‘As my mom readied herself for baptism, she sent me to remove the ancestral worship tablets at the Buddhist temple. She replaced these by offering perpetual Masses for my deceased father and other deceased family members.’
Connie Shepherd, former Director of Strategic Projects for the Archdiocese of Vancouver, shares her testimony of coming into the Church and reliving the miracles that God has worked in her life.
By the grace of God, how do I explain how a child raised by Buddhist parents—by a devout, twice-daily-praying mother—ends up embracing Jesus Christ and the Catholic faith?
How is it possible that my mom, who lived that faith so faithfully, would consent to baptism into the Church—and do so completely? I’m often brought to tears thinking of her baptism. Parents are supposed to bring their children to the Church to be baptized. In this case, I had the awesome privilege of bringing my parent to the Church for baptism. It is truly a miracle.
I was introduced to Christianity when my Buddhist parents sent me to a Lutheran kindergarten in Hong Kong. The goal of sending me to a Christian school was not to form me in the Christian faith but to equip me with the best education they could afford so I might be accepted into a good school with a strong academic reputation.
Nonetheless, I learned to sing hymns, coloured pictures of Moses parting the Red Sea, heard the parable of Lazarus and the rich man, and, most of all, learned that Jesus was the Son of God. I asked my parents to take me to church on Sundays to “get me baptized.” My mother took me to church services on the occasional Sunday, and both my parents said I could be baptized when I was old enough to take on the responsibilities that baptism entailed.
Like other five-year-olds in my kindergarten class, I memorized the times tables, wrote entrance exams, and attended selection interviews to be admitted to a reputable school. I was accepted by St. Francis Canossian School, a Catholic all-girls school that also had an institute serving the blind.
In Grade 1, I remember gathering to pray under a covered assembly area each day before classes began. I remember going down to the chapel beyond the basketball courts to visit Jesus and Mary. I continued to ask my parents to have me baptized. Just before I started Grade 2, my family emigrated to Vancouver, and I left St. Francis Canossian School.
In Vancouver, my parents sent me to church with my classmate Christine and her family, who attended the local United Church. I attended Sunday school, took part in our youth group, and finally, at 18, when my parents thought I was old enough to take on the promises of baptism, I was received into the Church.
I was baptized on June 24, 1984, on the Nativity of St. John the Baptist. I was thrilled. My Buddhist parents came to my baptism. My “kai ma,” Chinese for godmother, and her son Wilfred came to bear witness to this momentous event.
June 24, 1984, was a momentous day for me—not only because I was baptized, but because I met Annie. Only later in my life did it become clear why meeting Annie on the day of my baptism was so significant.
Right after I celebrated my baptism with my family, I was whisked off to a one-week program at UBC for high school students, where I met Annie. A year later, Annie and I attended UBC together and entered the Faculty of Commerce.
While I had “gone to church” from primary school through high school graduation, I don’t know if I ever met Jesus. I sang hymns, read from the Bible, supported good works—but did I ever meet Jesus?
Jesus was the host of this great banquet, and I was a guest, but I never met him, the host of the party. In retrospect, perhaps I went to the party and never looked for the host—surely Jesus was there.
Like so many young adults, I drifted away from church. I became distracted by school, career, and the false glitter of the world. I dabbled in New Age and other alternative spiritualities.
Why did I ask for baptism for so long, only to receive it and then abandon it? The only tenuous thread that linked me to Christianity was the writings of John Donne, the poet and Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London during the early 17th century.
I would read and re-read his writings, especially Meditation XVII from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, found in an anthology of English literature from university. At 28, after ten years of sinking further and further into an abyss of fads, trends, distractions, ambitions, and sin, I was so tired that I felt a hundred years old.
My parents were worried for me and urged me to reconnect with my church. I was in a darkness so thick and dense that my soul felt suffocated.
In the summer of 1995, as my soul laboured for every breath, I reconnected with my friend Annie and her husband Paul, who were attending a Traditional Anglican church at the time. Spiritually, I was parched and thirsted for living water. I was the prodigal child, ready to go home.
I joined Annie and Paul at first, and in 1997 I found the Traditional Anglican Church (TAC), Parish of Sts. Peter and Paul, where Father Michael Shier was pastor, before he was received into the Catholic Church through the Personal Ordinariate of the Chair of Saint Peter.
The TAC worshipped using the Church of England’s Book of Common Prayer. I was captivated, enthralled, and mesmerized by the liturgy—Jesus, truly God and truly man, found in the Blessed Sacrament. I drank it all in. I was hungry for Jesus. I was hungry to learn more about my faith.
The TAC was a very small reality in Vancouver, and to learn more about the faith, I had to obtain my resources from Catholic Church supply stores. I was reading the Catechism of the Catholic Church, praying the Rosary, and buying books written by Father Thomas Dubay. The next thing I knew, I enrolled in RCIA at St. Paul’s in Richmond and was received into the Roman Catholic Church at the Easter Vigil in 2003.
God gave me the Catholic Church in 2003 to prepare me for what was to come in December 2004. I was sent on secondment to Buffalo, New York, by my company for a four-year assignment. The TAC did not exist in Buffalo, New York.
