Believe it or not, I don’t always like talking about my conversion to Catholicism.
Sometimes I wonder if what I experienced before was simply my own misunderstanding of the Gospel. Plenty of faithful Christians walk in tremendous freedom. Because of that, there are times I feel the urge to button my lips and keep all this to myself.
But then I think about the possibility that there is one person out there who feels burdened. One person who loves God but feels exhausted by faith. One person who needs the Shepherd to lead them beside still waters.
And suddenly I feel like one of those newsboys from the 1920s standing on a milk crate yelling to the masses,
“There is freedom in Christ! Come read about it here at Big Bowl of Popcorn!”
When I was younger, I saw much of Christianity through the lens of rules.
Pray.
Read your Bible.
Don’t lie.
Don’t covet.
Don’t cheat.
Don’t watch that movie.
Don’t listen to that music.
And while many of those things were rooted in good intentions, I carried them like a backpack full of bricks.
The burden was heavy because it felt like I was doing all the reaching.
All the striving.
All the trying.
As I got older, I noticed that Christians often disagreed about which rules mattered most. One group thought drinking was wrong. Another had no problem with drinking but thought Harry Potter was opening a portal to the demonic. Others seemed convinced that if you didn’t hold the correct theological position on every issue, your faith itself was suspect.
The older I get, the more I realize that God is not standing over us with a clipboard.
He is a Father.
Prayer is not a box to check.
The commandments are not arbitrary restrictions.
They are gifts meant to keep our hearts turned toward Him.
Years ago, during confession, a priest said something to me that I have never forgotten.
“Martina, don’t you know that God knows how hard it is for you?”
I think about those words all the time.
God knows how hard it is.
He knows the struggle against sin.
He knows the habits we can’t seem to break.
He knows the wounds we carry.
He knows how many times we fall and how many times we get back up and reach for Him again.
And maybe that’s why Corpus Christi moves me so much.
Because God didn’t just give us advice.
He didn’t just give us a list of things to do.
He gave us His Son.
The Christian life is still a struggle. At least mine is.
Every day I find myself reaching out my hand to touch His garment again.
Every Mass is me reaching out to Christ again.
And every Mass, Christ reaches back.
That is what the Eucharist has come to mean to me.
Not a doctrine to be argued.
Not a theological position to defend.
A person.
The Lord Jesus Christ, who knows exactly how hard this journey can be and loved us enough to leave us His Body and Blood.
There is something so comforting about that.
That God would desire such closeness with humanity that He becomes food for the journey.
That He would not leave us alone.
That He would remain.
For me, that is Corpus Christi.
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
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