What I want to share with you today is not just a story about conversion, but about how God, in His infinite patience, worked through the people in my life to lead me home. It’s a story of questions and doubts, of moments of grace in unexpected places, and of the quiet yet powerful force of hospitality that softened my heart. And, if nothing else, I hope it reassures you that if God can bring a stubborn guy like me into the Catholic Church, there’s hope for just about anyone!
Early Years: A Foundation of Belief Without Structure
I was blessed to grow up in a home filled with love, stability, and strong moral values. My parents were incredible, kind, supportive, and deeply committed to raising me with a solid foundation in faith and character. My mother came from a devout Baptist background, with several pastors in her family, including my grandfather and great-grandfather, and faith was a central part of her upbringing. My father, though not raised in the same way, was a man of deep integrity and at one time served on the church board in the Methodist Church, taking his role in our faith community seriously. We even sang in the choir as a family, which helped me grow in my love for music that carries on to this day.
For much of my early childhood, church was a regular part of our lives, and I was baptized as a Baptist and raised within the Methodist tradition. I had a general belief in God and Jesus Christ, but as I grew older, I started to question the necessity of organized religion. Something shifted in our home when I was in middle school. My father, who had been actively involved in the Methodist church, became deeply disillusioned due to poor leadership and bad pastoring. Over time, our family’s connection to church life faded, and without that structure, I began to see faith as something personal but not necessarily communal.
By the time I was a teenager, I had settled into a kind of agnosticism. I never doubted that God existed, but I wasn’t sure what role—if any—religion should play in my life. I held onto the belief that as long as I lived a good life, that was enough. At least, that’s what I told myself at the time.
Professional Life: Confronting the Abyss
As I embarked on a career in law enforcement, first as a state trooper and later as a special agent with the Kansas Bureau of Investigation (KBI), I was thrust into the darkest corners of human existence. Investigating homicides, responding to violent crimes, and witnessing the absolute depravity of the world took a toll on me. I saw things that no one should ever have to see—things that made me question the presence of a loving God. If He was real, where was He in all of this suffering? Where was He when innocent lives were taken, when children were neglected, when evil seemed to run unchecked?
My skepticism toward organized religion grew, not because I wanted to reject God, but because I struggled to reconcile faith with the horrors I encountered daily. The more I saw, the harder it became to believe in a God who was actively present in the world. I told myself that faith might be good for some, but it wasn’t for me.
One moment in particular stands out—a moment that shook me and forced me to confront the trajectory of my life. I was working undercover on a large DEA drug case, posing as a buyer in the middle of a cocaine deal. I met with the target, ready to purchase a large amount of cocaine, when he and his wife left me alone with what looked like their three-year-old child while they went to retrieve the drugs. They didn’t know who I was. They only knew me from the last eight months that I had purchased drugs from them on multiple occasions. They certainly had no idea I was a federal agent. And yet, here they are leaving their own child in my care, completely unaware of whether I would protect or harm him.
I remember looking at that child, sitting there in the middle of a world he had no control over, and I felt something shift inside me. If this was the world, I had become a part of where parents would abandon their own child in the name of drug money, then something had to change. I had to change. That moment haunted me. It wasn’t just the criminals I was investigating who were lost. I was lost too.
And there were other moments, cases where I would step into homes so neglected that the walls seemed to shift and move like something out of a horror movie. But it wasn’t a nightmare. It was millions of cockroaches crawling in and out of the walls, consuming everything in sight. The filth, the smell, the sheer hopelessness in those places weren’t just crime scenes. They were windows into a world of despair.
Yet, after weeks on the road, after spending my days in places of chaos and ruin, I would come home to my white picket fence, to my wife, Bernadette, and to my beautiful, loving children. It felt like I was living in two different realities, one of brokenness and darkness, the other of warmth and love. And I began to realize something: it wasn’t by accident that my family life was different. It was different because my wife had built our home on something stronger than just good intentions. She had built it on faith.
