I attended an event recently where I didn’t know anyone, something you’d think I’d be used to by now in Church affairs. But it’s weird being the new kid anywhere, when everyone knows each other already and you feel like an intruder in their social circle.

But one conversation stood out—a fellow convert, I learned after, a fact I should’ve noticed sooner. There’s a certain glow about us that stands out, and a desire to know everything and everyone.
“We haven’t met before,” she said, extending a hand for me to shake.
“I’m new,” I replied.
“To the parish, or to Catholicism?”
I laughed. “Both.”
She broke into a grin, offered a quite unexpected hug, and said, “Welcome home.”

It’s a sentiment often reflected, and it fills me with an otherworldly warmth each time. That simple greeting, especially from people who don’t know me otherwise, reminds me where I am.

This year, the bishop revived the Neophyte Mass, one intended to welcome converts to the Church. I was super-excited about it—it had been on my calendar for months—but I was feeling crummy the morning of. My sponsor wasn’t able to come, so I went alone; when I walked in, no one from my class was there, either. I sat by myself, looking around the sparsely-decorated church, simply waiting for it to begin. I told myself that I wasn’t there for other people, anyway. I was there for God.

But then I saw my priest. He sneaked down a side aisle, as if no one could see him, and escaped into what I assumed was the sacristy. I didn’t expect him to be there. There was no reason for him to attend, really, with me being the only one present from our parish.

Which means he’d come just for me.

I almost cried then, for a different reason than before. In that moment, he was more than just the priest from my parish—he was my father. My spiritual guide. I loved him, and doubly so when he stood at the altar to take part in the Eucharist. I knew he searched for me as well in that crowded church. (And we got an awesome picture with the bishop afterward, too.)

The Church is a family. Not only with those who have helped guide you, but also those strangers at a backyard parish BBQ. I didn’t previously understand the concept of just going “anywhere” for church. But it’s not just the convenience of popping into wherever you happen to be on a particular Sunday (though that’s nice). It’s walking through the doors and being welcomed. It’s welcoming others. It’s being part of a family, and it’s being home.