How I Came to Have a Devotion to the Latin Mass

I originally wrote this in 2017. I decided to modify and re-publish it. This is not meant to be a deep theological or liturgical study of the Mass, and I admit it’s hardly objective. This is an autobiographical sketch of my experiences growing up as an American Catholic with the Novus Ordo Mass, and what I experienced when I found and attended the Latin Mass.

My family

I have always felt very blessed to have been born into a Catholic family.  Even if I did not always appreciate, understand, or practice my Catholic faith very well, I still feel it was a privilege to be baptized as an infant into the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church. 

I am so glad that I was raised from the very beginning with the Mass, the Eucharist, the sacrament of Confession, the Rosary, my Guardian Angel, and the Communion of Saints.

My First Communion with Fr. Day and my brother, Joseph.

I had a very average American upbringing; nothing special to report. I was a mostly worldly child that greatly preferred video games and TV over spiritual things. Yet, I do have vivid memories of praying the Rosary with my family in the evenings, going to Mass, and of my First Holy Communion. 

One thing I feel is important to point out right from the start is that my parents personally lived through and dis not like the liturgical reforms of Vatican II. I would often hear conversations between them lamenting about the changes, but had no real context to understand what they were talking about. Although everyone else in our church would receive the Eucharist into their hands, I was taught by my mother to receive on the tongue. Although everyone else in our church stood up and held hands during the Our Father, I was taught to stay on my knees and keep my hands folded. I was discouraged from participating in the sign of peace, but not forbidden. I remember at Mass once, at the conclusion of the Our Father, I recited the part that says: “for the kingdom and the power and the glory are yours, now and forever,” along with everyone else, and my brother leaned over to whisper to me, “That’s Protestant!” But of course I had no idea what he was talking about.

So I was raised in the new mass, but my parents maintained many traditional practices and did their best to instill those practices in me, although the “why” of it all escaped me. The result for me as a child was mostly confusion. I didn’t fully understand why my parents did things differently from everyone else. Once, my mother knelt down to receive communion and the priest boldly told her to stand up. Not really knowing anything about the liturgical reforms, I just didn’t understand why my mom was “different.” 

As I matured, the allurements of the world became the bigger priority in my life and I favored the natural world as I drifted from the supernatural.  A remnant of my faith remained but I could never claim to have been a pious child or teen.

St. John's Cathedral, Boise, ID (where I was Confirmed)

I remember my Confirmation at the age of 16. I didn't understand the sacrament. I disliked the youth group that I was forced to participate in.  My church required two years of "Life Teen."  My mom tried to get me out of it on the grounds that I was homeschooled and would be taught the faith at home, but the diocese would have none of that.  The two years was required.  I was forced to participate and forced to go on a retreat. Even as a teenager, I felt like it was unnecessary theatrics.

I missed out on a lot of what a Catholic should be taught when they are preparing for a sacrament. Instead of learning the valuable truths of the faith, I was forced to sit through agonizing Life Teen Masses and other gimmicks intended to be “hip” and attractive to teenagers.  Sitting in the pew, I saw their shtick and it turned me away because I felt like they were trying to manipulate me into thinking Catholicism was "cool."  Instead of being well formed in my faith, I felt I was at an entertainment event complete with drums, guitars, and emotional hands waving in the air. The lyrics of low-quality Protestant songs ("Christian Rock") were conveniently displayed on a large screen.  I don't think I can stress enough how this experience failed to form me in my faith or prepare me for the sacrament of Confirmation, and how it actually hindered me from progressing in my spiritual life. I found nothing about it attractive and was, in fact, naturally repulsed by it.

Myself and my husband, ages 18 and 20.

At the age of 18, I eloped with a non-Catholic.  He was in the Army and I didn't even hesitate to move across the country to be with him.  Despite the fact that I wasn't so sure about my faith and lacked understanding on many things, I still went to Mass on Sundays, made an effort to go to Confession sometimes, and received the Eucharist.