But at that time, I was still standing outside, looking in. I didn’t realize that faith was the only thing that could bridge the gap between the darkness of my profession and the love that awaited me at home. I was still wrestling with God, still searching for answers. But I didn’t know that He was already working on my heart, quietly, patiently leading me to where I was always meant to be.
A Promise to Bernadette: Planting Seeds of Faith
Life took a pivotal turn when I met and married Bernadette, a woman of deep Catholic faith. Her devotion was evident, and upon our marriage, I promised to raise our children within the Catholic tradition. Despite my reservations, I recognized the importance of providing our children with a structured moral and spiritual foundation. For 13 years, I attended Mass every Sunday with my family, supporting their faith journey while remaining an outsider looking in. After our fourth child was born, I enrolled in RCIA, contemplating conversion, but I hesitated, sensing that a genuine calling was absent. Before things got better, they got worse and I grew even farther away from God, despite my wife and children’s prayers.
Encountering Hospitality: The Role of Father Don Cullen
In 1995, I was promoted and that brought us to Kansas City, where we became members of St. Agnes Catholic Parish. There, I met Father Don Cullen, a charismatic Irish priest known for his jovial nature and profound embodiment of hospitality. This man could walk into any place in Kansas City and was loved! Father Cullen's approach to faith was inclusive and welcoming, reflecting the biblical mandate to treat strangers as we would treat Christ Himself. His ability to create a sense of belonging resonated with me, planting subtle seeds that would later flourish.
The Catalyst: An Unexpected Divine Whisper
The summer of 2000 was a difficult time for our family financially. As a law enforcement officer, I wasn’t in this career for the money, but I also didn’t expect to struggle as much as we did. My wife, Bernadette, was a stay-at-home mom, a choice we had made together because we wanted to give our children the best foundation possible. But sending our kids to Catholic school came with sacrifices, and there were times when the numbers just didn’t add up.
To help make ends meet, I took on extra work (on my days off) during the summer. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, and it certainly wasn’t part of any career plan. In fact, I found it humiliating. Here I was, with responsibilities at the KBI, responsible for working death investigations, public corruption cases, and in-custody deaths in the Kansas City region, which was serious work that carried real weight. And yet, here I was, spending my days off stacking limestone rocks onto pallets in the sweltering Kansas heat.
I told myself it was just temporary, but deep down, my pride took a hit. I had dedicated my life to law enforcement, to protecting people, to seeking justice, yet I couldn’t even provide enough for my own family without resorting to hard, menial labor. I felt like a failure.
Then, one day, while doing this laborious work, I forgot to bring lunch. As I stood there, preparing for a long afternoon of back-breaking work on an empty stomach, my fellow workers, primarily Spanish-speaking laborers, noticed. They didn’t hesitate. They didn’t ask questions. They simply invited me to sit with them and share their meal. Their families had brought homemade soups, fresh tortillas, and bread, and without a second thought, they welcomed me as one of their own.
I was humbled. These men worked just as hard, if not harder, than I did. They had no idea about my background, my title, or my pride. They simply saw a man who was hungry, and they fed him. As I walked back to my station, still chewing on the unexpected kindness I had just received, I heard it clear as day. "What are you waiting for? I am with you." I stopped. It wasn’t a passing thought. It wasn’t my imagination. It was a moment of absolute clarity, a voice that cut through every doubt, every excuse I had ever made.
What was I waiting for? I had spent years circling the edges of faith, sitting in the pews, attending Mass, going through the motions. I had taken Catechism classes twice and backed out both times. I had seen the love and conviction in my wife and children, but I had stubbornly remained an outsider looking in. But not anymore.
The next morning on a 4th of July 9 am Mass at St. Agnes, I went to Mass alone. It wasn’t a holy day, but I felt called to go. Afterward, I walked straight up to Father Cullen and said, "It’s time for me to join the Church." He said, “Gosh Currie, I had forgotten that you weren’t Catholic.” I mean, after all I went to Mass every week, was active in the Dad’s Club, and coached my kid’s CYO sports! But Father didn’t make me jump through hoops or send me back to RCIA for yet another round. Instead, he simply recognized that the decision had already been made in my heart. And with that, my journey into the Catholic Church truly began.
