How I Came to Have a Devotion to the Latin Mass
My personal experiences of growing up as an American Catholic in the Novus Ordo Mass, and what I experienced when I found the Latin Mass.
Note: I originally wrote this piece in 2017. This is not meant to be a deeply theological or liturgical study of the Mass, and I admit that it’s hardly objective. This is not an argument for the Latin Mass or against the Novus Ordo Mass. I’m not trying to “prove” anything or convince you of anything. This is an autobiographical sketch of my personal experiences.
I’ve always been extremely grateful to God that He willed for me to be born into a Catholic family. Even if I didn’t always appreciate, understand, or practice my Catholic faith very well, I know it is a great grace to be baptized as an infant into the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church.
I’m grateful that I was raised from birth with the things like the Holy Mass, the Holy Eucharist, the Sacrament of Penance, the Rosary, my Guardian Angel, and the Communion of Saints. For me growing up, these were a part of my daily reality and shaped the core of who I am and how I perceive the world.
I had a very average American upbringing. There is nothing special or out of the ordinary to report. I was a worldly child who preferred playing video games over spiritual things. Yet, I have plenty of vivid memories of praying the Rosary with my family in the evenings, of going to Mass every Sunday, and of special occasions, like my First Holy Communion.
I do feel it is important to point out right away that my parents personally lived through and disliked the liturgical reforms of the Second Vatican Council. Growing up, I often heard conversations between them lamenting about the changes, but I lacked context of what they were talking about. Although everyone else in our church received the Eucharist into their hands, I was taught by my mother to receive on the tongue only and never to touch the Eucharist with my hands. 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 directly 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 elbowed me, whispering, “That’s Protestant!” But at the time, I didn’t understand what he was talking about.
So, I was raised in the New Mass, but my parents maintained many traditional practices from pre-Vatican II and they instilled many of those practices in me. My childhood was a fusion of old and new: traditional teachings at home contrasted with the modern practices at church. Unfortunately, the “why” of it all escaped me. As a result, I was mostly confused. Once, my mother knelt down to receive communion and the priest boldly told her to stand up, not wanting to give her the Eucharist on her knees. At times like this, I questioned my mother's "strange" ways and felt awkward for being the outliers at church.
As I grew up, the allurements of the world became the bigger priority in my life. I favored the natural world as I drifted from the supernatural. A remnant of my faith always remained with me, I carried with me precious seeds that were planted in my earliest years, but I can never claim to have been a pious teenager.
I do remember my Confirmation at the age of 16, but I regret to say that I didn't understand the Sacrament at all. I was forced to participate in a youth group that I hated, but the diocese strictly required two years of the "Life Teen” program in order to receive the Sacrament of Confirmation. My mom tried to get me out of it, but the diocese was firm in their rule. The two years was absolutely required, and there was no way around it. I was forced to participate, forced to go on a retreat, and had to endure terrible Life Teen Masses with guitars and drums. Even as a teenager, I knew it was all unnecessary theatrics.
Sadly, I missed out on a lot of what a Catholic should be taught when they are preparing for a Sacrament. I was never taught the valuable truths of the faith or made to memorize any catechism. Instead, I sat through agonizing Life Teen Masses and other gimmicks intended to be attractive to teenagers, you know, modernizing the faith and making it “relevant.” 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" and “modern.” Instead of being well formed in the timeless truths of the faith, I was at an entertainment event. There were even lyrics of Protestant praise and worship songs ("Christian Rock") conveniently displayed on a large screen for everyone to sing along to while they waved their hands in the air.
I can’t stress enough how this experience failed to form me in my faith or prepare me for the Sacrament of Confirmation at all, 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. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Catholicism, but that I didn’t like the “Life Teen” program, the “experience,” the small group discussions that were about feelings and emotions rather than objective truths, the arts and crafts, etc., etc.
At the end of the two years, I received the Sacrament of Confirmation, but I can tell you in all honestly, and with great sadness, that I didn’t understand what I was receiving or why.
