Most people’s faith journey probably doesn’t start this way.
Mine started with me running from a statue of Saint Joseph at two in the morning….
When I was younger, I worked the overnight shift as a security guard at a place called Madonna Heights.
It was a school and residential program for adolescent girls who were struggling — some living there, some coming during the day. The kind of place where life had already been harder than it should be for kids.
My job was simple.
Every hour on the hour, I had to walk the halls and check the grounds to make sure everything was safe.
Madonna Heights was a Catholic place, which meant there were religious statues everywhere.
Mary.
Joseph.
Jesus.
Saints I couldn’t name if you gave me a multiple-choice test and a week to study.
Inside the hallways.
Outside the buildings.
Around the grounds.
And remember — this was the overnight shift.
Dark hallways.
Silent buildings.
A flashlight cutting through shadows.
Now here’s the part you need to understand:
At that point in my life, my faith was non-existent.
I wasn’t angry at God.
I just didn’t think about Him at all.
Religion, in my mind, was something people did when they didn’t have better things to do on Sundays.
My soul was basically running on spiritual airplane mode.
Which made those statues…
terrifying.
And I mean terrifying.
Not rationally terrifying.
The kind of terrifying where your brain says,
That statue is stone.
But your body says,
Run. Immediately.
So picture this.
A grown man.
Security uniform.
Steel-toe boots.
Maglite flashlight big enough to stop a bear.
And every hour…
I’d be sprinting through the hallways like I was being chased by the entire Catholic calendar.
Mary.
Joseph.
Angels.
Possibly a few apostles.
All of them — in my mind — slowly stepping off their pedestals the second my flashlight turned away.
There was one statue in particular that absolutely ruined me.
Saint Joseph.
Five feet tall.
Standing behind one of the buildings outside.
Every patrol I had to walk past him.
And every patrol I had the exact same strategy.
I’d come around the corner…
shine the flashlight…
see Joseph standing there…
and whisper to myself,
“Okay. On three.”
One.
Two.
Three.
And I would take off running like Saint Joseph had just broken into a full sprint behind me.
Steel-toe boots pounding the pavement.
Flashlight bouncing everywhere.
A full grown man being chased — in his imagination — by the foster father of Jesus.
I’d go home in the morning and tell my family how scared I was every night.
They laughed.
I laughed too.
But I never really understood why those statues bothered me so much.
Until now.
Because if I had that job today?
I wouldn’t run.
I’d walk slower.
I’d stop.
I’d probably talk to them.
Not because the statues changed.
Because I did.
Back then I was so far away from faith that anything holy felt foreign.
Uncomfortable.
Like something that didn’t belong near me.
Now I look back and realize something almost funny.
Those statues weren’t chasing me.
They were just standing there.
Patient.
The same way God has always been.
Waiting quietly while I ran laps around my own life.
And the strange part is this:
For years I thought I was afraid of the statues.
What I was really afraid of…
was the possibility that they were pointing to something real.
Something that might ask more of me than I was ready to give.
Now I think about that security job sometimes.
Walking those silent halls.
Flashlight cutting through the dark.
And I wonder if maybe those long nights were the first time God ever tried to get my attention.
Not with a voice.
Not with a miracle.
Just with a few statues…
and a grown man sprinting past Saint Joseph at two in the morning.
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