Back home, I had a beautiful Cathedral to attend Mass in.  Built in the Gothic style, it was massive and the stained glass windows were impressive.  On the Army base, the tiny chapel was quite different.  Because it was shared with Protestants, the Catholicism had to be toned down. There was a plain crucifix on the wall behind the altar, but it was encased between two big curtains that could be pulled shut when the Protestants used the building.  There were no statues, Catholic images, and no beauty. It was a very stark and bare environment.

Heritage Chapel exterior, Fort Stewart, GA

Heritage Chapel interior, Fort Stewart, GA

Since my husband was not Catholic, he didn't have much interest in attending Mass with me.  I ended up sitting in the last pew near the exit by myself.  Although I maintained a belief and devotion to the Eucharist, I struggled with the rest of the Mass.  At the time, I didn't have the words to explain what it was, but I just felt deeply that I did not like going to Mass.  It was something I had to “get through,” at least until the consecration: the only part that mattered to me.  I somehow possessed a natural sense that everything at Mass was leading up to the consecration, that transubstantiation was the culminating point of the Mass. Everything else was perceived as “useless” to me.

At the Our Father, I stayed on my knees with my head down and hoped no one would try to hold my hand.  At the Sign of Peace, I did the same.  I had a particular dislike for these two parts of the Mass where we were expected to stand up, greet our neighbor, and shake or hold their hand.  This probably had a lot to do with my upbringing in a traditionally-minded household, but I was also a natural introvert who didn’t like the “social” emphasis of the Mass. I wasn’t there for other people; I considered my spiritual life to be a deeply private thing and I was only interested in the Eucharist.

The music was equally hard for me to listen to, the lyrics seemed corny and the cantors could never sing very well.  The responsorial psalm was the worst -- I routinely found it the most unbearable part of Mass. I tried so hard to suppress these feelings, but they were there.

I understood that these emotions and behaviors were not normal, and I truly wondered why I had developed such a strong dislike for the Mass.  It was purely a natural emotion, I couldn’t have offered any theological criticism of the mass. I simply felt that I didn't like it. 

The one part of the Mass that meant anything to me was the Consecration, the Eucharist.  But everything else?  I didn't get it.  Instead of paying attention to the Mass, I began to bring prayer and meditation books to read.  This helped me stay calm and sit through the whole Mass without losing my patience. I’m not saying that’s okay or a good thing to do — but that’s the place where I was at.

Despite my negative feelings, I still went out of pure obedience.

Elijah's baptism.

When I became a mother, my interest in the faith piqued.  Now I had a little soul that I was in charge of and I wanted to do things right.  My husband had zero issues with me raising our children in the faith, so we quickly had our newborn baptized.

At this point in our lives, my husband left for a 15-month deployment. I essentially became a single mother to my little boy.  Right before he deployed, I gave my husband a rosary to take with him and he learned to pray on it during his deployment.  I also gave him a holy card of St. Joseph which he put in his humvee.  On the back of the card was a novena prayer to St. Joseph.  I prayed it frequently during the deployment for his safe return.  

It was a very long 15 months.

The summer that he returned, we found out I was expecting again and we received orders to relocate to Okinawa, Japan.  Even in this remote place on a tiny island, I made sure I found the military chapel and went to Mass with my toddler every Sunday.  My husband was still not attending Mass with me, although at this point he was beginning to express an interest in the faith.  Being at Mass alone in a foreign country with a busy toddler gave me practically no opportunity to even pay attention to the Mass.  I spent the hour in church mostly redirecting and hushing my toddler.  I still knew I had an obligation to be there, even if I wasn't "getting anything out of it."

Anja, 2 days old.

Anja's baptism in the NICU

When our daughter was born, she was very sick.  This was the first real trauma that I ever faced in my life, and I naturally turned to God.  At first, I turned to him in anger. I dropped to my knees in complete desperation and demanded to know why He would give me a baby only to take her away a few days later.  What was the point of birthing a sick baby?  What was the point of glimpsing her life so briefly before she died?  I was an emotional mess yelling at God in complete frustration.  In that moment, something happened that I cannot explain.  My tears stopped and my anger ceased as a profound sense of peace washed over me.  I suddenly did not feel afraid or angry at all, but somehow embraced complete acceptance for apparently no reason.  I realized in an instant what the purpose of life really was: to get to our Heavenly Home.  I realized that she, being baptized and being too innocent to ever have sinned, would enter immediately into the joys of eternal life with God, her Creator.  It didn't matter if a person lived 1 minute, 1 hour, 1 day, or 1 year... the purpose for which they were created did not change: union with God.  She was simply going to the Beatific Vision much sooner than most people.  And I saw clearly what a gift that is!

