The Long Road Home: My Journey to Orthodoxy

I have always been a seeker.

Even as a child, I was fascinated by questions that many people would dismiss. Before the internet was everywhere, I remember reading newspaper articles about big cat sightings in Cheshire and North Wales. I was fascinated by stories of the unknown, by mysteries, by the question of what was really out there. Later, hearing stories from North America about Sasquatch and other unexplained things only deepened that curiosity.

But looking back now, I realise I was not simply searching for mysteries. I was searching for truth.

My family background was mostly English, with some Irish roots through my great-grandparents on my father’s maternal side. Those great-grandparents were Roman Catholic, and although the rest of my family lived a much more secular life, their home left a deep impression on me.

I remember walking into their house and seeing images of Jesus, holy water by the door. At the top of the stairs was a statue of the Mother of God looking down. Some of my cousins found it strange or made jokes about it, but I was different. I remember wondering:

“Who is this Jesus?”

“Who are these people kneeling to?”

“Is He really the Saviour?”

My great-grandparents would go to church on Sundays, and sometimes I would stay over and go with them. I remember walking into the church and seeing the priest in his robes, seeing people kneel and receive Holy Communion. There was something about it that stayed with me.

Then I would go back home into the secular world and carry on with life, but those questions never completely left.

As I grew older, life became difficult. I struggled. I went down dark paths involving drink and drugs. I made mistakes and ended up in prison. I received a sentence of five years and served around three and a half.

But prison also gave me something I had rarely had before: time to think.

During those years I met many different people and explored different ideas. There was a lad from Darwen in Lancashire who was involved in crime and addiction, but he was also someone who interested me asking deep questions. He introduced me to Buddhism, and I attended some meetings with him.

I respected the people there. They were thoughtful and searching, and I admired that they were looking beyond the ordinary world. But deep down, I knew I had not found what I was looking for.

Later, after my grandfather died, a priest came to me and prayed with me. I felt something in that moment. I began attending the prison chapel. For some people it may have simply been a break from the cell, a cup of tea and a biscuit afterwards, but for me there was something deeper: peace, reflection, and the beginning of a relationship with God.

I also completed the Sycamore Tree course, a victim awareness programme run by the chaplaincy. During that course I wrote a poem called “Forgive Me for My Sins.” We discussed repentance, forgiveness, and stories from Scripture, including Zacchaeus the tax collector.

One day after one of those sessions, I returned to my cell and prayed like I had never prayed before. I prayed until cried. I felt as though I was speaking directly to God.

I did not see a vision. I did not see a light. But something had changed.

A seed had been planted.

When I left prison, life was still complicated. I struggled again, but I began making changes. I cut away people and influences that were not good for me. I moved away and started trying to build a different life.

Eventually I met my wife, and that was another turning point.

I also met people who helped me spiritually, including Reverend Jeff Hughes and Nigel. They supported me and helped me understand myself better. They were important people on my journey, and I will always be grateful for them.

But I still had this feeling that I was searching for the fullness of truth.

I explored other religions and ideas, always trying to understand. I even looked into Islam for a short time, reading and asking questions. But I came to realise it was not where my heart was being led.

Then I discovered Jordan Peterson. His talks helped me begin to understand responsibility, meaning, order, and the importance of becoming the man I was meant to be. In many ways, he helped me grow up. A step father that actually cares.

Through him, I discovered Jonathan Pageau, an Orthodox Christian iconographer. I had never even heard of Orthodoxy before. I did not know that this ancient Christian tradition existed, or that it traced itself back to the early Church.

Then I discovered priests and teachers who opened my eyes further, including Father Josiah Trenham.

Eventually, I walked into an Orthodox church.

It was a Russian Orthodox church in Wallasey on the Wirral, and it was the service for the Dormition of the Theotokos—the falling asleep of the Mother of God.

I had no idea what I was walking into.

The incense filled the air. The chanting surrounded me. There were icons everywhere. It looked and felt like I had stepped into another world. There was a funeral bier, people venerating it, holy water, prayer, and beauty.

It was powerful.

I did not understand everything, but something inside me recognised something ancient and real.

Later, while sitting in my work van on a rainy day as a gardener, I discovered there was an Orthodox church in Chester. I contacted the priest, Father John, and he immediately invited me to come to a service and attend catechism afterwards.

I did not even know what catechism meant.

But I went.

Again, I found myself surrounded by incense, icons, prayer, and people worshipping in a way I had never experienced before. I stood there not knowing what to do, but wanting to learn.

Week after week, I returned.

I studied. I asked questions. I attended catechism with Father John and also completed an online course with Father Nephon a Greek-American priest. Slowly, the faith became not just something beautiful to witness, but something I believed and lived.

After around a year, my wife, my three sons, and I were baptised into the Orthodox Church.

My baptismal name became Karl George.

I chose Saint George because he was a saint I had always known. As the patron saint of England, I had always felt connected to him. But I had never known that Saint George was also one of the most beloved saints throughout the Orthodox world.

The warrior image drew me in—the courage, the battle against evil—but the deeper meaning is that Saint George was not simply a warrior. He was a martyr who stood firm for Christ.

My sons also carry the names of saints:

Theodore George.

Reginald Sebastian.

Reuben Jude.

Their names remind them that they belong to something greater than themselves.

Today, I am still learning. I am far from perfect. Life is not suddenly easy because I became Orthodox. There are still struggles, temptations, and difficulties. 

But I know where I am going.

For years I searched for truth—in mysteries, in ideas, in different religions, in my own thoughts and experiences.

And eventually I found that the truth was not just an answer to a question.

The Truth is a person.

Jesus Christ said:

“I am the way, the truth, and the life.”

I believe that now with all my heart.

My journey was long. It was messy. There were wrong turns and dark places.

But looking back, I can see that God was there all along.

Glory to Christ God, who gave us Saint George.

☦️