At the age of 18, I eloped with a non-Catholic. He was in the Army, and I didn't hesitate to move across the country to be with him, because I was eager to get away from my home. Despite the fact that I wasn't practicing my faith very well, and I was lacking understanding on many things, I was still going to Mass on Sundays, going to Confession, and receiving the Eucharist. Like I said, even though I lacked a lot of understanding, there were still certain seeds that my mom had planted in me that were so deeply sewn, they were part of who I was. And thank God, in His abundant mercy, despite all my tepidity and ignorance, He still supplied the graces I needed to keep receiving the Sacraments and going to Mass.
In my childhood, I had a beautiful Cathedral to attend Mass in. Built in the Gothic style, it was massive with impressively beautiful stained-glass windows. Now, on an Army base in Georgia, the little white chapel was quite a different experience. Because it was shared with Protestants, the Catholicism had to be toned down to a bare minimum. 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 or Catholic images, and no beauty. It was a stark and bare environment.
Since my husband was not Catholic, he did not often attend Mass with me. I would sit in the last pew, near the exit, by myself. Mass was something I had to “get through” each Sunday, not fully understanding the Mass or why I had to be there. But I knew it was a precept of the Church that I needed to be there, so I went.
I had always maintained a belief in the Real Presence and a devotion to the Eucharist, but I really struggled with the rest of the Mass. At that time, I wouldn’t have had the right words to explain what it was: I just felt deeply that I did not like going to Mass. The only part that I really understood and that mattered to me was the Consecration. I possessed an in-born 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 would stay on my knees with my head down, hoping 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 and shake or hold other’s hands. This had some to do with my upbringing but where I was taught not to do these things, but I was also a natural introvert who didn’t like the “social” or “communal” emphasis. I considered my spiritual life to be a deeply private thing. I was there for Jesus in the Eucharist.
I found the contemporary music one of the most difficult parts of the Mass; the lyrics were overly sentimental, and the cantors' singing was consistently subpar. The sound of the music wasn't pleasing to the ear, at all. The responsorial psalm was the worst. I routinely found it to be the most unbearable part of the whole Mass.
I tried so hard to suppress these feelings, but I couldn’t deny that they were there. I understood that these emotions and behaviors were not normal, and I truly wondered to myself, “why had I developed such a strong dislike for Mass?” It was purely a natural emotion, I couldn’t even have offered any theological criticism of the Mass. I simply felt deeply at my core that I didn't “like” it.
Despite my negative feelings, I continued going out of pure obedience. I truly believed that I had an obligation to be at Mass every Sunday. As much as I didn’t care for the Mass, I still loved God and desired to obey Him, and I understood that I owed Him Mass attendance out of justice, regardless of how I felt about it.
Becoming a mother heightened my interest in my faith, as I was now responsible for a little soul. I felt a strong desire to do things right, and a natural inclination to take my faith more seriously in order to raise my child within it. Fortunately, my husband was supportive of our children being raised in the Catholic faith, so we had promptly had our newborn baptized. Two weeks later, my husband left for a 15-month deployment to Afghanistan. Suddenly, I found myself as a new mother, alone with a baby.
Before his deployment, I presented my husband with a rosary for him to carry, and he learned to pray with it while away. Additionally, I gave him a St. Joseph holy card, which he placed in his Humvee. The card had a novena prayer to St. Joseph on the back, which I recited often during his deployment, hoping for his safe return. It was my sincere desire that my husband would embrace, concert, and practice the Catholic faith.
The summer after he returned, we soon found out I was expecting again and we received orders to relocate to Okinawa, Japan. Even in this foreign place, on a tiny island, I found the military chapel and went to Mass with my toddler. My husband was still not attending Mass with us, although he had begun to express a mild interest in the faith.
Being at Mass alone in a foreign country with an active 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. There was not much growth in my faith during my second pregnancy, as I was pretty much consumed with the busyness of chasing around an active toddler.
