A brilliant spectrum of colors danced across the cool tile floor of our local parish like light on the surface of the sea. We usually sit on the back row (for an easy exit, if need be, with the little ones) and nearest a grand, stained-glass window depicting the Ascension of Our Lord. The peace and reverence I feel as the sun penetrates through the glorious mystery warms me like a well-lit fire on a chilly day.

Veneration for such junctures in time when you undoubtably feel the grace of God smiling down on your life is life itself. It breathes an invigoration into the days that would otherwise feel monotonous. When I experience points in my life like these, my priorities become transparent, and the rest simply dissipates. The role of wife and mother within me is my brightest burning passion and vocation. It fills my days and determines my choices; it forces me to my knees in prayer more than anything else.

I look around our devoted parish during the Mass and see other wives and mothers, veiled and kneeling whilst stroking the hair of sleepy-eyed children or gently rocking dreaming infants, sometimes shushing the rambunctious little ones who need an extra reminder, and I feel as though (as a soon to be convert) that I will soon be anointed into not just a body of believers but a body of women who find their role to be more profound than anywhere else I have ever encountered. That is not to say that I think less of other denominations or that all Catholics have it right, but in my personal walk with Christ I have found the Catholic church illuminates Mary in a way that all mothers can look up to.

Our family has attended a Catholic church for two and a half years now and I am still just beginning to scratch the surface on the fullness of faith that I have been enveloped in. But when I am part of the Mass, when I walk the isle beside that stained-glass, arms crossed, ready to receive a blessing, I am pervaded with the mysterious and glorious knowledge that I am home.