The Patio Meetings: A Sanctuary of Transformation
Without delay, for three weeks, we met on the elevated patio at St. Agnes—a serene space nestled between the bell tower and the church, about twenty feet above the ground. This beautifully designed patio offered a quiet place for reflection, peace, and, at times, lively conversation. It served as a private retreat for the priests of the parish—a sanctuary for personal reflection and, as I came to know it, a place where lives are changed through the gift of hospitality.
For me, the patio became a space that held much more than stone and mortar. It was the setting where I encountered the charism of hospitality—a virtue that became central to my journey of conversion into the Catholic Church.
During our meetings on that patio, we delved into philosophy, theology, and personal reflections, and the occasional scotch and cigars as well as a Royals baseball game. Father Cullen's openness and willingness to engage in deep discussions provided a nurturing environment for my burgeoning faith. These conversations were instrumental in my spiritual formation, allowing me to internalize the teachings of the Church beyond academic understanding.
A Quiet Homecoming: Embracing the Faith
By the end of July 2000, in a quiet, humble ceremony, I was officially received into the Catholic Church. No big fanfare, no grand announcements—just me, my sponsor, Fr. Cullen and, of course, God. I had decided to keep it a secret from my family, thinking it would be a nice surprise. (In hindsight of course, surprising a devout Catholic wife with something this big might not have been the best strategy, but hey, it worked out.)
That following Sunday, at a Catholic Church across the street from the Methodist Church where I went to Church, Bernadette and I went to Mass. I remember squeezing Bernadette during Mass in anticipation. I guess probably too much.
I lined up for Communion like I had done countless times before, except this time, I was actually going to receive the Eucharist. As I stepped into line behind my wife, I tapped Bernadette on the shoulder and said, “I came into the Church and wanted to surprise you!” I could feel Bernadette’s confusion radiating back at me. I imagine her inner monologue went something like: “He must be joking. He always jokes around!” She looked back in the line, and I was still there, right behind her.
By the time we got back to the pew, the reality of what had just happened set in. Bernadette was in a fog and so was I. Bernadette leaned over and whispered that she and the children had been praying the novena prayers every night, asking for St. Jude’s intercession and had been doing so for a very, long time. Now, if you’re not familiar, St. Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes, so, yes, my wife had quite literally been asking Heaven to help her lost cause of a husband find his way home.
After Mass, we picked up the kids and I told them what had just happened and then stopped at a McDonald’s to use the bathroom. Bernadette later told me that after I left the car, Bernadette looked back at our 4 kids at the time and she said, “If ever you doubt that there is a God, I want you to always remember this moment.” I have to tell you all tonight, God has given us many wonderful gifts, but the gift of Currie’s conversion is one of the best gifts he has given to our family.
Turns out, St Jude has a special place in my heart when I pray. Their unwavering faith and prayers had borne fruit, and in that moment, I realized just how much love had been poured into bringing me to that day. It was a beautiful, humbling lesson in the power of intercessory prayer, and also a pretty strong case for never underestimating a praying wife and children!
Reigniting My Ancestral Roots
As I deepened my faith journey, I uncovered a rich and unexpected part of my family history, one that connected me not only to the Catholic faith but also to the very founding of this nation. On my father’s side, my ancestors were among the earliest Catholic settlers in America, arriving aboard The Ark and The Dove and landing on St. Clement Island on March 25, 1632. They established themselves in the Maryland Colony by 1662, receiving 200 acres of land along the Potomac River, granted by Charles Calvert, the Second Lord Baltimore.
However, religious freedom in early America was fragile, and when the Puritan Revolution of 1689 swept through Maryland, my family, along with many other practicing Catholics, was driven from the colony. But rather than abandoning their faith, they carried it westward, helping to fund and establish some of the first Catholic parishes in the region, including Hagerstown and Wayside, West Virginia. Later, alongside 36 other Catholic families, they founded St. Pius Catholic Parish in Lexington, Kentucky.
