Kim Marie Lamberty rests outside Washington National Cathedral. (By Michael Williamson – Washington Post)

By Kim Marie Lamberty
Saturday, August 8, 1998; Page B07

The year was 1989. I had a respectable job with a respectable salary, an advanced degree from an Ivy League school, good friends. I was buying a condo. Professional success, prestige, power, money, approval from others: These are the things I was brought up to value and the things I was striving to attain.

But that year, the failure of a personal relationship and disillusionment with my job turned my whole world upside down. I thought that the life I was working for would lead me to happiness and love; instead I was miserable.

At the time, before I moved into my condo, I lived in a group house on Woodley Road NW, across the street from Washington National Cathedral. I lived in the shadow of the immense and grand structure and regularly enjoyed hearing the bells chime in the neighborhood. In my misery, and because I was slowly driving all my friends away, I began to spend hours and hours alone in the cathedral gardens and at its fountain.

I rarely went inside. Somehow, in the beauty of the grounds and the greatness of the building, I began to recognize that there is something out there a lot more important than my puny little problems.

At the height of my loneliness, I sat before the fountain listening to choir practice. And I felt I heard God saying to me, "I have always been here for you."

I was not raised in a religious family. I knew we were traditionally Protestant, yet that didn't seem to matter much to anyone in the immediate family. But those hours at the cathedral were not my first experience of God.

I remember once as a child walking outdoors during the sudden onset of a violent thunderstorm. I had the same feeling elicited by the cathedral: There is something out there a lot bigger and more powerful than me.

I also had a lot of Roman Catholic friends and through them experienced the strength of their faith. It was my earliest experience of community.

Once I became aware that God was out there calling me, many things happened that today I can only attribute to divine providence.

A friend suggested I read some stories written by others who had "converted." I stumbled on some helpful courses at Georgetown University – and an ex-priest who was generous with his time. This man gave me the simplest and most important piece of advice I received.

"If you feel called by the Catholic Church," he said, "then go to Mass."

I went to Mass in the spring of 1990. It was a Wednesday night. Why did I choose a Wednesday night? I have no idea.

When I got there I discovered that it was Ash Wednesday. It was raining buckets outside, and I was soaked and late. So I had to stand in the back. The priest was speaking about reconciling oneself to God. I stood near the door and cried as hard as it rained. I knew then that I had come home.

Shortly afterward, I began the process of entering the Catholic Church, and I was received in January 1992.

Countless people have asked me why I would choose the Catholic Church. It is because of the ritual and the tradition. It is because I feel I am a part of something that is much older and greater than myself, and greater than the sum of all its parts.

At the center of this is the Eucharist, which is receiving the body and blood of Christ. When I take Communion with the countless other Catholics in the world, it gives me hope. The hope is that despite all our divisions, our violence, hatred, anger, injustice and poverty, that someday humanity will be one. This hope is what gets me through each week.

My conversion has radically altered my life. I don't understand what being Catholic means if not working to bring the kingdom of God – the unity we receive in the Eucharist – to the here and now. When that happens, there will be no more violence, hatred, poverty or injustice. There will be no powerful to exploit the weak, and all God's creatures will possess what they need to lead a life with dignity.

Becoming Catholic was a conversion from caring about "success" to devoting my life to making this vision – the kingdom of God – a reality.

What I learned during those hours of solitude at the cathedral was that my life is not just about me, nor is it just about me and God. To love God is to work hard to love all God's creation. Anything short of that doesn't qualify as love but is something closer to selfishness.

It means we must be willing to make deep, personal, even painful sacrifices for the sake of a better life for the whole of humanity, rather than living for what makes me feel good right now.

Mother Teresa said, "I am not called to be successful, I am called to be faithful." This is what the cross means, and it is what we remember and commit to every time we Catholics receive the body and blood of Christ in the Eucharist.

Kim Marie Lamberty, 38, is director of social concerns at St. John the Baptist Catholic Community in Silver Spring. She lives in Washington.