My name is Thomas, and for most of my life I considered myself a committed evangelical Christian. My wife, Maria, and I spent years serving in our local church.

Our departure must have come as a shock to many people. Maria and I were deeply involved in the life of the church and were known by most people because of our visible roles in ministry. We led a youth group that tripled in size during the four years we served there, often devoting so much time to the ministry that it felt like a second job. Maria played guitar and sang on the worship team. We volunteered in the nursery, taught children’s church, and participated in many other ministries in our church. I was also a constant presence at men’s ministries, including a weekly Bible study and Saturday morning breakfasts. We were committed, long-term members of the church. For that reason, when our family suddenly disappeared from the pews, many people were left wondering what had happened.

Naturally, people wanted an explanation for why we left. Friends called, invited us to dinner, and asked to meet so they could hear the story directly from us. At first, I welcomed those conversations. After all, I had spent years wrestling with these questions, and I was eager to share what had been taking place in our hearts.

It did not take long, however, for me to realize how difficult that would be. For years, Maria and I had kept our interest in Orthodoxy largely to ourselves. As youth leaders and active participants in several ministries, we knew that if people learned we were seriously considering conversion, our time in those roles would likely come to an end. We were not imagining things. In the end, that is exactly what happened. As a result, much of our searching, questioning, and study took place quietly and out of public view.

By the time we began telling others about our decision, we were sharing the conclusion of a story they had never heard. We knew every step of the journey because we had lived it. We had spent years reading, studying Church history, exploring the writings of the Church Fathers, and wrestling with questions that had become deeply personal to us. Many of the people we spoke with, on the other hand, were hearing about Eastern Orthodoxy for the first time. They lacked the years of context that had shaped our thinking.

As a result, I often felt unable to communicate what I was really trying to say. At times, my explanation sounded even to my own ears like a list of complaints about our former church, which was never my intention. I remain deeply grateful for that congregation and for the role it played in my spiritual life. What I was trying to describe was something much deeper: a lifelong longing for continuity with the historic Christian faith, questions that emerged through years of ministry, and growing concerns about what future generations would inherit. Working with young people forced me to think not only about my own faith, but also about the faith being handed down to my children and to the students we served. The more I reflected on questions of permanence, continuity, and spiritual transformation, the more I found myself drawn toward the ancient faith of the Church.

More often than not, I left those conversations feeling that I had failed to explain myself. The problem was not that people were unwilling to listen. Rather, years of searching, questioning, discovery, and experience cannot easily be condensed into a one-hour conversation over lunch. What had taken years to unfold in my own life could not be adequately communicated in a few moments.

This memoir is my attempt to tell the story that those conversations could not contain. Rather than beginning with my conclusions, I want to begin at the beginning and trace the path that ultimately led my family to the Orthodox Church. I cannot think of a better way to answer the question, “Why Orthodoxy?” than to tell the story of how I arrived there.