From Altar Boy to Aimless Teen: The Start of My Faith Journey

Like many growing up in the predominantly Irish Catholic neighborhoods of Des Moines, Iowa, my introduction to Christianity began early. I was baptized as an infant, marched into Sister Anita’s first-grade classroom at age seven, and proudly became an altar boy the moment I was tall enough to light the candles on the altar without a step stool.

For a while, that was the rhythm of my faith. I attended St. Joseph’s Catholic School for eight years, where I was taught the basics: reading, writing, arithmetic—and just enough religion to pass a test or recite prayers from memory without needing the missalette tucked into the pew.

Truthfully, I never once opened a Bible for myself. I suppose I didn’t feel the need to—we had scripture read to us during mass three times a week, and that seemed sufficient at the time. Looking back, I realize I had gained plenty of head knowledge, but very little of what you’d call heart understanding.

People love to swap stories about mean or intimidating nuns, but that wasn’t my experience. Most of my teachers were sweet, elderly women with gentle hearts—except Sister Margaret Mary, my fourth-grade teacher. But to be fair, we probably earned every bit of discipline she handed out.

After eighth grade, life took a turn. We moved to Rochester, Minnesota, and I enrolled in a small Catholic high school. By then, the rigid structure and unchanging routine of my religious upbringing had worn thin. The ritual had become just that—ritual. By tenth grade, I walked away from the Catholic Church without much struggle or hesitation.

At 16, I entered public school for the first time and fully embraced the label of “non-practicing Catholic,” which—if I’m honest—meant absolutely nothing. It was just a polite way of saying I had no real connection to my faith anymore.

Before I go further, let me be clear: I hold no bitterness toward the Catholic Church. There was no deep trauma, no scarring event. The truth is, I just didn’t get it. I wasn’t ready for a personal relationship with Christ, and the Catholic framework I grew up in didn’t lead me to that place. Still, I’m grateful for the introduction. I owe St. Joseph’s a debt of gratitude for planting the first seeds of faith—even if they would take years to grow.

What followed was fairly predictable. I did what many teenagers do when the structure disappears and curiosity takes the wheel. I rebelled. I ignored authority. I abused alcohol, experimented with drugs, and pursued whatever temporary escape or thrill I could find. I stayed in that place—disconnected, drifting—for much of my twenties.

But as is often the case, grace found its way in through unexpected people.

It was Tina—who would eventually become my wife—and a man named Mr. Turturro, who would later officiate our wedding, who helped lead me out of that self-centered fog. Their presence in my life was the beginning of something new. Something healing. Something real.

But that part of the story comes later.