This dark night has been exhausting.
Mentally.
Spiritually.
Physically.
There are days when I feel like my whole being has been stretched past what it knew how to hold. The soul can only be pulled so far before everything in it starts shaking. And yet, strangely, something is becoming clearer.
I think I understand now what I am supposed to be doing.
My path seems correct.
Locked in, even.
Not fully built.
Not fully mapped.
Not easy.
But true.
The work is with the dying, the departed, the wounded, the grieving, the forgotten, and the souls near the veil.
That is where my heart keeps going.
That is where prayer rises in me before I can organize it.
That is where the Sorrowful Mother keeps leading me.
And I know God is speaking.
I can hear Him through her.
Not as thunder.
Not as a neat business plan.
Not as a complete blueprint dropped from heaven with color-coded tabs.
But I can hear enough to know the direction.
I know the path now.
I am just not sure how to walk it.
That is the new tension.
For so long, the pain was not knowing.
Not knowing what the calling meant.
Not knowing why ministry would not form the way I thought it should.
Not knowing why doors kept staying closed.
Not knowing why I felt like a priest with nowhere to pour out the blessing.
Now I think I know the calling.
But knowing the calling does not automatically tell you how to live it.
That is another kind of wilderness.
I do not have the CPE to be a formal chaplain in certain places. Hospital chaplaincy, police chaplaincy, fire chaplaincy, ER chaplaincy — those worlds often have training, credentials, systems, permissions, and institutional gates. I understand that.
Maybe I could volunteer.
Maybe I could find a hospice.
Maybe I could sit with the dying.
Maybe I could help with grief work.
Maybe I could volunteer at a funeral home.
Maybe I could work at a morgue.
Maybe I could care for cemeteries.
Maybe I could offer prayers for the departed.
Maybe I could create liturgies for the forgotten dead.
Maybe I could offer Eucharist with intention for those who have passed, for those preparing to pass, and for those left behind.
But then the questions come.
How does this work?
How would the community respond?
How do I let people know without sounding strange?
How do I advertise this without cheapening it?
How do I speak about care for the dead in a culture that tries to avoid death until death kicks the door down?
How do I offer myself as a priest of sorrow and passage without making people uncomfortable before they even understand what I mean?
How does this fit into daily life?
How does this fit into the Order?
How does this become a spiritual practice and not just another project?
So many questions.
But maybe that is not failure.
Maybe that is discernment.
Maybe questions are what come after the door begins to open.
Before, I was standing outside a locked door asking if there even was a door.
Now I can see it.
Now I know the door belongs to me somehow.
Now I am standing at the threshold asking:
What do I bring?
What do I leave behind?
Who gave me permission?
Who needs to bless this?
What does obedience look like here?
What does courage look like here?
What does wisdom look like here?
That feels different.
Less like being lost.
More like preparing.
I have also realized that I need to stop forcing ministry where it is not opening.
The LGBTQIAP+ community still matters to me. I am part of it. I will always be part of it. Queer people are still safe with me. The flag pin still matters. The collar still needs to be seen sometimes with that little sign of safety attached to it.
But I cannot keep spending myself trying to force connection where people are not ready, willing, or able to respond.
Maybe the ministry to queer people will happen along the way.
Maybe it will happen one person at a time.
Maybe it will happen quietly, when someone sees the pin and realizes the priest in front of them is not dangerous.
Maybe it will happen through grief, death, funerals, prayer, and the places where everyone becomes human again.
Because death has a way of stripping away performance.
At the bedside, at the grave, in the funeral home, in the hospital hallway, the labels become less important than the soul.
The conservative.
The queer one.
The afraid one.
The angry one.
The faithful one.
The doubting one.
The person who never came to church.
The person who left church wounded.
The body in the bed.
The family in shock.
The soul at the veil.
That is where I feel called.
Not to abandon anyone.
But to stop chasing what is not mine to force.
I can care without carrying the whole world.
I can be visible without begging people to come.
I can offer safety without demanding response.
I can stand ready.
Maybe that is the work right now.
To become ready.
But then another question rises:
Am I ready?
Do I know enough?
That question has been haunting me.
Do I know enough to sit with the dying?
Do I know enough to pray for the dead?
Do I know enough to comfort the grieving?
Do I know enough to speak when words are needed and shut up when silence is holier?
Do I know enough to be trusted near sacred thresholds?
Part of me says no.
The old self-deprecating voice starts up again.
You do not know enough.
