A Reflection on Spiritual Dryness, Discernment, and Trusting the Long Road

A letter arrived. A path paused. But the story isn’t over.

I’ve been holding off telling this story. And as I sit here writing it, I’m still not sure I’m fully ready.

But… here we go.

I still remember the day I got the letter.

It came just three days after my interview. I had been praying hard, preparing for this moment, leaning on the encouragement of friends, family, and my parish community. The whole process had felt like a true calling. A clear, Spirit-led movement toward the diaconate.

So when I pulled that envelope out of the mailbox, I didn’t expect what was inside.

“We regret to inform you…”

I stood there, holding the letter like it weighed a hundred pounds. It felt rushed. Dated the day after my interview and mailed that same day, like the decision had already been made before I even stepped into the room. But I couldn’t know for sure.

What I did know was how it made me feel.

Rejected. Let down. Unknown.

Even after doing everything, I was told to do, after every box checked, every step followed, I didn’t make the cut.

And that shook something in me.

Outwardly, I held a strong face. I nodded. I thanked people for their support. I said all the right things like, “It must not be the right time” or “God has a reason.” But inside?

I was wrestling.

What did I do wrong?
Did I say the wrong thing?
Why would God bring me this far just to shut the door?

I had felt so sure this was my path. And now it felt like the path had vanished beneath my feet.

That’s where the dryness began.

Not all at once. It crept in slowly. At first, I told myself not to give up. I even wrote the words down: “This wasn’t a no. It was just a not yet.”

But even with that reminder, things started to shift.

It got hard to find time for prayer. My prayer time grew shorter. I stopped getting up early for daily Mass. I started making excuses for why I wasn’t showing up. I found other places to be instead of being at Adoration, talking to the Lord.

The hunger to serve was still there, but my energy was drained. I felt like I had let people down. I felt like I had let God down. Like maybe I had misheard His voice altogether.

But even in that dryness, I kept one practice going. One little anchor. The Rosary. Praying to Mary.

I didn’t stop praying it. Every single day, even when I felt nothing, I kept going. I told myself it was for my son and the issues he was having, to keep him safe from the evil one.

That simple rhythm, bead after bead, decade after decade, became my steady breath. My lifeline.

I wish I could tell you I had some great moment of clarity. Some whisper while in prayer. Some Bible verse that leapt off the page and pulled me back into the light.

But the truth is, I’m still trying to get back up.

The grace has come in pieces. Not in lightning bolts, but in slow sunrises. In little nudges. In quiet reminders. In the people who keep walking with me, even when I feel like I have nothing left to offer.

I was so vocal about my calling. Almost yelling it from the pulpit. Everyone I met, I would tell them about my future and how God was calling me.

So sure of what I wanted.

And that’s where I missed something important.

This isn’t about what I want.
It’s about what He wants for me.

I thought the call meant a guarantee. But God doesn’t work like that. He calls, yes. But He also forms. He shapes. He tests. He waits. Sometimes He speaks directly to our hearts. But He also has to speak to others — those entrusted to help guide the Church.

I believe God did call me. But I also believe He’s not done preparing me.

I may need more guidance.

That “no” wasn’t really a no.

It was a holy pause.

A space to surrender again.

“Thy will be done.”

Lately, because of all this, I’ve been reminded of St. Ignatius’ Rule 5 for discernment: In times of desolation, never make a change.

In other words — don’t quit what you’re doing just because things feel dry or difficult.

So I keep walking. Not blindly. But with purpose.

If I felt unknown before, I’m doing what I can now to be known. To connect. To stay rooted. To trust that if I’m faithful in the small steps, God will reveal the next one when the time is right.

And here’s what I’ve noticed.

Sometimes we cause our own dryness by doing too much. I see now that I may have run ahead of grace. I was trying so hard to prove I was ready, that I forgot to stay present. To sit still. To receive.

Like Mary at the feet of Jesus.
Like a tree planted by water, not scrambling across dry land looking for rain.

So I’m going back to the basics.

Daily Mass.
Adoration.
Scripture in the quiet.
Presence with my family.
Writing these reflections, not because they lead to something, but because they are something.

They are my offering.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

If you’re in a season like this, one of waiting, of dryness, of a dream put on hold, I want to gently remind you: You’re not alone.

The “not yet” you’re living may feel like a rejection. But it might be the start of something deeper.

Keep going.
Keep praying.
Keep showing up, even when you feel unseen.

Remember Rule 5. Don’t quit what you’re doing.

Even if your heart feels dry, the roots may still be drinking.
Even if the door seems shut, the Spirit may be unlocking something inside you.

And one day, when the time is right, the path will open again.

Until then, walk with purpose.
Let yourself be known.
And trust that God sees what no one else can.

He knows your heart. He knows your yes. And He’s not done with you yet.