Things are beginning to even out.
I do not feel so emotionally and spiritually spun up. I do not feel quite so scattered, quite so raw, quite so wild inside my own skin. Something is settling.
Not finished.
Not perfect.
But settling.
And in this settling, I am beginning to see people differently.
Really see them.
Not only what they represent.
Not only their politics, religion, clothing, attitude, labels, fear, wounds, or whatever mask they happen to be wearing that day.
I am beginning to see more of the person inside.
The real self.
The wounded self.
The hidden self.
The soul beneath the noise.
That has come through this night, through deep prayer and contemplation. And in that prayer, I am realizing something else: I buried part of myself a long time ago. Or at least I thought I buried it.
I buried it because I did not know what to do with it.
I buried it because I thought it could not be used.
I buried it because it did not fit neatly into the boxes people gave me.
But maybe God does not give gifts for them to rot underground.
I have long understood myself as an empath and medium. Those gifts have always been part of me, even when I tried to ignore them, explain them away, minimize them, or act like they were too strange to belong in the life of a priest.
But maybe God gave me those gifts for a reason.
Maybe I am supposed to use them.
Carefully.
Prayerfully.
Under Christ.
With discernment.
Not as a performance.
Not as a parlor trick.
Not as ego.
But as care.
Maybe they could help someone.
Maybe they belong with this emerging ministry of the departed, the wounded, the grieving, the souls at the veil, and the ones who need to know they have not been forgotten.
That is a big realization.
And one of the things nobody prepares you for in this soul-stretching, mind-bending, grace-wrestling experience is that you are never really prepared.
It sneaks up on you.
You think you are just praying.
You think you are just contemplating.
You think you are just trying to get through the day without losing your mind.
And then — BAM.
The cosmic 2×4 swings down from the rafters of heaven.
God help us.
That seems to be part of how grace works sometimes.
Not always gently.
Sometimes with a whisper.
Sometimes with a flower.
Sometimes with a door beginning to open.
And sometimes with a holy plank to the head.
I digress.
But maybe I do not.
Because the realization that we are never really prepared does not only apply to mystical gifts. It applies to life. It applies to vocation. It applies to Christ.
I thought I understood vocation.
I did not.
Or maybe I understood the idea of it.
The image.
The movie version.
The TV version.
The book version.
The version where the call comes, the road opens, the music swells, the church fills, the Mass is beautiful, the people are grateful, the priest knows what he is doing, and everything turns into rainbows, unicorns, incense, and spiritual clarity.
That is not vocation.
At least it has not been mine.
Vocation is complicated.
Messy.
Sweaty.
Confusing.
Full of heartache.
Full of wrong turns, hidden doors, long silences, strange confirmations, dead ends that were not dead ends, and beginnings that look like ruins.
So why do it?
Because when you finally realize God is actually calling you, it is not really a “let me think about it” moment.
It is:
Yes, Lord.
And then you do it.
Not because you understand.
Not because you are ready.
Not because you know how.
Not because you have the full plan.
But because something deeper than fear has heard the command.
Still, the romantic version dies eventually.
At first, maybe you think you are going to save the world.
Then time goes on.
Life happens.
Bodies hurt.
Bills come.
People disappoint you.
Church wounds reopen.
The world gets louder.
The road gets stranger.
And slowly you move from trying to save the whole world to trying to stay faithful to the people actually placed in front of you.
Your loved ones.
The wounded ones.
The dead.
The grieving.
The person who needs a prayer.
The soul that crosses your path.
The body that needs care.
The one small act of mercy you can actually do today.
Maybe that is not smaller.
Maybe that is more honest.
I used to think priesthood would look like what I saw in Masses, churches, movies, books, and holy imagination. Vestments. Altars. Congregations. Candles. People seeking counsel. A visible ministry with recognizable shape.
And yes, maybe some of that will still come.
But right now, the reality is much more grounded.
Plain clothes.
Nose to the ground.
Sweating my ass off.
Working.
Working hard.
Preparing.
Listening.
Learning.
Praying.
Trying to understand what Christ is actually asking of me, not what my imagination borrowed from television, books, or somebody else’s ministry.
You can prepare for vocation.
You can study.
You can go through formation.
You can pray.
You can learn liturgy.
You can read theology.
You can be ordained.
You can say yes.
But you can never be fully prepared for your vocation.
Not really.
Because vocation is not only what you do.
It is what God does to you while you are becoming the person who can do it.
And that part is wild.
That part cannot be scripted.
That part cannot be neatly controlled.
That part is where the Holy Spirit starts shaking out your pockets.
And there you are, standing in the aftermath, looking at all the things you thought were hidden.
Fear.
Pride.
Shame.
Old wounds.
False ideas.
Buried gifts.
Forgotten desires.
Unhealed anger.
Strange mercy.
Holy longing.
Pieces of yourself you thought were useless.
Pieces of yourself you thought were too weird for God to use.
Pieces of yourself you buried because you did not know they were seeds.
Holy Brillo Pad.
That is what this feels like sometimes.
Like the Spirit has taken a Brillo pad to the inside of my soul.
Scrubbing.
Scouring.
Removing layers.
Not delicately.
Not always pleasantly.
But thoroughly.
I do not know the completeness of God.
No human being does.
We cannot hold the whole heart of God in our little cracked bowls. We cannot process the fullness of Him. We cannot understand the entire map from where we stand, especially when we are broken, and maybe never more broken than when we are walking through a dark night.
But maybe we can receive a little.
A piece.
A glimmer.
A flower.
A key turning.
A flame behind glass.
A new understanding of an old gift.
A clearer sense of vocation.
A person seen more truly.
A prayer that rises automatically.
A holy shove toward the work we were avoiding.
Maybe that is enough for today.
I am beginning to understand that Christ does not waste anything.
Not even the parts of me I buried.
Not even the gifts I thought were too strange.
Not even the years of confusion.
Not even the dark night.
Not even the pieces shaken out of my pockets by the Holy Spirit.
Maybe all of it is being gathered.
Sorted.
Blessed.
Cleaned.
Returned.
Used.
And maybe the vocation I thought I was preparing for was only the surface.
Maybe the real preparation was happening underneath.
In the silence.
In the grief.
In the graveyards.
In the Mother of Sorrows.
In St. Hildegard’s laughter.
In the cosmic 2×4.
In the holy Brillo pad.
In learning that I am not called to save the world by force.
I am called to serve the souls Christ places before me.
The living.
The dying.
The departed.
The wounded.
The hidden.
The ones at the veil.
The ones who need prayer.
The ones who need to be seen.
And maybe now, finally, I am beginning to see them.
Not as a concept.
Not as a ministry plan.
But as souls.
And maybe that is where this new life in Christ begins again.