Finding Rest Without Having Answers

Even while we were still attending the Anglican Church more regularly, something began to shift quietly in the background. The priest at the Orthodox Church had given us a few books to read, and we decided to take our time with them. There was no pressure attached — just an invitation to learn.

The first book we read was The Indication of the Way into the Kingdom of Heaven by Saint Innocent of Alaska. That book stirred something deeply in my husband. It made him want to try — not rush, not decide everything at once, but genuinely try. For me, the experience was different. I enjoyed the book, and I appreciated its clarity and gentleness, but it didn’t convince me in the same way it did him. At that point, I was still observing, still weighing, still unsure. And that was okay. We weren’t trying to arrive at the same place at the same speed.

After that, I decided to get the audiobook of the second book we were given. Life was busy, and listening while doing chores was the only realistic way for me to engage deeply. That book was Rock and Sand by Archpriest Josiah Trenham. It was intense, direct, and at times uncomfortable — especially because much of it addressed errors within Protestantism and explained why those ideas could not hold up historically or theologically. By the time I finished it, I realized I was about seventy percent convinced that Orthodoxy was where we needed to be, even if I didn’t yet fully understand everything.

When the audiobook ended, Audible recommended another title: The Religion of the Apostles: Orthodox Christianity in the First Century by Stephen De Young. I listened to that one as well, and it helped close the remaining gap for me. It didn’t overwhelm me with new ideas so much as it placed everything into a larger, older context. By the end, I felt as convinced as I needed to be — not with a sense of triumph, but with a growing sense of peace.

Even so, saying that these books “convinced” me doesn’t feel quite right. What really happened was not persuasion in the usual sense. These books helped me understand enough to accept that full understanding does not have to come first. What mattered most to me was the continuity — the idea that the beliefs and teachings of the Church have been held and guarded since the time of the apostles. That kind of continuity stands in stark contrast to Protestantism, where thousands of denominations have formed simply because Scripture was understood differently. There are things in the Orthodox Church I still don’t completely grasp, and maybe that’s okay. I began to see that there is something more important than immediately understanding every outward detail, and that trust sometimes precedes clarity.

When we shared our decision to remain at the Orthodox Church, the responses were mixed.

My family took it fairly calmly. Their main advice was to pray and read Scripture, and their biggest concern — like mine — was icons. At that point, the priest had already told us something that brought a great deal of peace: no one is forced to do anything. These practices are meant to be approached with the right heart, and they come with time. Knowing that, I decided not to fixate on what I wasn’t ready to fully understand yet.

My husband’s family struggled more. There were stronger concerns and more visible upset. We didn’t have the words yet to fully explain our reasons, and we certainly couldn’t “defend” our decision in a way that would satisfy everyone. All we could do was ask them to pray — as we were praying — and trust that God knew our hearts. We were not leaving the Church or walking away from God. On the contrary, we were seeking Him and the Truth with sincerity.

At this point, even though we are still visitors inquiring into Orthodoxy, it is difficult to imagine being anywhere else. The liturgy has become familiar. What once felt foreign now feels ordered and grounding. The chanting no longer distracts me; instead, it fades into the background and carries the prayers in a way that feels steady and peaceful. Returning to another form of worship now feels like stepping backward.

For now, we attend any classes the priest offers, and we have scheduled time to meet with him one-on-one to ask questions. There is so much to learn, and there is no rush. The priest reminded us that everything in Orthodoxy takes time — understanding, practice, growth. Experience matters. Reading about the lives and experiences of the saints matters. Faith here is not something to be hurried. And so, we chose to remain. Not because we had everything figured out, but because staying felt faithful. The searching had quieted. The urgency had softened. In its place was a growing sense of peace — and the understanding that this journey was meant to unfold slowly.