When our second child was born, she was very sick. This was the first real trauma that I had ever faced in my life, and I naturally turned to God in my fear and despair.
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 a little bit of an emotional mess, practically yelling at God in frustration.
In that moment, something happened that I can’t explain in any natural way. I remember it distinctly. I was in the tatami room of our Japanese house, standing near the dining room table. I literally fell to my knees and was crying, but suddenly my tears stopped and my anger ceased, practically vanishing as a profound sense of peace washed over me and replaced all my fear. I did not feel afraid or any anger at all, but somehow, I 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 how long a person lived: one minute, one hour, one day. The purpose for which they were created does not change: union with God. She was simply going to the Beatific Vision much sooner than most people. And in a flash, I saw clearly what a gift that is. It didn’t matter if she only lived for two weeks, it only mattered that she be united to God for eternity. In a single moment, I surrendered and accepted God's will completely, and all my fear subsided.
However, it wasn't God's will for her to die. She survived and continues to thrive to this day. But 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 especially of the soul. I learned that it isn't our abilities that give us our 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 medical machines, and yet she was 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 in a meaningful way.
Although this was a great step forward in my spiritual life, lessons are hard learned. I still had a lot of mistakes to make and things to learn.
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. I didn’t 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 very hard for our marriage, but he was resolute. It looked like a completely hopeless situation.
In my pain, I turned to Mary and Joseph. I prayed the St. Joseph Novena again, the same one I had prayed every day for his safe return during the deployment. But I didn't pray it once a day for nine days, I prayed it dozens of times per day for weeks. I prayed rosary after rosary. As soon as I finished one rosary, I would start another one. I begged God to heal our marriage, and I begged Mary and Joseph to pray with me and for us.
God sent us an interesting gift to save our marriage: a third degree burn.
When my husband’s hand and arm were significantly burned, the accident and his injury were my fault. I had made a careless mistake in the kitchen while cooking, I started a fire right beneath our daughter’s bedroom where there was multiple flammable oxygen tanks, and he suffered third degree burns putting the fire out to protect his family.
In this emergency situation, I could not drive my husband to the hospital because I had to stay home with our daughter, who was unable to leave the house due to her fragile medical condition. I couldn’t just put her in the car and drive away. I would have had to get her ventilator, oxygen tank, suction machine, and pulse oximeter ready to go. Loading her up and getting all the medical equipment downstairs would have taken far too long. Thankfully, our next-door neighbor was willing to drive him to the emergency room. I cried as they left, thinking that surely this was the final end of our marriage. How could he ever reconcile with me now, after I started a fire and he was suffering third degrees burn because of my stupidity?
Yet, this injury was a turning point for our marriage to be restored and healed. I jokingly call it “the fire of the Holy Ghost,” because as I dutifully visited his bedside at the hospital, delivered his medications, helped change his bandages, bathed him, dressed him and fed him, he said told me that 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 for me. He was fully ready to take the necessary steps in healing our marriage and moving forward.
I cannot emphasize enough how this experience fortified my faith and trust in God, turning a seemingly hopeless situation into one with such a dramatic and unforeseen resolution. This, and other events, served to fortify and renew my complete trust and confidence in God. When I knew that 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 mercy to me when I was nothing but a miserable sinner. And so, my faith grew as I drew closer to God. I believed He was really there, that He really cared about me, that He forgives me, and that He desires me to be close to Him. Fueled by His love and grace, I was inspired to live my life for Him better than I had in the past.
At this point, we were living in San Antonio, Texas. I was going to Confession a lot during this time. I was realizing the true gravity of my many past sins, and I had a renewed desire to be a better Catholic and live my life for God, not for myself.
There was a time when my daughter was hospitalized and I was spending my days at her bedside. I wanted to go to Confession, so I went in search of the Catholic military chaplain in the hospital. I found him sitting at a table, eating lunch. I asked him if he had time to hear a confession, but he told me no, because he was eating, and he suggested that I look for a church off-base. I was disappointed that this priest found his lunch to be more important than offering me the Sacrament of Penance, but I did what he said and sought the Sacrament at a church off-base.
