My journey to God began as a young boy, although raised in an agnostic home my Irish grandfather came to stay with us when I was around 7 or 8 years old (1974-5). He rose early Sunday morning and dressed in a three-piece tweed suit. I said, “Where are you going Grandpa?” He replied, “Mass” I then said, “can I go too?” It must have been a special place if Grandpa was getting all dressed up, I loved adventures, this seemed right up my alley. Out of respect, he said, “if it’s ok with your Dad, I will take you.” I ran into my Father’s bedroom and asked excitedly, “Dad can I go with Grandpa to Mass?” he gave me the ok and I was off to see what was so important.

I held my Grandfather’s hand as we walked to St. Kevin’s church, stopping at Salerno’s Bakery on the way I pressed my freckled face nose on the plate glass window as I was told, “after Mass we’ll come back and I’ll get you anything you’d like.” I told my Grandfather, “I want that one” pointing to the black and white cookie. This would be a prophetic sign of my later call into the deliverance ministry, to separate light from darkness.

Attending the service, I felt the peace and awe of God, smelt the incense, and the jingle of the bells as the priest elevated the host. I learned to kneel and asked a lot of questions, but I also felt in my heart – God is here with us. I would return home and ask my father if I could learn the Catholic religion, I was the only one to be baptized and confirmed in my family.

Although I went through the motions and did the religious stuff, because of my family not being believers, I fell away from my faith. Occasionally I would attend Mass during the holidays, more to gawk at the pretty girls then to seek Christ. While in college I meet a priest on campus that was very nice and I began to attend services more regularly. He also preached at a local church on Sundays and invited me to come. It was the end of Ordinary Time, another prophetic sign, that’s the last Sunday in November – the feast of Christ the King (1987).

I was at this service to hear my friend, Father Edward Doran, preach his homily for the first time. He preached about the cost of the cross and how God died for me. I felt like he reached into my chest and was squeezing my heart. People were openly weeping all around me, both men and women. He was anointed by the Holy Spirit to preach and carried a powerful evangelistic anointing. My father taught me that boys don’t cry, so I choked back tears and left. Returning home after Mass, I sat at my kitchen table and opened my books for an upcoming test. Although, all I could think about was – what God had done for me.

My back was to the window, my hands folded together, the words of the preacher still swirling in my head. I closed my eyes, broke down and wept, tears flowing uncontrollably as I asked the Lord to forgive me for my sins and to be my Lord and Savior.

As I opened my eyes, I noticed a perfect drop of blood on the middle of my right hand. How could this happen?

My critical scientific mind couldn’t believe the blood drop was from heaven. Was I bleeding? Was this just a strange time to have a nosebleed? So I lifted my finger, like Thomas to check.

In that instant, the light in the room became white light, like someone had taken out the 60-watt bulbs and replaced them with 2000-watt bulbs. It was a light not of this world. Instantly a flock of black birds appeared directly behind me and serenaded a song of praise to the King. As I heard the voice of God say, “I am real, My words are true, I have suffered and so will you.”

I had just touched my nose with my finger. There was no blood, just mucus from crying. As soon as I received “the word” the lights returned to normal, the birds left and the blood drop evaporated before my eyes. I jumped up, ran upstairs to my father shouting, “Dad, God is real!”

I’ve had a few profound visits since, but nothing compares to the first time.