The One River of Many Wells

If you think of a spiritual path as being a journey and a spiritual life as a river, then it is only a short step to understanding that the journey down the river can have waterfalls, rapids, stony beds, dry seasons and tranquil pools.

My spiritual life started in an Irish Catholic family and a school of mainly Irish Catholic nuns and priests in Australia in the 1950s. We had our catechism drummed into us and endured the indignities, frights and misconceptions that were considered appropriate fodder for young minds at that time. Nonetheless, I grew up as devout as I was able, in spite of being the only Catholic girl in the whole town to join the heathen Girl Guides (Anglicans), the even more heathen Presbyterian Pipe Band, and then to take up the indecent art of ballet with its short, short skirts.? The nuns told me I had a black soul.

All along I asked questions of the nuns, only to be told that I must always believe everything a nun or priest of the Catholic church told me, and not ask questions. I went to Mass, confession, Benediction and other rites constantly, and was an enthusiastic member of the Children of Mary. Looking back, it was probably the beautiful, flowing blue cloak we wore which attracted me to that.

At twenty I realised that I could not continue going to Mass without being a hypocrite, as I could not believe all I was expected to. Amid tears and regrets, I deliberately did not go to Mass one Sunday and felt dreadful. This was at the time when we were told that to miss Mass deliberately was a mortal sin and we would burn in hell fire forever. Later I married in the Catholic church and my two sons were baptised as Catholics, but apart from that I had no connection with the church.

This was the start of several spells in the wilderness. After about three years I went to the newly-formed Uniting Church for two years, but found it as empty as Catholicism. I then entered upon a time of violent agnosticism, when I railed against God and all things religious. It was a terrible time in other ways as well, with emotional illness, a broken marriage and other family problems. It lasted eighteen years.

Then a young woman invited me to the Revival Centre, a fundamentalist Christian group that spoke in tongues and was heavily predicated upon Jesus. I stayed with them for a year and was baptised by full immersion. I loved it, and felt that I attained true faith for the first time ever. However, as time went on I realised that the noisy, happy-clappy type of service left no room for contemplation or spiritual growth. They used the King James version of the Bible and interpreted every word literally, and I could not accept that. They were very harsh on anyone who deviated from their way of interpretation and in the end asked me to leave. I was glad in one way, but grieved in another way for a full year, at the loss of the strong community spirit they engendered. Eventually, though, I realised that this spirit depended on fear.

That led to about ten years of even more violent anti-God sentiment and anti-religion sentiment. I married again - disastrously. My husband was an Australian medical specialist, Anglican, and an abuser. I fell apart after some years of this treatment and was a quivering wreck, unable to make even simple decisions.

This was when God came back into my life. I knew I needed help and had been to counsellors, read books and found comfort in New Age thinking and practices. One day I went to a tarot card reader, who turned out to be an Irish Catholic mother of twelve. She taped my reading onto a new tape, and at the end, started talking about Catholicism. I was very surprised but thought it was all very strange. However, when I went to play the tape back, it was blank. I knew the machine had been working, but the tape had nothing on it. Suddenly I realised that I was meant to hear what she had to say about religion, and that the tarot reading was simply the path to get there. I remember quite clearly saying aloud: "All right, God, I've got the message, I'm coming". This was a Thursday. I knew I would go to Mass on the Sunday. In the small hours of Saturday morning my husband treated me so badly that I fled his house (as I had many times before), but this time I felt calm and comforted, because I knew I would go to Mass at 6am.

I sat in the back of the church and sobbed. Catholic ritual had changed a lot since I had left it in 1965 and it felt unfamiliar and generally odd. I kept going for four months but no one ever spoke to me and I felt alienated and distressed. I realised that Catholicism was not the way, so decided that there must be another.

I had seen an article about an Anglican woman priest who had come to the area about six months before so I tried to find her. It was unexpectedly difficult, and I believe there was resistance to a woman priest. After some persistence I tracked her down and subsequently spent three wonderful years in her parish. I became secretary of the Parish Council and felt completely at home in the congregation. I felt a pressure at the back of my neck, as though God had taken me by the collar and said "This is where I want you". It was a wonderful feeling and did a lot to help me endure my marriage, even though I often collapsed in tears as we sang hymns that triggered painful thoughts.

In the end, though, I could not bear my marriage any more. With a lot of help from my brother, I fled my home for the last time and went to live with protective friends 600kms away. I attended the Baptist church there, as the Anglican church was very snobbish and un-Christian, to my mind.