You are awkward.
You stumble through conversations.
You sound like a bumbling idiot.
You are not official enough.
You are not polished enough.
You are not ready.
But then another voice answers.
You went through formation.
You studied.
You were trained.
You were ordained.
You have prayed.
You have suffered.
You have listened.
You have been led here through fire, sorrow, and silence.
Your Bishop would not have ordained you if he did not believe you were called and able to serve.
That does not mean I know everything.
No priest knows everything.
No chaplain knows everything.
No one standing beside death knows everything.
Maybe the better question is not, “Do I know enough?”
Maybe the better question is:
Am I humble enough to keep learning?
Am I grounded enough to respect boundaries?
Am I prayerful enough to listen before speaking?
Am I honest enough to know when something is beyond me?
Am I willing enough to begin small?
That feels more useful.
Begin small.
Not with a grand announcement.
Not with a giant ministry launch.
Not with branding and panic and trying to make everything look official before it has roots.
Begin with prayer.
Begin with names.
Begin with the dead already entrusted to me.
Begin with cemeteries.
Begin with hospitals entered reverently.
Begin with a hospice volunteer application if that door opens.
Begin with asking funeral homes if there is a way to serve quietly.
Begin with grief support.
Begin with writing prayers.
Begin with asking the Bishop.
Begin with the Order.
That may be the biggest question now:
How does this become a spiritual practice and life with the Brothers?
I do not want this ministry to become a side project floating apart from obedience and community.
I want it rooted.
I want it blessed.
I want it held.
I want it to become part of my life as a priest, part of my rhythm, part of my prayer, part of the Order’s witness if that is what God desires.
Maybe there could be a simple rule.
A daily prayer for the dying and the departed.
A weekly office under the mantle of the Sorrowful Mother.
A monthly remembrance of forgotten souls.
A Eucharistic intention for those near death and those who have crossed the veil.
A cemetery practice.
A grief practice.
A written litany.
A small book of prayers.
A ministry name that speaks gently instead of dramatically.
A way to receive names from people who want prayer for their dead.
A way to offer pastoral presence without pretending to be what I am not.
A way to serve quietly, safely, reverently.
Maybe this is how the hidden altar becomes visible.
Not all at once.
One practice at a time.
One prayer at a time.
One soul at a time.
One door at a time.
The Sorrowful Mother has not led me here to panic.
That is what I need to remember.
She has led me through the veil slowly.
She has been steady.
She has been quiet.
She has not demanded that I build everything in one week.
She has simply kept pointing.
Here.
Look here.
The dying.
The dead.
The wounded.
The lonely.
The souls no one remembers.
The bodies treated without reverence.
The grieving who do not know how to pray.
The departed who need mercy spoken over them.
The people who will not come to church, but may still accept a blessing at the edge of death.
That is the path.
How to walk it will come.
Maybe not all at once.
Maybe not in the order I want.
Maybe through volunteering.
Maybe through writing.
Maybe through Eucharist.
Maybe through the Order.
Maybe through a funeral home.
Maybe through hospice.
Maybe through cemeteries.
Maybe through quiet pastoral presence in places I cannot yet imagine.
I do not know.
But I know enough to begin.
Not rush.
Begin.
There is a difference.
Rushing is fear.
Beginning is faith.
So here is my prayer now:
Lord, I know the path, but I do not yet know the steps.
Show me the first step.
Not the whole staircase.
Not the five-year plan.
Not the finished ministry.
The first faithful step.
Show me how this fits my daily life.
Show me how to speak of it.
Show me where to volunteer.
Show me whom to ask.
Show me how to write the prayers.
Show me how this belongs with my Bishop and brothers.
Show me how to serve the dying and the dead without being swallowed by sorrow.
Show me how to be a priest at the veil.
Show me how to stay humble, grounded, ethical, and faithful.
Show me how to walk under the mantle of the Sorrowful Mother without hiding beneath it.
Show me how to carry this calling without forcing it into a shape that is not Yours.
I am tired.
The dark night has exhausted me.
But I am no longer only lost.
I am standing at the edge of a ministry I recognize.
I do not have all the answers.
I do not have all the credentials.
I do not have all the money.
I do not have a building.
I do not have a crowd.
But I have a path.
I have prayer.
I have the Sorrowful Mother.
I have Christ somewhere ahead of me.
I have the dead, the dying, the wounded, and the forgotten pressing gently on my heart.
And maybe, for now, that is enough to take the first step.