Rome Sweet Home

Consider Michael’s story.

Michael hadn’t entered a church in twenty years. One afternoon, passing his childhood parish, he saw scaffolding along its walls. Renovations had begun. Drawn by a quiet pull, he stepped inside.

The pews sat stacked in a corner, the altar bare, the air dusty. Michael sat on the cold stone floor where his family's pew had been.

A worker came and said, “Old man, the church is being rebuilt. You can pray in the new one when it is ready. Why sit here?”

Michael smiled faintly, brushing the dust with his hand.

“Yes, the wood and stone will change. But here my mother taught me the Sign of the Cross. Here I sang my first hymn, and here I whispered my first prayer to God. The benches may be replaced, but the faith of a child cannot be rebuilt.”

Looking up at the bare rafters, tears welled in his eyes.

“For many years, I stayed away. But no matter where I went, this space has lived in me. The first place where one meets God, like a first home, is never built twice.”

The book Rome Sweet Home by Scott Hahn has touched countless lives. It tells not only of one family's conversion but also of the universal longing for home, for the Father’s house. Around the world, videos and testimonies echo the refrain: “I left the Church… but I could never leave the faith entirely.”

People leave the Church for many reasons: anger with God, personal tragedy, disappointment in leaders, attraction to new communities, or fear of being judged. Yet beneath every reason is a deeper truth: just as one never forgets their first home, one cannot erase the memory of the Church. The heart longs for God, and the first home of faith never stops calling.

Michael’s story reminds us of our first home. We may leave, cities may change, walls may crumble, but memories remain. We recall laughter in the courtyard, a mother’s cooking, and the hiding place of childhood fears. That first home, a foundation, cannot be replaced.

Our parish church is like that. For many of us, it is the first home of our souls. It is there we were baptized, where we learned to fold our hands in prayer, where we heard the stories of Jesus for the first time, where the mysteries of faith entered our hearts as simply and naturally as sunlight through a window.

The church may appear old, dusty, or in need of repair, yet it is the place where God first touched us, where the sacraments were poured into our souls, where we learned to pray. The music of other communities may be stirring, the fellowship may seem warmer, but the Bride of Christ, the Catholic Church, still waits with open arms.

The Church is not perfect; it never has been. Its members are human, its ministers frail.

Renowned spiritual writer Carlo Carretto summed up so beautifully: “How much I must criticise you, my Church, and yet how much I love you. You have made me suffer more than anyone, and yet I owe more to you than to anyone. I should like to see you destroyed and yet I need your presence… Never in this world have I seen anything more compromised, more false, yet never have I touched anything more pure, more generous, and more beautiful… Countless times I have felt like slamming the door of my soul in your face, and yet, every night, I have prayed that I might die in your sure arms.” What makes the Church our home is not the perfection of its people; it is the abiding presence of Christ in the Eucharist. No other place offers what He alone has given: “This is my Body… This is my Blood.”

Like the prodigal son, many wander far. But when the longing grows, when the heart remembers the first love of faith, the road home is always open. Rome still stands. The Church waits, not to condemn, but to embrace, to heal, and to welcome.

If you have drifted away, if fear or pride has held you back, know this: your first home of faith is still yours. The story of returning home is not just Michael’s, but all of ours. The Father remains, the table is still set, and the invitation endures: “Welcome home.”