The confessional in this particular church happened to be connected to an Adoration chapel, so while I was waiting in line for confession, I was in Adoration before the Blessed Sacrament. To be perfectly honest, it was really the first time that I had ever seen people venerating Jesus in the Eucharist outside the context of Mass. I had never been to Adoration before. I thought it was such a beautiful and powerful thing. I wanted to come back and spend time praying before Jesus, exposed in the Monstrance.
At the time of the birth of my third child in Texas, 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.
My faith was deepening rapidly, I was overwhelmed with the desire to practice my faith in the best way I possibly could. But I was still struggling with the Mass.
I was determined to take Mass more seriously, so I decided to be “more devout” at Mass. "Being devout" meant following all the actions, speaking all the prayers loudly and clearly, singing the songs, and basically being a sort of robot, perfectly 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 Mass." I was very careful and intentional about sitting, standing, and kneeling at all the right times, and saying the responses correctly and loudly. I thought that was how I participated well at Mass.
Obviously, I still didn't have an understanding of the true meaning or theology of the Mass, but I was trying. I had a sincere desire to unite myself to the Mass the way I was “supposed to,” and I thought that meant being very active and responsive.
Soon, it was time for our family to move again, and 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 one whit 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 actively trying to deepen my spiritual life, but I found the environment and atmosphere at church to be very distracting and worldly, not conducive to holiness at all. It was not conducive to prayer, nor did I feel edified or encouraged in moral and spiritual development.
At this time, I was beginning to really immerse myself in spiritual reading. I was reading a lot of prayer and meditation books at the time, as well as the lives of the saints. I was learning 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 of these ideas, as they were new to me.
Mass is a sacrifice? Mass is 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 true meaning and purpose of the Mass. It was only through the writings of the saints that I began to learn 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. I was learning 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 statements. I had never been taught this meaning of the Mass before. In my head, I quickly tried to align what I was reading with what I personally saw and heard at the Mass every Sunday, and the two just did not align. I could not grasp the sayings of the saints regarding Mass. What I experienced wasn’t anything like what they described. Why were the saints able to derive something so significant from the Mass, but I was unable to perceive it?
At this time, if you were to ask me why I go to Mass, I probably would have told you that I go out of obedience, because it’s a law of the Church. I probably would have given you a shallow reasoning about how it’s important to give time to God, and that’s what Sunday Mass is. It’s me giving one hour of my week to God. There was, in me, an immature sense of needing to give something to God, and that I give it through Mass, but I couldn’t have given you any deeper reasoning than that.
To be honest, I was stuck in a very Protestant understanding of the Mass: it was a weekly church service, a gathering of people who came to hear a homily that would inspire them to be good people. Truly, the surroundings I perceived at the Mass itself formed and fostered this impression in me. The purpose of Holy Mass seemed to be a gathering place for a community who prayed together and heard an uplifting message. What were the Saints talking about…? What was I missing?
I continued my spiritual reading and soon felt a 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 the examples of these holy men and women. Now, I felt a strong call to be covering my head in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. The greatest inspiration for me to cling to my faith was my love for Jesus in the Eucharist, and I desired to give him due honor and reverence with this small act of humble submission. I wanted to wear a veil to express that I believed He was truly present in the Blessed Sacrament.
I was the only person wearing a veil in that little military chapel, and I received a lot of stares because of it. I felt extremely uncomfortable as people were staring at me, and 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 uneasy 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 spiritually meaningful. I was craving to be fed with the deeper truths of the faith. I was wading in the shores, barely getting my toes wet, but I wanted to dive in. I felt lost with no one to guide me. I was glimpsing bits of tradition through the books I was reading, but what I found in their writings and what I found at church were not the same. I was becoming frustrated and confused.