As my work was 600kms from where I was living, I had to travel each week and it was so exhausting that I got sick after a few months. Then I moved 300kms closer and travelled each week for the two days work I still did.

The little village where I settled was a glorious haven in every way and is still the place my heart calls home. It was so beautiful, friendly and loving that I began to heal. I made many good friends there, who remain friends even though later I moved away. One such friend was John, who has become an Anglican priest. Through him and his wife I entered fully into the life of the tiny Anglican community in the village. I felt as though I had come home after a stormy journey, even though I found it hard to believe Christ was the son of God. It is important to understand that Christians believe that God is three and God is one. Nonetheless, I kept going to church and certainly felt very connected to God in general.

After three years, life events took another turn and I moved away to a bigger place. I continued as a practising Anglican as I settled into this new city, but hated the size and bustle after the tranquility of village life.

Then my friend John, and a mutual friend who had been a very high prelate in the Anglican church, suggested to me that I would make a good priest. I felt shocked and amazed, but thought I had better see if I had a true vocation. To that end, I enrolled in a course in Christian theology at university, intending to do a graduate diploma over two years. It was during the first semester that I realised I could not call myself truly Christian, as I simply could not believe Christ was God. I prayed about it and made every effort to conform, but simply could not. I stopped going to church, finished the semester and withdrew from the course.

All the time I had been studying theology I had been mixing with Muslims. After 9/11 I had tried to offer myself to Muslim women who were getting harassed in shopping centres, to accompany them in public in case they were afraid. It never happened as I discovered the Muslim women where I live are quite capable of looking after themselves, but in the process of finding them, I started reading about Islam so I would not risk offending them inadvertently.

Slowly, I got invited to women's social evenings and met Muslims of my own age over potluck dinners. They were friendly, generous, and never spoke to me about Islam unless I asked a specific question. This was a surprise as many Christian groups put pressure on almost from the start. The Muslim women, by the good example of their behaviour, made me want to mix with them more and more.

When one offered to accompany me to the mosque for Friday prayer I was very keen, but on the appointed day she did not come and I didn't know what was happening, so I left. The next week she was there and I met some women, and went through the prayer motions. After that I went often, and loved the way the women and children were so friendly to each other and helpful to me. There was a tranquility about them. I was still attending church as well, and feeling very connected to God, though not to Christ. Once I stopped going to church, though, I knew it was only a matter of time before I made my shahada. I am sure I was already a Muslim in my heart. In fact, I remember clearly being in a sister's house when a Somali woman, whom I had just met, greeted another visitor crying "Hellooooo Sister" with such enthusiasm that I thought - Whatever it is that's driving that, I want it in my life. By now I was praying in my own way as I knew no better (no one offered to show me and I didn't realise I just needed to ask) and I did a modified fast in Ramadan.

I was reading The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Koran and with every page became more and more excited. I had read several other books, but this one really spoke to me

Long before I finished it, I rang my friend and said I wanted to make my shahada. She arranged for it to be at the house of one of her friends, whom I knew by now, and in front of eight sisters, I spoke the words and then we prayed Maghrib together. It was five days before the end of Ramadan in 2005.

Now I feel as though this is what all the troubles of my vexed life have been preparing me for. I feel as though Allah has claimed me. Islam makes sense to me. I feel secure in it and love the company of Muslims. So far I have not met any radicals or fundamentalists, only rational, moderate, kind, generous, sincere men and women who live the sort of life that I find satisfying to live also.

My friends and family have no difficulty with my conversion, apart from one couple, which whom I have now parted company. The others, even the atheists, accept my decision completely.

My social life is now almost exclusively Muslim and I am active in our community in various ways. I don't yet wear hijab all the time. I love being invited to give talks to non-Muslim groups, and my strong background in Christianity helps in this. Because of my long wilderness years I also understand those who are in the same place, so in a way I feel that my whole life has prepared me for being a Muslim. My world view is changing and the way I understand a lot of other things is also changing. It is clear that our western way of seeing is only one way, not the only way.

As I write, it is over five years since I started mixing with Muslims, and twenty months since making my shahada. The name I chose - Salwah - means 'comfort' and Islam comforts me.

I want to undertake the Haj this year, inshaallah. Owing to some health problems I am unable to fast fully during Ramadan but nonetheless I feel it is wonderful to be part of something that is happening all over the world at the same time, for the same reasons.

Alhamdulillah, I am proudly and joyfully a Muslim.