Raised Between Faiths

I was raised between incense and inquiry.

Between ritual and searching.

Between devotion and distance.

My mother, Linda, was a devout Catholic raised in South Philadelphia, wrapped in strong Irish familial ties. Two sisters. Two brothers. Aunt Cheryl, Aunt Debbie, Uncle Chuck, and Uncle Tommy. Faith was tradition. Loyalty was bloodline. Endurance was inherited.

My father, Andrew, was raised differently. Where my mother knew structure, my father knew exploration. Where she inherited certainty, he inherited exposure. He would often say:

“It’s better to continue to educate yourself than to stop learning.”

“There’s so much truth out there, it’s impossible to find the right ones.”

He had studied Shinto, Buddhism, and Taoism at an early age—an unusual path for a man whose own father had been a devout Catholic. My grandfather served in places primarily of Eastern descent, and faith, for my father, became an exposure to many philosophies rather than an anchoring in one.

Between them, I learned something powerful:

One parent showed me tradition.

The other showed me inquiry.

God would use both.

The Woman Who Quietly Changed My Life

Little did I know that the woman who would shape my spiritual hunger most profoundly was my Aunt Cheryl.

Every Wednesday, she would pull up in her white station wagon. My sister and I would climb into the reverse folding chairs in the back, laughing as we rode backward through town. Before church, we often stopped at McDonald’s, where burgers cost about 49 cents. It felt like abundance.

On Sundays, she would pick us up again and take us to church—an Assembly church located right by the bridge in Cape May. Afterward, she would gather with friends at a restaurant near her home, and we would sit among believers who spoke about missions, prayer, and outreach as if they were ordinary parts of life.

They were ordinary to her.

But to us, they were seeds.

“Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” — Proverbs 22:6

We didn’t know we were being trained.

We thought we were just going to church.

⸻

Rest from a Broken Home

Sometimes she let us stay the night. Those evenings gave us rest from a broken home we didn’t yet have language for.

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28

Aunt Cheryl didn’t preach that verse.

She embodied it.

She was one of the few who truly poured into us. She taught us—without theatrics—that relying on God is the ultimate act of faith.

She had endured much, yet she was not bitter. She was peaceful.

“You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in You.” — Isaiah 26:3

I watched her.

I learned from her.

I hoped I could become like her.

Humble.

Kind.

Uplifting.

Never a harsh word about anyone. Always redirecting praise back to God when I sang for worship. Always encouraging. Always steady.

She worked in Cape May Court House, and I would sometimes walk from school just to stop in and say hello. She made space for me. She made room for my voice. She made faith feel alive.

I often wished she was my mother.

⸻

My Mother’s Redemption

My mother was often working. When she wasn’t working, she was with her high school friend Karen then Betsy came along. Life was busy. Choices were made. Some good. Some painful.

After years of wandering, she made one that mattered most.

She converted to Christianity.

“Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.” — 2 Corinthians 5:17

She is still growing. Still refining. Still learning what obedience looks like in real time.

Better late than never.

And grace does not operate on human timelines.

⸻

A Father Who Taught Me to Seek

My father’s exposure to Shinto, Buddhism, and Taoism never pulled me away from Christ. Instead, it created a framework for understanding the spiritual hunger of nations.

“There is a way that seems right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.” — Proverbs 14:12

His belief that truth was scattered everywhere pushed me to ask deeper questions:

If truth is everywhere, where is it whole?

Jesus answered that clearly:

“I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.” — John 14:6

I learned to see the echoes of truth in other religions without confusing echoes for the Source.

“In Him was life; and the life was the light of men.” — John 1:4

Exposure did not dilute my faith.

It sharpened it.

⸻

A Bridge to the Nations

My upbringing was not accidental.

A Catholic mother.

An intellectually curious father.

An Assembly-of-God aunt who lived missions.

God braided it all together.

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1

Japan now sits at the top of my outreach list—not randomly, but providentially. Cultural exposure through my father’s experiences, combined with my aunt’s heart for Israel and missions, formed in me a burden for nations shaped by ancient traditions yet hungry for living truth.

“How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard?” — Romans 10:14

I do not approach other cultures with arrogance.

I approach them with understanding.

My father taught me how they think.

My aunt taught me how to serve.

My mother taught me that redemption is always possible.

“Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.” — Matthew 5:9

A bridge.

An outreach.

A servant’s heart.

That is what those Wednesday burgers and Sunday brunches built.

⸻

The Legacy of Quiet Faithfulness

Aunt Cheryl probably never realized what she was constructing in us.

“Let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” — Galatians 6:9

She didn’t preach loudly.

She lived consistently.

And consistency plants deeper than charisma ever could.

Today, when I step into ministry, when I speak, when I sing, when I long for the nations to know Christ—I carry her fingerprints on my faith.

The girl in the back of the white station wagon

became a woman who carries the Gospel across bridges.

Not because life was perfect.

Not because our home was whole.

But because God sends bridges into broken places.

“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” — Romans 8:28

From South Philadelphia to Cape May.

From Catholic roots to redeemed conviction.

From Eastern philosophies to eternal truth.

God wastes nothing.

And sometimes, the woman who picks you up for church, is the one who carries you into your calling.