I joined the Catholic Church six years ago as a 65-year-old ‘cradle Protestant’ due in large part to listening to The Quest . I had been a regular listener to the conservative talk shows on AM 1160 and was surprised one morning when they announced it had been changed to a Catholic station. Out of curiosity and my love for theology, I decided to listen that first day and was totally hooked.

The Catholic Church was not a total stranger to me. My maternal grandmother, a sweet Protestant Christian, had three siblings out of 10 that had converted to Catholicism. My paternal grandmother was a first-generation American of an Irish Catholic family. Her only child was my father, who had been reared as a Catholic but left the Church and was non-practicing my whole life. With this background, I always had a connection with and a soft spot for Catholics.

My maternal grandparents were devout Christians and members of the Church of the Nazarene, which could be described as a strict Methodist denomination. Unfortunately, my parents did not attend church, but my grandparents faithfully took me to church every Sunday and were responsible for my formation as a Christian. However, like many young people, I stopped attending church during my early teen years and put God on the back burner in my life. At age 18 I briefly thought about becoming Catholic but didn’t want to disappoint my grandmother, so I deferred that decision. A couple years later, I met and married my wife, Patty, who had grown up as a Methodist , but her parents had stopped going to church when that denomination became more liberal, and thus neither of us attended any church at that time.

At age 28 a pivotal moment in my life happened on a business trip flight, when the landing gear was stuck and we thought we were going to have to crash land on a foamed LaGuardia runway. It was the most helpless feeling I had ever experienced. As the passengers assumed the crash position, I fervently prayed to God, knowing I was not ready to meet my Maker, and promised to amend my life if He would let me live. I think of this moment as my epiphany with the Lord. The landing gear, fortunately, came down, and the following Sunday Patty and I were sitting in the pew of the First Presbyterian Church of Asheville, North Carolina, where we lived at that time. I had never been baptized, so I was baptized two weeks later in that church. It was a very old congregation and some kindly elders encouraged us to check out the First Baptist Church of Asheville, which had a vibrant young couples ministry. We did so and joined that church, becoming Southern Baptists and pretty much stayed within that denomination upon subsequent job relocations.

Patty and I were blessed with a daughter and a son, and we moved back home to Atlanta in 1986 when they were toddlers so my parents could experience the joy of being grandparents (including babysitting). We settled in Dunwoody on the street directly behind All Saints Catholic Church, and I used to joke that it would be great if we were Catholic since we could then walk to church. I loved hearing the church bells ringing from All Saints everyday (a lot of old Protestant hymns) and appreciated the sense of Christian community they provided.

We began to attend First Baptist Church of Atlanta since they had purchased the old Avon property in Dunwoody and would eventually be relocating from their downtown location. It was a huge church known internationally thanks to its pastor, Dr. Charles Stanley, and his televised teaching ministry. Given its extensive ministries and programs, we felt our children would receive an outstanding Christian formation given the Baptist emphasis on solid Biblical teaching. I can truthfully say that I owe a great deal to First Baptist Church of Atlanta. Both of my children are now in their early 40s, have married solid Christians, and they are faithful in their love of God and the Christian rearing of my wonderful grandchildren. Looking back on my life, I wouldn’t change that experience for anything.