Sacrament.
I kept asking my friend questions while we were in the chapel, but he just smiled. He told me to take everything in, to sit in the silence and look forward. He gave me no explanations, just to allow my soul to see and search for what was right in front of me. Then a woman I didn’t know walked over and handed me a Catholic Bible.
I went back the next day by myself. I was determined to find out what was causing this chaos in my soul. I kneeled before the Blessed Sacrament and wept. I looked up and said to the gold monstrance, “Who are you, what are you?” I was on that kneeler for quite some time, but when I got up, I felt some strange sense of peace. As I returned to my car to go back to work, exiting the parking lot, I looked up and saw a flash of light. Then I audibly heard God say to me, “Melissa, it’s time to come home.”
This was the beginning of my entry into the Catholic Church.
When you’re on a search for truth without boundaries, God is free to lead your heart. When you give Him no directions, when you don’t try and control Him, His supernatural power is limitless. And while in my life I had walked away from God at one point, I was always cognizant that He was not going to walk away from me. He was, after all, the God of the universe.
I tell you my story because it was God who saved me, He knew better. As a spiritual wanderer, He knew I needed a home and He certainly provided. Being Catholic is the greatest grace of my life, it has saved me in more ways than I could ever recount. Thanks be to God for using my story to help others who find themselves as broken, wandering and needing direction. And if someone else hasn’t told you, it’s time to come home.
Both Melissa and Jenny write for Missio Dei, a non-profit, reader supported Catholic publication.
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Thank you so very much!🕊