And so I didn't feel any fear over her dying.  In a single moment, I surrendered and accepted God's will completely.  However, it wasn't God's will for her to die.  She survived and continues to thrive to this day.  

The experience taught me an important lesson.  As I watched her struggle to breath, struggle to eat, struggle to do anything that a "normal" person can do, I learned the true value of life and the value of a soul.  I learned that it isn't our abilities that give us value; it isn't what we do or how much we accomplish that matters. My daughter couldn't even breath or eat without the assistance of machines, and yet she was utterly, totally, completely beloved by God just the same.  This was a time of maturation in my spiritual life, it is when I can say that my spiritual life really began to take root and flourish.

But lessons are hard-learned.  I still had a lot of mistakes to make...

The stress of having a special needs daughter negatively impacted our marriage.  In hindsight, I know the lack of the Sacrament of Matrimony did us a lot of harm.  If only we had that Sacrament!  I did not even realize what I was missing by not getting married in the Church.  We had nothing to hold onto as we drifted apart. My husband decided we should divorce, and it killed me.  I didn't want that.  I fought for our marriage, but he was resolute.  He became cold as ice as he pushed me further away.

I turned to Mary and Joseph.  I prayed the St. Joseph Novena again, the same one I had prayed every day for his safety on the deployment.  But I didn't pray it just once a day for nine days, I prayed it dozens of times per day for weeks.  I prayed rosary after rosary after rosary.  As soon as I finished one rosary, I would start another one.  I begged God to restore our marriage.

My husband's burnt arm/hand.

That's when my husband was accidentally injured.  The accident and his injury were my fault.  I had made a careless mistake, and he suffered third degree burns because of it.  

I had to stay home with our daughter who could not leave the house due to her fragile medical condition, so our neighbor drove him to the emergency room.  I cried thinking that surely this was the end of our marriage.  How could he ever reconcile with me now, after I made such a stupid mistake that resulted in his physical harm?

One of the amazing things about God is that He works in exactly the way you least expect Him to.  This injury was the turning point for our marriage.  This injury restored and healed our marriage.  As I dutifully visited his bedside at the hospital, delivered his medications, helped change his bandages, bathed him, dressed him, fed him, etc., he said it made him realize how much he loves me.  He said when he was in the hospital, alone and suffering, he realized how he didn't want anyone else at his bedside except me.  He was fully ready to take the necessary steps in healing our marriage and moving forward.

I cannot stress enough how much this event in my life strengthened my faith and trust in God.

The following year, I made another catastrophic mistakes, and we had another miraculous incident that further served to fortify and renew my complete trust and confidence in God.  When I deserved the harshest of judgments, I found waiting for me the sweetest of mercies.  There was nothing I could do but praise and thank the Lord for having such compassion and showing such forgiveness to me when I was nothing but a miserable sinner.

These events drew me closer to God. My faith in Him grew as I saw that my prayers were answered, that He was there, that He cared about me, that He forgives me, and that He desires me to be close to Him. 

At this time in our life, we were living in San Antonio, Texas.  I was going to confession a lot during this time.  I remember one day when my daughter was hospitalized in the Airforce hospital, I went in search of the Catholic chaplain to hear my confession.  I found him sitting at a table, eating lunch.  I asked him if he had time to hear a confession. He told me no because he was eating and suggested that I find a church off base.  I was kind of surprised: this priest found his lunch to be of more importance in that moment than offering me the Sacrament of Reconciliation.  

I did what he said and sought the sacrament at a church off base.  The confessional in this particular church that I went to happened to be connected to an Adoration chapel.  How neat is that?  While I was waiting in line for confession, I was in Adoration before the Blessed Sacrament.

