A quiet anniversary I did not see coming

Waiting is not wasted when it is prayer.

I opened the bulletin to our pastor’s weekly article, and there it was, his reflections from Saint Paul’s letter to the Corinthians.

Something in me tightened, the way it does when the Lord taps a familiar bruise.

I quickly opened the missal and read the whole passage, and something in me paused. Not because I had not heard it before, but because I had. It felt like the Church had circled back on a sentence that once held my whole life in its hands.

Three years ago, I was in a real crisis. I had just come through a moment of true redemption, and with it came a flood of emotions that started answering a whole mess of questions about where I had been and who I once was. This crisis was not the kind that always shows on the outside. It was the kind that makes you sit in prayer and wonder why your heart is suddenly awake to God in a way you cannot ignore.

I remember being confused by it. I remember being almost annoyed by it.

Like, Lord, why am I hearing You so clearly right now, and what do You want from me?

That week, we heard Saint Paul say something that landed hard in my chest:

“Rather, God chose the foolish of the world to shame the wise, and God chose the weak of the world to shame the strong, and God chose the lowly and despised of the world, those who count for nothing, to reduce to nothing those who are something, so that no human being might boast before God.” (1 Corinthians 1:26–29)

I did not feel wise. I did not feel strong. I did not feel like someone with a clean résumé of holiness. I felt foolish, like a man waking up late and realizing the sunrise had been there the whole time. I felt like I had missed something obvious for most of my life.

Not long after that Mass, a friend invited me to an event called Ablaze at another parish. I went because I needed to be near the Lord, and because sometimes saying yes to something simple is the only way you keep moving when you do not have answers.

At that event, while I was praying about that exact question, a woman approached me. I had never met her before. She was just someone there for Jesus, like me.

She looked at me and asked, as plain as you could ask it, if I had ever thought about being a deacon.

I remember how my whole body reacted. It was not dramatic on the outside, but inside it felt like a bell went off. I had been praying, Speak, Lord, your servant is listening. And then a stranger walked up and spoke the words I was listening for.

A few days later, I was scheduled to give my first pulpit talk, inviting men to sign up for the same program that had opened my heart, an upcoming Welcome Weekend. I had never done anything like that before. I was nervous, but I also felt an odd kind of peace, like the Lord had already gone ahead of me.

After Mass, while I was standing at the table recruiting, a retired deacon came up to me. He was too frail to walk, so someone wheeled him over. It was like he needed to speak to me with a purpose. He smiled, told me he was impressed, and said I had a great voice.

Then he asked me the same question.

Have you ever thought about being a deacon?

I remember standing there thinking, Lord, what is happening. Two people, not connected to one another. Two different settings. Same question. Same timing. And it landed in the same tender place in me that Saint Paul’s words had just opened up.

And it did not stop there.

Over the weeks that followed, more people said it. Some were gentle about it. Some were blunt. Some just smiled and said they could see it. I kept hearing the same idea from different mouths, like God was making sure I could not pretend it was random.

When I look back now, the number still gets me.

Seven.

Seven different people approached me and said something about discerning the diaconate. Seven voices. Seven nudges. Seven separate moments where the question found me.

I know you can get weird with numbers if you want to. I know you can try to force meaning into anything. But Scripture does not treat seven as a throwaway number.

Creation moves in sevens, and the seventh day is blessed and made holy. The life of the Church is marked by seven sacraments. The Holy Spirit is spoken of with seven gifts. Even the way Scripture tells certain stories carries a rhythm of sevens, like God repeating, completing, sealing.

I am not saying seven voices equals a guarantee. I am not saying God owes me a timeline because people noticed something in me.

But I am saying it got my attention.

And I do not think it was meant to leave me unchanged.

So, I did what you do when something feels bigger than you. I took it to prayer. I started to meet with a spiritual director. I started walking the diocesan process with the best honesty I had.

Then came the hard part.

I filled out the questionnaire. I went through interviews. I tried to stay humble, but I was also hopeful. I thought, maybe this is finally the doorway.

And then I was passed over.

Not a final no. Not a rejection stamped in red. Just a quiet message that said, not now.

I have shared before how that kind of answer can hurt. It hurt me too. Not because I thought I deserved anything, but because I could not make sense of how God could speak so loudly through so many people, and then let the formal process go quiet.

For a while, I wrestled with it. I asked the Lord questions that were not polished.

Were those people wrong?
Was I wrong?
Was I hearing what I wanted to hear?
Or is Your timing simply slower than my desire to be useful?

I sit in prayer sometimes and relive that season in my life. I think about all those people encouraging me to walk that road, and I think about where they are now. Most of them are still here, still walking with me, still knowing this is a path I cannot shake.

Well, all but one.

Soon after that retired deacon spoke to me, he passed away.

I remember feeling a strange mix of grief and awe. Grief, because he was someone’s father, someone’s friend, someone’s brother in Christ. Awe, because his words to me felt like one last act of fatherly encouragement before the Lord called him home.

In my mind, I wondered if the Holy Spirit had used him for that one moment, to plant one last seed, and then his job was done.

I held that thought quietly. I did not make it into a headline. I just carried it like you carry a stone in your pocket, rubbing it now and then, remembering.

And then last Sunday happened.

Same reading again. Same words from Saint Paul, rising back up into the air of the church like incense.

Only this time, the lector was the woman from Ablaze.

The one who had approached me three years ago. The one who had asked the question that started everything.

She stood at the ambo and proclaimed the very lines I had been pondering back then, the very lines that had been pulling on my heart when she walked up to me in the first place.

The odds of that are hard to explain away. Same passage. Same woman. Same question in my life, only now with three more years of prayer, service, waiting, and learning what “not now” can do inside a man.

After Mass, I went to her. I told her it had been three years. I told her what I was praying about back then, and how her question had landed like an answer sent straight from the Lord.

She looked at me with a kind of honesty that felt like mercy. She said I needed to open my heart to the discernment, but she did not think I was ready then. She said I needed to learn humility.

Then she said something I did not expect.

Do not give up.

I did not plan to cry. But tears came anyway. Not because it was sentimental, but because it felt like the Lord was reminding me that He has not forgotten what He started.

Discernment has a way of humbling you, even if you do not want it to. It teaches you that calling is not the same thing as control. It teaches you that a man can be sincere and still need seasoning. It teaches you that service does not begin after the Church approves you. It begins the moment you say yes to the next small thing.

That is what these years have felt like. A question that keeps returning, not to pressure me, but to steady me. I still do not know how the next step will come. I do not know what doors will open, or when.

But I know this.

When the Lord calls, He also forms. And sometimes His “not now” is not a closed door. It is a invitation to something more.

So, if you are in your own season of waiting, and you keep hearing the same gentle nudge from different directions, do not ignore it. Bring it to prayer. Hold it up to the light. Ask for humility before you ask for speed.

And if you are in the harder season, the one where you thought you were ready and the answer still came back not yet, do not assume it means the story is over.

Sometimes God circles back on purpose. Sometimes He lets you hear the same words again, only now you can finally receive them without needing to prove anything.

So today, this is where I am.

Not with a title. Not with a guarantee. Not even with a polished plan.

Just with a willing heart, and a sentence that still feels like it was written for men like me.

Here I am, Lord.

Jesus, if this desire is from You, purify it. If it is not from You, remove it. Teach me humility either way. And when the time is right, come and get me.