It was the summer of 1991, and our marriage was on the brink of destruction. Even though we had pledged our love to each other in a civil ceremony in 1983, it was not enough to withstand the looking for the center of that love in all the wrong places. Sexual experimentation and drug abuse had weakened our senses and the sin of it all had almost been more than we could bare.

We were both serious spiritual seekers, yearning for the truth of our existence. We both had Protestant backgrounds. We believed in Jesus Christ, but could not abide the watered down form which had been presented to us. So we followed the trend and began to look for God in Eastern Mysticism/Religions and the occult. Nothing was working. There was no peace in our hearts and only intermittent moments of elusive happiness that vanished the morning after our latest escapade. Divorce seemed the only solution.

At that time my husband began to pray for God to reveal to him ancient Christianity. In less than a week, an acquaintance at his workplace invited us to attend an English language service at a Russian Orthodox Cathedral in San Francisco. We took him up on his offer, and the evening before we were on pins and needles in anticipation of what might transpire. On the trip from Santa Cruz to San Francisco, our friend Peter explained to us the history of the Church and why he had left the western Christianity and become Orthodox. We were captivated by his words and experiences.

As we entered the cathedral for the Liturgy, Peter explained that we could walk around and look at the icons and light candles if we were moved to do so. As we stepped inside, the holiness and grace within that church hit us like a cannonball. James went to the left and I went to the right. We met in the center with tears rolling down both of our cheeks. Looking into each others eyes we just knew we had found what we were looking for. Our spiritual home was here.

As the service began, James was drawn to stand toward the back, but I was drawn to the confessional (not knowing what it was, as I had never confessed in my life). As the priest first came forward and began to cense the people, his eyes looked at me. And it was the eyes of Jesus Christ, looking deep into the wound that was my sinful soul. Christ seeing all the dirt and sin, all my mistakes and yet covering me with such compassion and love. It was like being hit with a hurricane of love. The priest, an Irish convert himself, understood what was happening to us and took us under his wing. He would become our spiritual father and most beloved guide in the years to come.

Within the next few months we would become catechumens, then baptized and chrismated and finally married in the One, Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. It was only later that we would find out that July 2, that blessed day that we entered “the Old Cathedral” for the first time, was the anniversary of the repose of the soon to be Saint John of Shanghai and San Francisco, and that this was the very church in which he served. We also found out that the place my husband choose to stand for every Liturgy thereafter was the place that the beloved monk Seraphim Rose had stood during his time of conversion.

This is the miracle of our conversion, the beginning of the healing of our marriage and the beginning of our life in Christ whose love and compassion has no end. Many trials and tribulations followed in the years to come, but with Christ as our Guide and Savior we were able to withstand the storms and find calm harbor. Since then my dear husband has departed in the Lord and waits for me to follow him someday.

May every heart that yearns to know the true God be united to Him in faith and love for this is the beginning of our salvation.