It was really the first time for me that I saw people venerating Jesus in the Eucharist outside of the context of Mass.  I thought it was really beautiful and meaningful.  From then on, I would sit in there and pray before and after confession, even though I did feel a little awkward.  I didn't really know what to say to Jesus, so I tried to be content just sitting in His presence.

Oliver's baptism on Fort Sam Houston

Now I'm the mother of three children.  My faith is deepening.  But I'm still struggling with the Mass.  

At the time of the birth of my third child, there was a small chapel within walking distance of our house on the Army base.  My husband was coming to Mass with us every Sunday now, and my daughter was well enough that she could come, too.  For the first time ever, our entire family of five was going to Mass together.  I was determined to take Mass more seriously.  I thought "being devout" meant following all the actions, speaking all the prayers loudly and clearly, singing the songs, and basically being a robot conformed to all the same movements and speech as everyone else.  I thought that if I didn't do this, then I wasn't really "attending the Mass."  I was VERY intentional about sitting, standing, kneeling at all the right times, and saying the responses loudly.  

I still didn't have any real understanding of meaning or theology of the Mass, but I was trying harder now to understand. I had a sincere desire to participate in the mass the way I was “supposed to” and I thought that meant being very active and responsive. I put my oldest son in the chapel's weekly Sunday School where I hoped he was beginning to learn the catechism.

Just before Mass one Sunday morning in Texas.

Now the Army moved us again.  This time we were sent to Tacoma, Washington.  Right away, I found the nearest chapel on the base and we continued going to Mass as a family.  Unfortunately, this particular community really irritated me.  As someone who doesn't care about football, I couldn't believe people were coming to Mass dressed in football jerseys.  The priest, knowing his congregation, frequently talked about football during his homilies.

I was reading a lot of prayer books and researching the lives of the saints online. I learned that the Mass was both a Holy Sacrifice and a prayer — it was, in fact, “the greatest prayer of the Church.” I was confused by both these ideas. A sacrifice? A prayer? I mean, we do say prayers at Mass, but the Mass itself is a prayer? Like I said, I had zero understanding of the meaning and purpose of the Mass. Through the writings of the saints, I was reading that the Mass is the highest honor and glory we can offer to God, the highest form of prayer, literally the holiest thing a person can witness on earth and that I should be desiring to assist at it daily. St. John Vianney declared, “If we really understood the Mass, we would die of joy.” And St. Pio claimed, “It would be easier for the earth to exist without the sun than to exist without the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.” I was surprised by these bold assertions. I had never been taught this meaning of the Mass before. In my head, I tried to align what I was reading with what I personally saw and heard at the Mass, and the two just did not mesh. 

At this time, if you were to ask me why I go to Mass, I would tell you out of obedience because it’s a law of the Church. I probably would give you some shallow reasoning about how it’s important to give time to God.

So there was in me some immature sense of needing to give something to God once a week, but I couldn’t give you a deeper reasoning than that. And at the time, I didn’t possess the intellect or critical thinking skills to dive any deeper into it. It never even occurred me to seek out or pick up a book about the Mass to try to come to an understanding of it. To be honest, I had a very Protestant understanding of the Mass: it was a weekly “church service,” a gathering of people who came to hear a homily. The surroundings I perceived at the Mass itself formed and fostered this false impression in me.

Evergreen Chapel, JBLM

As I read more, I felt the call to start wearing a chapel veil to Mass.  I had been reading biographies about the lives of the saints and my faith was being enriched by these holy men and women. I felt a strong calling to be covering my head in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament.  I held onto my faith because of my love for Jesus in the Eucharist, and I desired to give him due honor and reverence with this small act. I wanted to wear a veil to express that I believed He was truly present in the Blessed Sacrament. 

Since I was the only person wearing a veil in the little military chapel, I received a lot of stares.  I didn't like the attention: I started to feel that the veil, instead of being a symbol of humility, was actually drawing attention to me.

My husband and I were both unhappy at this chapel, so we decided to try a church off of the military base hoping that it would be better — that we would experience something more meaningful. I was craving to be fed with the deeper truths of the faith. I was wading in the shores and wanting to dive in, but I was lost. I had no one to guide me. I was glimpsing bits of tradition through the lives of the saints, but what I found in their writings and what I found at church were not in agreement. 