The Lord went before me as he went before the Israelites in a column of cloud. He prepared me to be received into the Catholic Church at a particular time so that I could continue to practise my faith.
My faith adventure did not end with Confirmation in 2003.
Some time between Confirmation and leaving for Buffalo, Father James Hughes, during his first appointment as Director of Vocations, came to give a vocations talk at my parish. He said that if anyone felt moved by anything he said, they should speak with him after Mass.
I sat in my pew. I listened. I was moved—moved and stunned. After Mass, I beelined for my car and drove home as fast as the speed limit allowed, not going anywhere near Father Hughes.
I had a boyfriend in northern B.C.—a Catholic boyfriend. I had a career. I had just landed an international assignment working on a high-profile project with my company, one of the largest banks in the world. I did not want to speak with Father Hughes after Mass.
In 2005, in Buffalo, New York, I was sitting in my pew during Mass on Commitment Sunday, when all parishioners were asked to fill out cards committing time, talent, and treasure for the upcoming year.
I was praying to the Lord in gratitude for all my blessings and all the graces he had bestowed upon me. I completed my card. “What else would you like me to commit to, Lord?” I felt it again.
I felt the Holy Spirit move me, just as I had during Father Hughes’ vocation talk. “Lord, what are you asking of me? Are you calling me?”
This second time, I didn’t bolt. When I felt the Holy Spirit move me, I went in search of a spiritual director.
Months passed, but I could not find a spiritual director with whom I connected.
One snowy Saturday afternoon in Lent, my friend cancelled our lunch at the last minute, and I ended up at the Basilica in Lackawanna. I had not planned to be there. Neither had Father Richard Davis—he hadn’t planned to be there either.
His pilgrimage was cancelled, and he decided to return to Erie County to visit family. God provides.
I met my spiritual director that snowy Saturday afternoon at the Basilica of Our Lady of Victory. Father Richard was based in Steubenville, so every other month or so, I would drive from Erie County in western New York southward to Pennsylvania, pass through West Virginia, and into Ohio. I listened to many Lighthouse Media CDs on those trips.
Months passed. At the end of a meeting with my spiritual director in Steubenville one autumn afternoon, I parted by saying, “I wish there were catechesis for adults.”
The following Saturday morning, I went to my first pro-life rosary across from the abortion clinic and met a Pauline Father, Father Zbigniew Frankowski. He asked me, “Would you like to attend a catechesis for adults?”
What answer could I give but a resounding “Yes!”
God had just answered my prayer from the previous week. The Neocatechumenal Way (“The Way”) is an itinerary of Catholic formation that begins with an eight-week initial catechesis. I have been walking in The Way for 18 years. When we were married 15 years ago, my husband chose to join me in the Neocatechumenal Way.
In the autumn of 2022, Canadian Martyrs Parish in Richmond was giving an initial catechesis of The Way. While attending one of the meetings, I learned that the parish conducted RCIA in English, Mandarin, and Cantonese.
Despite my parents being Buddhists, they supported me when I wanted to be baptized into the Christian faith as a child. The unspoken rule was that I would respect their choice of faith and not try to convert them. But I couldn’t resist.
So I asked my 93-year-old mother if she would attend an RCIA class in Cantonese. She agreed. I was ecstatic.
After the first session, however, she couldn’t hear well, as she was very hard of hearing. She was given a Chinese Bible but couldn’t read it, as her eyesight was so poor. After one class, she gave up and said no more. I was crestfallen.
Not long afterward, my mom suffered a series of bad falls that left her in the hospital for several months.
During a chance meeting in the spring of 2023, Father Au, the pastor of Canadian Martyrs at the time, asked me about my mom’s absence after only one RCIA class. I explained the challenges of her advanced age, her hearing and vision difficulties, and her hospitalization.
Father Au and the RCIA team at Canadian Martyrs, consisting of Paul Lee and Theresa Mak, provided religious education to prepare my mother for her journey in the Catholic faith.
As my mom readied herself for baptism, she sent me to remove the ancestral worship tablets at the Buddhist temple. She replaced these by offering perpetual Masses for my deceased father and other deceased family members.
She swapped out Buddhist prayer beads for Catholic prayers: the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Apostles’ Creed. She tried to memorize a little more each day as she prepared for her baptism and Confirmation.
We had a conversation about the Book of Genesis, about Abraham, Isaac, and Ishmael. On Easter Monday last year, my mom, at 93 years old, joined by 78 family members and friends, was baptized at Canadian Martyrs by Father Henry Yeung.
At her retirement home, she attends all the Christian services that have Cantonese translation. She attends every Mass celebrated there and receives the Blessed Sacrament from Sister Cecilia Cham during her regular visits to shut-ins.
What a miracle. More than two years later, I am still overwhelmed with gratitude and joy. I am still amazed by God’s grace working in my mother. I am still left breathless at his generosity in touching my family and me in such a profound and concrete way.
Praise be to God. Praise be to Jesus Christ, now and forever. Amen.
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