Despite the hardships they faced, my ancestors remained fiercely committed to both their faith and their country. I learned that I am not only a descendant of persecuted Catholics but also a son of the American Revolution. My 5th great-grandfather, Sgt. Major Thomas Gaines, fought bravely in the Revolutionary War under the command of then Captain Alexander Hamilton at the Battle of Yorktown, and my 6th great-grandfather, David Niles, gave his life in battle while fighting under the command of General George Washington at the Battle of White Plains.
Realizing this history was both humbling and empowering. My conversion wasn’t just a personal decision, it was a continuation of a legacy of faith, perseverance, and sacrifice. In a way, I wasn’t merely choosing the Catholic Church, I was rediscovering it, reclaiming the heritage that had been carried, defended, and passed down for generations. I wasn’t just finding my faith; I was coming home.
Reflecting on Hospitality: A Cornerstone of Love and Faith
As I look back on my journey, I see that hospitality, love, and faith were the guiding forces that led me home. The unwavering faith of my ancestors, passed down through generations, was not merely a historical connection—it was a living testament to the endurance of belief, even through persecution and hardship. My family’s faith was a beacon that withstood exile, war, and struggle, yet remained steadfast.
And then, there was the love and faith of my wife, a love so patient, so persistent, that it stood in the gap where my doubts once lived. Bernadette never forced or pressured me to convert. Instead, she lived her faith so beautifully, so authentically, that I could not help but be drawn toward it. She prayed for me, trusted in God’s timing, and when the moment finally came, she received my conversion not with an “I told you so,” but with tears of joy and a heart full of gratitude. That kind of love is its own form of hospitality, the kind that welcomes not just a person, but their soul.
Father Cullen’s embodiment of hospitality became another key to my journey. He created a space where I was not just tolerated, but truly welcomed, where I could explore my questions and, eventually, find my answers. Hospitality, as taught in Scripture, is far more than offering food or shelter, it is an embrace of the heart, a way of revealing Christ’s love to others. The letter to the Hebrews reminds us, "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares" (Heb. 13:2).
Pope St. John Paul II once said, "The Church must be a place of welcome, of openness, where all those who seek God find themselves truly expected, truly loved." That is exactly what my wife did for me. It is what my ancestors fought for. It is what Father Cullen lived out so well. Their love, their faith, and their quiet but powerful hospitality led me to Christ—just as true Christian hospitality should.
In our fast-paced world, the virtue of hospitality is often overlooked, yet it remains one of the most powerful expressions of faith. It is the love that invites, the faith that reassures, and the kindness that transforms. It is the wife praying for her husband, the priest welcoming the lost, the ancestors holding steadfast in their faith so that one day, their descendants might find their way back.
And so, I ask: Who in our lives needs that same invitation? Who is waiting to be welcomed, not just into our homes, but into our hearts? Because sometimes, all it takes to change a life is a little faith, a lot of love, and a seat at the table. One more thing…remember that no one is out of God’s reach. Keep praying and remember to accept God’s forgiveness!
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This is Dr. Currie Myers. I am an applied criminologist and criminal justice ethicist. I have been on faculty in the criminology department at Benedictine College for over 13 years and was a career law enforcement officer for 24 years. Most importantly I have a beautiful family. My wife and I have been married for 37 years, and we have five children and 10 grandchildren. You can view my work on applied criminology at drcurriemyers.substack.com. Have a great and blessed week and please subscribe and share this podcast with others. And more importantly, if you are struggling in life and need someone to talk to, we have a chat function that you can contact me directly. And if you wish for me to speak at one of your events, please contact (catholicspeakers.com) to schedule.
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About the Author: Dr Currie Myers, America's Criminologist - Author, Convert, Family Issues, Fatherhood, Men's Issues, Motivational, Pornography, Radio / TV, Social Issues, Spiritual Warfare, Virtues Catholic Speaker Contact (catholicspeakers.com) for Dr. Myers to speak at your event!
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