Naturally, I simply google-mapped the nearest church off base. This church was prettier than the plain chapels that we'd been going to on the Army bases.  

At first, I couldn’t figure out which direction to genuflect in because I could not even locate the Tabernacle or Sanctuary Lamp. It took me way too long to realize that the Tabernacle was actually in a separate room off to the side. This bothered me; I didn’t like seeing Jesus pushed off to the side and hard to locate. Remember: the main reason I came to Mass was for Jesus in the Eucharist. To see the Eucharist pushed off to the side while the “table” and “gathering place of the people” took precedence was disheartening to me.

St. Francis Cabrini Parish

This wasn't a great parish for us, but I didn't know what else to do.  This is the Mass, I told myself. This is THE most important prayer of the Church.  Where else would I go, Lord? There is no where else!

I had been reading books by Fulton J. Sheen, as well as the words of St. Padre Pio, St. Jean Vianney, St. Peter Julian Eymard... they all had such beautiful things to say about the Holy Mass.  Why couldn't I see that same beauty and sacredness in any of the chapels and churches we went to?  Why wasn't I filled with the inspired sense of awe I was reading about?  Why were all the churches so bland and ugly?  Why was Jesus' dwelling place pushed off to the side, unseen? Why do people come so casually dressed and why does the priest crack casual jokes during the homily? None of it felt like a “holy” Mass. I was thoroughly confused.

Then my husband deployed again and I was left alone with the three kids.

I Get Completely Fed-up and Road Trip to the Latin Mass

I remember being on the phone with my mom telling her about how fed up I was with Mass.  I couldn't take the irreverence, the disrespect, the almost profane attitudes of people who seemed to be at Mass for handshakes and guitar hymns rather than for the Eucharist. 

After I had thoroughly ranted, my mom simply said to me, "Why don't you go to the Latin Mass?"

And so I drove 10 hours with three kids to Idaho just so that I could attend a Latin Mass with my mom (I was too nervous to go alone). It was not my first Latin Mass because my mom had taken me a couple when I was a child, but since I had no memory of it, it may as well have been my first.

Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel, New Plymouth, Idaho

I have to be honest here and admit that I didn't have a great first impression.  The little church was packed and  it was standing room only.  I couldn’t see anything that was going on at the altar.  I flipped through my missal, trying to keep track of what was going on, but I was lost.  It was hot, stuffy, there were a lot of noisy kids, and I didn't understand the homily because of the priest's thick, foreign accent.  

So, my first Latin Mass did not have much of an immediate impact on me, however I still thought it was really awesome to witness this “old mass.” The historical aspect of it alone fascinated me. 

My curiosity wasn’t satisfied and I wanted to try again. So when I returned to Washington, I sought out a Latin Mass. I had no trouble finding one as the FSSP was located an hour north of me at a parish called North American Martyrs.  

I loaded my 5, 3, and 1-year-old into the car to drive the 70 minutes to the Latin Mass.  They didn't have a church building of their own yet, but their community was allowed to have their Mass in this church:

St. Alphonsus exterior, Ballard, WA

I Experience a High Mass For the First Time:

I sat in the back pew because I didn't have a lot of faith in my children's ability to behave during Mass and I didn't want to disturb anyone.  So once again I couldn't see the altar very well.  

I was happy to hear the parishioners reciting the Rosary together before the Mass began.  Instead of the soft murmurs and chuckles of people socializing before Mass, people were kneeling in prayer to prepare themselves for the Mass and for Communion.

I was amazed and a little concerned that there was a long line for confession during the Mass. I had never before seen people go to confession during a Mass.  I wondered if they were truly "fulfilling their obligation," if they were IN the confessional during Mass... and yet at the same time I thought it was wonderful that confession was so easily available for such a long amount of time! I sadly remembered the priest who didn't have time to hear my confession because he was eating his lunch. I figured this must be an old custom that was unfortunately done away with.  