Instead of doing any real research, I simply google-mapped the nearest church off base. This church was… a little nicer than the plain chapels that we'd been going to on the Army bases, but I couldn’t figure out which direction to genuflect in because I could not locate the Tabernacle or Sanctuary Lamp. It took me a little bit 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. I was used to the Tabernacle being front and center, directly behind the altar, which made perfect sense to me. To see the Eucharist pushed off to the side while the “table” and “gathering place of the people” took precedence was truly disgusting to me. This was simply a natural observation and consequent feeling upon observing the church.
So, this wasn't a great parish for us, but I really 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 nowhere 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... and they all had such magnificent and beautiful things to say about the Holy Mass and Liturgy. Why couldn't I see that same beauty and majesty in any of the chapels and churches that 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' pushed off to the side? Why do people come so casually dressed and smacking bubble gum, and why does the priest act like a celebrity waving and grinning at people as he processes in? None of it felt like a “Holy” Mass, none of it felt sacred or reverent, or like it was being treated with the dignity that it deserved. I was bothered and restless.
Then, my husband deployed again, and I was left alone with the three kids.
Part II, In Which I Get Completely Fed-up and Take a Road Trip to the Latin Mass
I was on the phone my mom one day 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?"
Well. It had never even occurred to me.
I drove 10 hours with three kids to Idaho, just so that I could attend a Latin Mass with my mom, because I was too nervous to go by myself. It was technically not my first Latin Mass because my mom had taken me to a couple when I was a child, but since I had no memory of it, it may as well have been my first.
I’m not going to lie to you and pretend like I had some ecstatic, life-changing experience the first time I attended a Latin Mass. Instead, the little chapel was packed full of people to the point that it was standing room only. I was in the very back of the church and couldn’t see anything that was going on at the altar. I flipped through my missal, vaguely trying to keep track of what was going on, but I was hopelessly lost. It was uncomfortably warm in the chapel, and there were a lot of very noisy babies. I couldn’t even understand the homily because the priest's foreign accent was so thick.
So, my first Latin Mass didn’t have 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. Plus, the atmosphere and attitude were very different. The people were all kneeling for most of the (Low) Mass, and all the women were wearing veils. Obviously, everyone knelt at the rail to receive the Eucharist on their tongue.
My curiosity wasn’t satisfied from this one experience. I wanted to go again. So, when I returned to Washington, I sought out a Latin Mass, and I had no trouble finding one since the FSSP was located an hour north 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.
I Experience a High Mass For the First Time.
When I walked into the church with my children, hastily adjusting my veil, I shuffled everyone into the back pew. I was uncertain about how my children's behavior would be during Mass, and I didn't want them to bother anyone.
One of the first things I noticed was that the many parishioners scattered through-out the church were all down on their knees, reciting the Rosary together before Mass. This was already a big change from what I was used to experiencing. Instead of the soft murmurs and chuckles of people socializing and chatting that typically preceded Mass, there was a collective reverence as people knelt in prayer.
Suddenly, a resounding note from an impressive pipe organ above heralded the priest's arrival. The sweet strains of Gregorian chant drifted down from the choir loft, a sound totally unfamiliar to me. It was beautiful watching the priest enter and process forward with graceful movements, accompanied by the choir's harmonies. His head was slightly bowed, his vestments looked stunning, and his face was completely serious. This was a far cry from what I usually saw at Mass, namely a grinning priest waving at the congregation as he casually walked toward the altar. This was different; this was dignified. The altar boys quickly glided by in their cassocks with the same sober faces as the priest. One of them was holding a glimmering, golden censer from which a stream of smoke was rising. It was the first time I could remember ever having seen or smelled incense.
Already, I was overwhelmed with a stirring sense that something very special was happening, and Mass hadn’t even started. 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 here.
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 of faithful revere the crucifix as it was carried up to the altar, nor had I seen a priest treated with respect.
