After that, I began attending services at the Orthodox church in Fukuoka.
But it all began with a quiet suggestion—from my brother Dan.
When I told him, 'Lately, I’ve been attending Catholic Mass,'
he simply said,
'If you're drawn to Catholicism… you might want to take a look at Orthodoxy too.'
It wasn’t pressure.
It was a door, gently opened.
I didn’t walk through it right away.
But the invitation stayed with me.
For months, I watched videos about Orthodoxy.
I read books like The Orthodox Way by Kallistos Ware.
And as I learned more, something in me shifted:
I didn’t just want to study this faith.
I wanted to stand inside it.
Eventually, I walked through the door.
When I stepped into the Orthodox church in Fukuoka,
it felt like I was stepping outside of time.
Candles. Chanting. Icons. Silence.
But not the silence of a library.
More like the hush of a cave warmed by flame.
No one was performing.
No one was selling anything.
No one asked if I was saved.
There was only worship.
As I stood there, I held back tears.
Something ancient and beautiful began wrapping itself around me.
I stood before an icon—I don’t remember if it was Christ, or Mary, or both—
but a deeper question rose inside me:
Not 'Who is this?' but 'Is this a window?'
'Who is waiting on the other side?'
I didn’t feel judged.
I felt seen.
As if someone had been waiting for me a long time.
No voice spoke out loud.
But deep inside, I sensed this whisper:
'You don’t have to strive anymore. Stay here. Let mercy speak.'
That night, walking home under the moonlight,
I couldn’t explain what had happened.
But I knew this:
I would come back.
Not to prove anything.
Just to say… yes.
Not to be right.
But to be led, again, by mercy.