The Gregorian chant was beautiful as the priest processed in with graceful movements: his head slightly bowed, his vestments stunning, and a look of seriousness on his face.  This was not what I was accustomed to: a grinning priest waving at the congregation as he walked toward the altar.  This was different, this was dignified. The altar boys glided by in their cassocks with the same sober faces as the priest.  One was holding a glimmering golden censer from which a stream of grey smoke was rising.  It was the first time I could remember ever having seen or smelled incense.

Everything from the music, to the vestments, to the demeanor of both the priest and the people immediately expressed to me that something solemn was taking place.  The people made the sign of the cross as the crucifix passed, then they bowed their heads slightly in deep sincerity as the priest passed.  I had never seen a congregation revere a crucifix in that way, nor had I seen a priest treated with such esteem. The Mass hadn’t even started yet and already I was overwhelmed with a stirring sense that something very holy was about to happen.

When it came time for the homily the priest spoke about the devil, temptation, and sin. This was a far cry from the usual football jokes.

St. Alphonsus, Ballard, WA

I didn't understand the Latin.  I didn't know when to sit or stand or kneel.  I only recognized the most familiar parts of the Mass. I wasn’t able to follow along in the missal. I was worried my veil would fall off my head as I wrangling three small children. And yet, I was astonished and excited.  In my heart, I knew I had found what I had been aching for all these years.  A missing puzzle piece fit perfectly in place that day.  For me it was instantaneous. I know some people go to the Latin Mass and don’t get much out of it, but for me a switch was flipped immediately. I can only explain it by God’s grace. It was a gift from Him. He knew what my heart had been seeking all these years and He was letting me know that I had found it.

Before, I felt distinctly that something was missing. There was an emptiness and an obscurity surrounding the Mass, an innate sense that there’s something more here that I couldn’t uncover. And now I was breathing in the fullness of the Mass that I had been absent before. I was finally catching a glimpse of what I had been reading about from the saints.  Now I began to understand why they were able to have such deep and beautiful devotions to the Mass. It's because they were fed with this Mass, the Mass of the Ages! It sounds stupid, but all of the sudden I realized that the saints for centuries before me had experienced a very different Catholicism than the modern American version of my own time. Just by sitting in that pew at that Mass, I felt a remarkable connection to the past. 

Fr. Insco, FSSP, at St. Joseph's in Tacoma

I admired the people in this community because I witnessed them receiving the Eucharist with loving devotion.  I noticed right away that the "Domine non sum dignus..." was said not once, but repeated three times, and that the parishioners penitently struck their breasts each time, a sign of their sorrow for their sins. They knelt at the altar rail, placed their hands under a white cloth, received directly on the tongue while an altar boy held a golden paten beneath their chin, and then returned silently to their pew to immerse themselves in prayer.  One woman I saw had her hands clasped together, her eyes closed, with a look of profound devotion, the likes of which I had never seen before. I knew she was contemplating the great mystery of the Eucharist within her and uniting herself to Jesus.  It made such a strong impression on me that, even after all these years, I have never forgotten what she looked like that in that moment, the moment after she received the Eucharist.  All of this was a completely different atmosphere than what I had encountered in any other church in my whole life.  I was deeply stirred by all of it. 

That day, I was immersed in purely aesthetical observations and overwhelmed with joy. It wasn’t until later that I was able to reflect on the actual differences between what I experienced at the new Mass and the old Mass. For now, the beauty and reverence was drawing me in. 

Week after week I attended this Mass but I was still often lost in my missal. And yet, I didn't have to see or know every detail of what was going on.  It was enough to sit, watch and be in awe of the mystery before me.

Eventually, I found out that there was a Latin Mass much closer to my home.  The same community, North American Martyrs, had a "South Sound community" in Tacoma.  They had a Mass at 5pm in a church close to the base, offered by Fr. Kenneth Baker, a very elderly and retired Jesuit.

Sts. Peter and Paul, interior

My Understanding of the Mass Finally Grows

 It is no mistake that God put this church, this Mass, and especially this priest, in my life at this time.

Fr. Baker was a professor of theology and his homilies were rich.  I felt like I was sitting in a college classroom every time he spoke from the pulpit.  The sermons I was hearing were distinct from anything I had heard before.  I was learning things about the faith that I had missed out on for so many years.