Did I understand the Latin? Of course not. Did I know exactly know when to sit or stand or kneel? No, I had no idea. I was only able to recognize the most familiar parts of the Mass, such as when everyone stood up for the Gospel. I wasn’t able to follow along in the missal because I was wrangling my three small children, and I was worried the whole time that my veil was going to fall off my head. And yet, I was astonished within my heart. I already knew that I had found what I had been aching for all these years. It was like a missing puzzle piece was fit perfectly into place that day.
For me, the love of this Mass was instantaneous, as simple and quick as a switch being flipped on. I can only attribute it to the supernatural grace of God. It felt like a gift. He understood the yearnings of my heart and what I had been seeking all these years, and now my search had come to an end.
Before, I had felt distinctly that something was missing. There was an emptiness and obscurity surrounding the Mass, an innate sense within me that there had to be something else here that I wasn’t grasping. Now, I was breathing in the fullness of the Mass. I was finally seeing what I had been reading about from the saints. Now I was beginning to understand why they were able to have such deep and beautiful devotions to the Mass, why they were able to praise it in such beautiful words. It's because they were fed with this Mass, the Mass of the Ages! It sounds so stupid now, 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 - to this timeless faith - and I felt a connected to the Church and the Saints in a way that I never had before.
One of the "strangest" things I saw was a long line for confession during Mass. It was my first time witnessing the faithful going to confession during Mass. To be honest, the first question in my mind was whether they were truly "fulfilling their obligation" if they were in the confessional during Mass? (I know now how silly that question is, but at the time, it was genuine concern!) Nevertheless, I found it to be a remarkable idea, and figured it was a revival of an old tradition that had ceased to be common practice.
But still, I admired the people I saw that day because I saw them all receiving the Eucharist with loving exterior devotion. I noticed that the "Domine non sum dignus..." was said not once, like at the New Mass, 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 silent prayer. The paten beneath the chin was one of the most remarkable things I saw that day, because it was such a simple safeguard that required almost no effort, and yet what it symbolized was so incredibly powerful.
After Communion, I saw a woman with hands clasped together, her eyes closed, the most profound look of devotion, the likes of which I had never seen before. It was almost like she was in pain as she united herself to Jesus in the Eucharist, likely pouring her heart out to Him in an intimate way. 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 environment and atmosphere than anything I had ever encountered in any other church in my whole life.
I was deeply stirred by all of it. My life changed that day.
That day, I was obviously immersed in purely aesthetical observations and overwhelmed with peaceful interior joy. It wasn’t until later that I began to reflect on the actual differences between the liturgies of the new and the old Masses. For now, it was the beauty and reverence that was drawing me in. Week after week, I kept attending 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 be in silent awe of the mystery before me.
After a few months of driving so far for the Latin Mass, I found out that there was actually a Latin Mass much closer to my home, offered by Fr. Kenneth Baker, a very elderly and retired Jesuit. It was no mistake that God put this church, this Mass, and especially this priest, in my life at this time.
Fr. Baker was a former professor of theology, and his homilies were rich. Every time he spoke from the pulpit, it was as though I was in a college lecture hall. 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. I was being catechized and learning theology.
The other thing that proved beneficial was that this was a Low Mass, not like the High Mass I had been experiencing up north. Of course, I didn’t know the difference between a "High Mass" and a "Low Mass” at the time, but it didn’t take long for me to figure it out. The Mass up north had been a High Mass with chanting, incense and dozens of altar boys. But down south, it was a Low Mass, where there was no chanting, no incense, not even an entrance procession. There were only two altar boys during the Mass, which was mostly conducted in quiet tones or even silence. It was the same Mass with all the same parts, and yet it was not decorated, if you will. It was very pure in its simplicity, something I came to call “the bare bones of the Mass.” All the fancy elaborations were left out, but somehow the simplicity of it spoke profoundly to my soul. I found myself praying in this still and hushed atmosphere like I never had before. I learned that even from the most ancient times, man has associated silence with profound reverence, and it was fitting that the most solemn parts of Mass were entirely silent. As I was afforded this opportunity of adoring quietude, the introvert in me - the part that felt so naturally inclined to solitude and privacy - was able to pray and unite myself to the sacrifice in a way that I hadn’t before, not even at a High Mass.
