u/No-Quality-3626

Glory to Jesus Christ!

Many priests, brothers, and sisters serve in countries other than the ones where they were born. In what language do you pray, celebrate the Liturgy of the Hours, and do similar things? Do you use a foreign language only when you are not alone, or do you eventually try to always use the foreign language over time? I’m asking because I am an emigrant, and I still cannot manage to memorize most of the texts in the new language, although I speak it quite fluently. Maybe you have some advice for me except telling your personal experience? Thx!

I'm sorry if I'm breaking any rules or if this text contains mistakes (I'm using a translator), but I really need to talk to someone about this. For a long time, I have felt a call to religious life, but it frightens me and I do not know what to do.

I come from a non-believing family and was not baptized as a child. Around the age of 22, I began occasionally attending a Catholic church, but it was only around the age of 30 that I enrolled in a catechism course and began preparing for baptism.

That is simply how things happened.

I experienced incredible joy every time I entered a church, regardless of whether Mass was being celebrated or the church was completely empty. Sometimes it was such an intense feeling—an obvious rush of hormones, immense joy, warmth, and love. It is difficult for me to explain why I delayed baptism for so long despite this. Even while unbaptized, I attended seminars, retreats, and other events organized by the Salesians and Jesuits.

During one of those retreats, I had an ecstatic experience in which I felt an overwhelming desire to fall to my knees before a crucifix and burst into tears simply because of the words from Scripture: “Rabbi, where are you staying?” “Come and see.” In a sense, it was after that retreat that I finally enrolled in catechesis, because despite all of my religious experiences, I was not allowed to be baptized without preparation.

About a year before that experience, I first felt a desire to join the Order of Saint Dominic. It was a strange desire because at that time I knew almost nothing about the order and had never met any of its members. Yet my heart would literally stop every time I encountered a mention of it or saw the Dominican habit. It felt like seeing a beloved person after a long separation.

I began reading about the order and its spirituality, and the more I learned, the stronger the attraction became. Yet even then the idea frightened me deeply. What would it mean to leave everything behind and withdraw from the world? It was difficult to ignore this strange pull, but it was even harder to think about it.

I moved into a small construction trailer on the edge of a forest and lived there almost like a hermit, with very few comforts besides electricity, while working remotely. I read religious literature and traveled once a week for catechesis. Every day, the feeling that someone was waiting for me somewhere grew stronger, along with my fear. The idea of leaving everything behind still terrified me.

Then, literally one week before my baptism, my country entered a war and I left. I had planned this move long before and intended to relocate later that year, but once the war began, I could no longer delay. I asked to be baptized earlier than the date assigned to our catechumen group, but the priest was away and my request was denied. Perhaps my catechist was not very motivated to seek alternatives because she disliked the fact that I was leaving the country; she was quite patriotic.

In any case, I moved to a non-Catholic country where I barely knew the language. By then my desire for baptism had become so strong that I was baptized into the Orthodox Church. And everything that had been alive within me began to die.

At Mass, during the consecration, I can usually barely hold back tears. When I hear the words, “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof,” something inside me is completely overturned. But in the Orthodox services I felt nothing at all. After some time I attended less and less frequently. Later I stopped reading religious books. Eventually my entire prayer life was reduced to thanking God before going to sleep—and that was all.

I did not want to think about church. I did not want to be there.

But then the dreams began.

They are not always the same dream because the details vary, but one central theme repeats. At the beginning of each dream I possess some part of a Dominican habit. Sometimes it is a rosary, sometimes a scapular, sometimes something else entirely. I walk through a city doing ordinary things, but eventually I realize that having only one piece is not right. Yet where can I find the rest in the middle of a city?

Then I find something that resembles the next piece. Anything at all. A white cloth, a bedsheet, a tablecloth. I put it on as though it were part of the habit, and instantly it becomes the real thing. The tablecloth becomes a cape, becomes a scapular. The first belt I find becomes an actual Dominican belt. Any rosary tucked into it becomes the rosary worn with the habit.

Eventually I am fully clothed in a Dominican habit and feel overwhelming joy.

A few weeks ago I had the dream again. At the end of it there was a storm and violent wind. I stood beside a café waiting for the wind to calm down so I could continue my journey. I was already wearing the complete habit.

A woman came out of the café and invited me inside. I replied that there was no point because I had no money. She smiled and said that it did not matter because she would feed me for free.

At that exact moment I woke up completely happy, with the opening words of Psalm 23 echoing in my mind: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

I wanted to cry from happiness because of the dream and at the same time cry from pain because it had ended.

This year I realized that I could no longer remain spiritually dead inside. I wondered whether it was really connected to religion at all. Perhaps I was simply depressed. I explored many possibilities but remained in the same state. I did not even go to church for Christmas or Easter. I treated those days like any other.

Then, a few months ago, I picked up a rosary and prayed the Hail Mary, even without meditating on the mysteries. It felt as though a warm ocean wave washed over me.

By then I spoke the local language well enough to find information about Masses in my city. I began attending and once again struggled not to cry during the consecration. Day by day something inside me came back to life. I prayed more, read more, and opened my Bible again.

I spoke with the parish priest. He explained that reception into the Catholic Church would normally have to wait until autumn because the Easter period had already passed. However, if I had a special reason, we could petition the diocese. I replied that my only reason was my inability to participate fully in the Eucharist. He considered that a good reason, wrote the letter, and permission was granted for me to be received into full communion with the Catholic Church without further instruction.

We searched for a date. The only one available happened to be the Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus. I accepted it, and on June 12 I was received into the Catholic Church.

Now I once again feel a powerful attraction toward the Dominican Order.

The problem is that even if there were a full Dominican presence in my country—which there is not; there are only a few sisters from a local congregation of the Dominican family—the thought of leaving everything still terrifies me.

I am an only child. I may inherit apartments and other property. How can I simply sell everything my family worked for over decades, give away my possessions and animals, and enter a monastery? I have a wonderful life. I have good friends. I own my home. I am happy almost every day. I am not running away from anything. There is no great drama in my life.

Yet I am drawn toward the order with tremendous force.

I do not want to resist that call, but I also cannot answer it because it feels like a terrible betrayal of my family. The practical difficulties are immense as well. My property is in one country, my citizenship belongs to another, I live in a third, and the order is in yet another country that I cannot even visit without a visa.

I have no family member to whom I could leave what I own. No one except my elderly and sick mother and my very old grandfather, both in another country. There are distant relatives whom I have never met and whose names I barely know.

When I think about giving everything up, I feel something close to panic. I remember choosing a particular lamp or receiving a treasured gift from my mother and wonder how I could simply abandon such things. And what if one day my path and the order's path diverge and I no longer have any of it?

The same applies to my animals. How could I leave them behind?

Everything about this feels frightening. Yet the attraction remains.

I have also noticed that when I pray more, study more, read the Liturgy of the Hours, and attend Mass frequently, I need less. During periods of deeper religious life, I naturally gravitate toward simple food and simpler living. Much of the way I already live resembles monastic life in some respects.

I know it is foolish to cling to possessions and property, but I cannot overcome this attachment.

I simply do not know what to do.

I do not know how to answer this call, especially when it seems impossible for practical reasons. Yet I also do not know how to refuse it and say, “Thank you, but I will remain where I am. Please do not call me anymore.”

What would you do?