The other beneficial thing was that this was a low mass,  not like the high Mass I had been experiencing up north.  At the time, I did not know the difference between a "High Mass" and a "Low Mass." The Mass up north had been at a High Mass with Gregorian chant and incense and dozens of altar boys.  But down south, it was a Low Mass.  There was no choir, nothing was sung, there was no incense or entrance procession.  There were only two altar boys during Mass, which  was mostly conducted in quiet tones or silence.  It was the same Mass with all the same parts, and yet it was not decorated or elaborate or fancy.  It was simple. Somehow the silence and simplicity spoke to me in an extremely powerful way.  I found myself able to pray in this quiet atmosphere. I learned that even from the most ancient times, man has associated silence with profound reverence. It seemed fitting to me that the most solemn parts of mass were silent. As I was afforded this opportunity of reverent silence, the introvert in me, the one that felt naturally inclined to solitude and privacy, was able to genuinely pray and unite myself to the sacrifice in a way that never had previously.

The church was also much smaller so I had a clear view.  By following along in my missal, I finally came to understand the mass more extensively.  For the first time in my life, I was seeing all the details I had never noticed before and understanding what they meant.  The beauty of true liturgy was before me.  I was captivated by the meaning and symbolism of every movement and every moment. 

My knowledge of the Mass, theology, and Scripture increased concurrently thanks to Fr. Baker's excellent preaching.  It was here, in this little church, within this quiet liturgy, pouring over my missal on my knees, that I came to see and understand the key differences between the old and new Mass — differences that meant something significant to me. Through firsthand immersion into the traditional liturgy and prayerful reflection on what I had encountered, my dislike and confusion surrounding the Mass was cured.

And that was it!  My heart was inflamed.  My spiritual life burst into an intense fire of love for God, for Catholicism, for the Liturgy.  I had spent so many years wading in a shallow place regarding my religion, but now things were coming together and making sense.  I could see more clearly now and the picture revealed was stunning.  Once my eyes were opened to the old Mass, there was just no going back.

I am so thankful that my oldest son was reaching the age of reason while we were part of this community.  Elijah was able to receive his First Holy Communion from Fr. Baker on my birthday, May 11th.  It was just about the best birthday present I've ever received to witness my firstborn receive the Eucharist for the first time.

Elijah's first communion with Fr. Baker

My Husband Converts

When my husband returned from his deployment, he did not want to attend the Latin Mass with me at first.  I was pretty straight-forward with him: I told him if he wanted our marriage to survive, he needed to do this with me.  I needed him to stop dragging his feet and commit to converting. He had been saying he would for years, but had taken no steps in the process.  I needed him to take over as the spiritual head of our family, the role he should of been fulfilling all along.  I needed the kids to have a truly Catholic father.  I also found out our marriage was invalid according to the Church, so we desperately needed to rectify that.

I called the priest at North American Martyrs and he didn't hesitate to set an appointment with us.  Very quickly he con-validated our marriage (on February 14th!), and then he spent four months meeting one-on-one with my husband to instruct him on the faith. The fact that this priest eager to accommodate my husband's crazy work schedule spoke volumes to us.  It showed us that this priest cared deeply about the welfare of my husband's soul, and so he made the necessary sacrifices to ensure my husband had the opportunity to be properly instructed and brought into the Church.  That's exactly the way it should be: priests should be willing to make great sacrifices to save souls.  We are grateful to this priest for being a loving shepherd to our family during that time.

Court holding baby Isabelle, with Fr. Saguta.

On June 21st, the feast day of St. Aloysius, my husband went through the ceremony of Baptism, was confirmed, and received his first Holy Communion.  My husband chose St. Joseph as his confirmation saint, and I couldn't help but think of all those novenas I prayed to St. Joseph so many years earlier.  Our marriage was blessed, and then I received a pregnancy blessing since at that point I was expecting our fourth child.  After 9 years of marriage, my husband was Catholic and our marriage was valid.

Thankfully my husband found the Latin Mass as beautiful as I do. He was deeply impressed by the liturgy, and he continues to have a strong devotion to the Latin Mass.  As my mom likes to joke, "He's the most Catholic of us all now!"

