When Home Finds You, Without Having It All Figured Out

When I look back at the last year, it feels both long and, at the same time, surprisingly quick. What once felt urgent — the need to decide, to know, to belong — has slowly softened into something quieter. We are no longer searching in the way we once were. We are no longer standing at crossroads or weighing options late into the night. Instead, we are here — in a place that feels like home. Like the prodigal son returning to his father.

At the end of this month, on Forgiveness Sunday, just before Great Lent begins, we will become catechumens in the Orthodox Church. [Catechumens are those who are formally entering a period of learning and preparation — not yet members of the Church, but no longer merely visitors — walking intentionally toward baptism or chrismation, guided by the Church and her teachings.] Writing that still feels strange, not because it feels wrong, but because of how unremarkable the moment feels on the surface. There was no sudden revelation, no dramatic turning point. We didn’t wake up one morning certain of everything. We still aren’t. What happened instead was slower and steadier — a series of small yeses, repeated over time. In some ways, seven months passed by rather quickly.

Looking back, I can see how much space Orthodoxy gave us to arrive here honestly. There was never pressure to rush. Questions were welcomed. Hesitations were not treated as threats. We were allowed to remain learners for as long as we needed to be — and we will continue learning throughout the next year, and beyond. Our priest once joked that if you’ve been Orthodox for less than thirty years, you’re still considered a “noob.” That patience — both from the Church and from our priest — mattered more than I realized at the time. I am still learning. There are still things I don’t fully understand. But the difference now is that those unknowns no longer feel unsettling. They feel like part of the path. This whole journey — growing up Baptist, then becoming Presbyterian, and now finding ourselves in Orthodoxy — feels, in hindsight, like the providence of God. He had us on this path for a reason. He placed us where we needed to be, when we needed to be there, even when we didn’t understand it at the time.

Orthodoxy has taught me that faith is not built on immediate clarity, but on faithfulness — on showing up, praying, listening, and allowing understanding to unfold over time. Since coming to the Church, I have noticed a change in my prayer life. What I once avoided because of my clumsiness or fear of not wording things “right” has become more consistent through the help of prayer books. I’ve come to understand that what matters more is the heart and the humility that comes with it. God knows the struggle. If I need help from a prayer book — prayers that have been prayed by holy people before me — what matters is that I mean the words. Maybe, eventually, I will learn to express myself more eloquently. But God does not want eloquence. He wants sincerity. He wants a repentant heart.

Becoming catechumens does not feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning — but not a dramatic one. It feels more like stepping into a room we’ve been standing outside of for a while: familiar, quiet, and already filled with prayer. As Lent approaches, the timing feels intentional. Forgiveness Sunday is about humility, reconciliation, and beginning again. It feels fitting that we would enter this next stage not with confidence in ourselves, but with an awareness of our need for grace — and with confidence in a loving Heavenly Father, whose arms are wide open, welcoming us home.

We are still learning.

Still listening.

Still becoming.

And for the first time in a long while, that feels like enough. Today, as I’m writing this, I realized something I hadn’t noticed before:

It is the Sunday of the Prodigal Son in the Orthodox Church. And it is also the second Sunday of February — the same Sunday last year when our Presbyterian church held its final service before closing its doors. (Last year it was the ninth. This year it is the eighth.) A year ago, we were losing a home we loved. Today, we are standing on the edge of a new beginning — not with answers, but with peace. That timing feels like something I’ll want to remember.