The church was also much smaller, so I had a clear view. I was able to see everything that was happening, and as I followed along in my missal, I came to understand and appreciate the Mass more fully. For the first time in my life, I was seeing all the details I hadn’t before, and I understood what they meant. The true beauty of the liturgy was before me, and I was captivated by the meaning and symbolism of every movement.
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 whispered 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 very significant to me. Through firsthand immersion into the traditional liturgy, and prayerful reflection, my dissatisfaction and confusion surrounding the Mass was cured.
And that… was it. My heart was inflamed, and my spiritual life burst into an intense fire of love for God, for Catholicism, and for this Liturgy. I had spent so many years wading in a shallow place regarding my faith, but now things my eyes were opened to a new reality; it was like I was seeing for the first time, and the view was stunning. Once my eyes were opened to the old Mass, there was 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, which was also Mother’s Day that year. It was just about the best birthday present I've ever received, to witness my firstborn receive the Eucharist for the first time.
My husband had quite a surprise waiting for him when he came home from his deployment.
At first, he was hesitant to attend the Latin Mass with me. He wasn’t Catholic, and although he did come to the New Mass with me, he put his foot down about the Latin Mass. “I don’t know Latin!” he told me. I emphasized the necessity for him to join me in this journey, and for him to stop hesitating and commit to converting to Catholicism. Despite his assurances of conversion over the years, he had not taken any real action toward it. I knew it was necessary for him to assume the role of our family's spiritual head, a role he should have been fulfilling from the start, and it was crucial for our children to have a genuinely Catholic father. Moreover, I had discovered that our marriage was invalid in the Church, a situation that we urgently needed to rectify.
I reached out to the priest at North American Martyrs, and he didn't hesitate to meet with us. He very quickly convalidated our marriage, on February 14th, and afterward, he dedicated four months to meeting individually with my husband to instruct him in the faith. The priest's willingness to accommodate my husband's hectic work schedule was so meaningful to us. It demonstrated a real pastoral care for my husband's spiritual well-being, since he was willing to make sacrifices to provide my husband with proper instruction and bring him into the Church. This is the ideal: priests willing to make sacrifices for the salvation of souls. We are very thankful for this priest's guidance and care for our family during that time.
On the feast day of St. Aloysius, June 21st, my husband underwent the baptismal ceremony, received confirmation, and received His first Holy Communion. He chose St. Joseph as his confirmation saint, which reminded me of the many novenas I had prayed to St. Joseph in the years before. Our marriage (which had already been made valid in February) now received a blessing, and I was given a blessing for pregnancy, as we were expecting our fourth child at the time.
Nine years into our marriage, my husband converted to Catholicism. He, too, found beauty in the Latin Mass. The liturgy left a profound impression on him, in ways the new Mass never had.
Eventually, the diocese recognized that the Latin Mass 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 in Tacoma. Our family moved off the Army base, buying a house within a very close proximity of the church building. I was able to make the Latin Mass part of my daily routine for the 3 years that we lived here.
By experiencing the full liturgical year in a traditional parish, I encountered aspects of Catholicism that I had never been exposed to despite my thirty years of being Catholic. I discovered the beautiful and rich traditions of the Church, previously unknown to me—traditions forgotten by the modern church—yet ones that have greatly enriched my faith and spiritual life.
Catholicism is an extremely beautiful religion, yet its full richness and true beauty only came to light for me after experiencing life within a community that embraces the traditional liturgy and customs.
As I delved deeper into the traditional practices of Catholicism, there was one thing I began to increasingly wonder:
Why was this taken away from us?
And why didn't anyone tell me sooner?