So that's my (not so) little story about how I came to love the Latin Mass, and why it means so much to me.

Living Immersed in a Traditional Parish and the Traditional Calendar

Eventually, our diocese recognized that our community was well-established enough to be given our own church building.  "North American Martyrs South Sound" moved to St. Joseph's parish and became a new FSSP apostolate, separate from NAM.

Fr. Stinson came to St. Joseph's, and a little later Fr. Insco came, too.  I have now been through the full liturgical year in a traditional parish several times, and I have seen and experienced things that I never saw in my previous 30 years of Catholicism.

I learned about so many rich traditions of our Church that I was never aware of before, things that I had never seen or been told about, but that augment my faith and spiritual life tenfold.  Catholicism is truly an extremely beautiful religion -- but I never knew until I lived it in this community.

One thing I felt distinctly as I learned more was this: Why was this taken away from us?  And why didn't anyone tell me sooner?

Oliver receiving his first Holy Communion from the hand of Bishop Athanasius Schneider.

July 2021 Update

Our parish in Tacoma, St. Joseph, grew rapidly.  Over the years that we were there, we saw the number of parishioners steadily increasing.  Soon, more Masses had to be added to the schedule to accommodate our growing parish.  Our family grew too: our twins were born and baptized by Fr. Insco at St. Joseph.

With my husband's military career over, it was then that we decided to move back home to Boise, Idaho.  Unfortunately, Boise is a place where the Latin Mass is not as loved, appreciated, or embraced as it is in other parts of America.  We had a hard time acclimating to this new environment, and to this atmosphere of people who held suspicious attitudes toward traditional expressions and practices of Catholicism.  

I didn't know when I attended that Latin Mass with my mom, at Our Lady of Guadalupe in New Plymouth, that that same little chapel would someday become "home" for us 10 years later.

Our transition to the Boise area was tumultuous as we truly grieved over the loss of our treasured parish, priests, school, and friends.  But we found the little white chapel in-the-middle-of-nowhere to be a sweet haven in an otherwise difficult time.  

After experiencing so many High Masses each Sunday at St. Joseph, going to my beloved simple and silent Mass -- the Low Mass -- was a refreshing delight. St. Joseph had become a big, bustling parish, and to come now to this tiny chapel was, in a way, a relief.   The people at Our Lady of Guadalupe are very much like the people we knew at St. Joseph. I realized how much I prefer small, tight-knit communities, and how spiritually fruitful the silence of the Low Mass is for my heart and soul.  I receive extremely helpful and practical spiritual advice from our priest in the confessional.

One thing that is kind of remarkable to note is that my godfather attends this chapel. I have been able to reconnect with him, and I greatly enjoy chatting with him on Sundays after Mass and bumping into him at the Adoration chapel.

Conclusion

My boys serving Mass for Fr. O'Brien at St. Joseph in Tacoma, WA.

10 years later, I maintain my deep devotion to and love of the Latin Mass.  My overall impression when I attend the new form of the Mass has become something like this: this is not a good expression of our faith.  As Catholics, we profess to believe certain truths about the Mass and the Eucharist, and I don't see the new Mass to be a good expression of what we believe.  I see a more clear alignment in the old liturgy, where the outward expressions of our faith aligns with our professed beliefs and interior hearts.  For me, this is why the Latin Mass "makes sense" to me in a way that the new Mass never did.  

I attended the new Mass for 2.5 decades and remained confused, upset, unhappy, and generally dissatisfied.  I didn't understand why I felt the way I did and I even tried to will myself to love the Mass the way the saints did. Things didn't "click" until I experienced the old Mass.  Then it all made sense to me, almost instantly.  My spiritual life, which had been stalled and stunted, was able to thrive and prosper under these new conditions, and it hasn't stopped.  Before, my faith-life felt limp and lifeless and I had to force myself to attend out of obedience. Now, in this "new" atmosphere of the old mass, my spiritual life continues to grow vigorously and Mass is my favorite place to be.

The difference between the two, and the superiority of one over the other, was just that clear, simple and easy for me.