God of the Small Things: Finding Holiness in Ordinary Life

Holiness doesn’t always look like candlelight and soaring cathedral music. It doesn’t always feel like mystical visions, spiritual highs, or tear-filled prayer. Sometimes, holiness looks like folding the same laundry again, offering a smile when you’re tired, or choosing patience for the hundredth time in a single day.

God is not only found in the dramatic. He is found in the deeply ordinary. In fact, some of the holiest ground we’ll ever walk is the same floor we sweep every morning.

The Lie of the “Big” Spiritual Life

In our achievement-obsessed culture, it’s easy to believe that a “good” spiritual life must be visible, measurable, impressive. We chase emotional intensity, long hours of prayer, dramatic conversions, or outward markers of sainthood. But Scripture—and the lives of the saints—paint a different picture.

Jesus never told us to impress Him. He told us to follow Him. And He often pointed to the smallest things as the place where holiness hides:

"Whoever is faithful in small matters will also be faithful in large ones." — Luke 16:10

We forget that Jesus spent thirty years in obscurity before His public ministry—working, praying, eating, sleeping, loving His family. Thirty years of small things. Thirty years that were not wasted, but sanctified by His presence.

We live in a world that rewards spectacle. God blesses faithfulness.

Heaven Sees What the World Overlooks

God does not measure greatness the way the world does. He doesn’t rank your life by visible outcomes or spiritual aesthetics. He sees the hidden choices:

• The single mom making it through bedtime routines with grace

• The caregiver offering quiet dignity to a loved one

• The employee choosing integrity when no one’s watching

• The chronically ill person offering up another hard day without fanfare

• The teenager resisting peer pressure in silence

• The lonely elder offering prayers for a world that barely remembers them

These moments might feel invisible. But they echo in eternity.

"Whatever you do, in word or in deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus." — Colossians 3:17

There are no wasted prayers. No wasted acts of kindness. No wasted struggles offered quietly to God. Heaven celebrates what earth often ignores.

The Domestic Monastery

Catholic tradition often speaks of cloisters and monasteries as places of sanctification. But your home can be a monastery too. Your kitchen can be an altar. Your mundane routines can become sacramental if you let God inhabit them.

The mother wiping a child’s nose, the tired soul making dinner again, the spouse offering forgiveness before sleep—these are liturgies of love.

In every generation, God has called ordinary people to extraordinary holiness through their simple faithfulness. Brother Lawrence found union with God while scrubbing kitchen pots. St. Zelie Martin found sanctity in weaving lace and raising children. St. Joseph, silent and steadfast, found his calling in carpentry and fatherhood.

If God could meet them in their daily lives, He can meet you in yours.

Sanctity doesn’t always require silence and candles. Sometimes it just asks you to be present, gentle, and willing—to make your life a living prayer.

Becoming a Saint in the Life You Already Have

You don’t need to wait for your life to get quieter, simpler, or more “spiritual.” The path to holiness is not somewhere out there. It’s already under your feet.

Ask yourself:

• How can I offer today’s work to God?

• What small sacrifice can I make out of love?

• Where can I bring beauty, order, or kindness?

These are not small questions. They are the building blocks of sainthood.

The saints were not superhuman. They were simply faithful. They said "yes" in the small things, often long before anyone ever noticed their "greatness."

Your yes matters.

Every load of laundry, every act of patience, every whispered prayer—these are the stones God uses to build the cathedral of your soul.

Final Reflection

The God of the universe stepped into time not with a fanfare, but through the hidden life of a carpenter’s son. He dignified the ordinary. He sanctified the unnoticed. And He still meets us there, in the kitchen, the classroom, the waiting room, the laundry line.

Holiness doesn’t always look like the mountaintop. Sometimes, it looks like washing feet.

Sometimes, it looks like you.

"Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me." — Matthew 25:40

You are seen. You are loved. Your faithfulness matters.

Lift up your small offerings. In the hands of God, nothing given in love is ever wasted.

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Holy Saturday: The Silence That Holds Us

 

Holy Saturday is a day that many people do not know how to enter. It is not a pause between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. It is not simply an accidental gap, an empty space where nothing happens. It is a day full of mystery, grief, and waiting.

Holy Saturday holds the grief of God, the sorrow of creation, and the long aching breath between death and life. It is a day when the Church teaches us to honor loss, to allow silence to speak, and to trust that God is working even when we cannot yet see it.

Many people are tempted to skip past this day, to rush ahead to the Resurrection. But when we do that, we miss the deep and necessary truth that our God does not rush grief. He enters into it. He holds it. And as we learn to wait with Him in this sacred silence, we discover that He is already waiting with us in every grief we have ever carried.

Let’s walk slowly here. Let’s make space to stay.

The Stripped Altar: Love That Waits in Darkness

On Holy Saturday morning, the Church stands bare and silent.

The altar is stripped of its coverings. The tabernacle is open and empty. The sanctuary lamp that usually signals Christ's presence is extinguished. There is no Mass celebrated during the day. There are no sacraments except those given in danger of death.

The emptiness is not a mistake. It is a living sign of Christ's death. The Church mourns with visible, tangible sorrow.

What it looks like to me: It feels like standing inside a hollowed-out heart. A place that remembers joy but cannot yet rejoice. The walls seem to listen for a voice that is not speaking. It is a silence that aches.

A way to live it: Let yourself enter a quiet space today. Resist the urge to fill it with noise or distraction. Let your heart rest in the emptiness, trusting that God is still at work even when He seems silent.

Christ's Descent: Love That Searches Every Darkness

According to ancient Christian tradition, today Christ descends to the dead. This is sometimes called the "Harrowing of Hell."

In this mystery, we see that the victory of the Cross does not remain above the earth. Christ's love goes down into the depths. He seeks out Adam and Eve, the righteous of the Old Covenant, all those who have died in hope.

He does not abandon the dead to their darkness. He shatters the gates of death from the inside.

What it looks like to me: I imagine the long darkness of the grave pierced by sudden light. I imagine the dead lifting their eyes, weary and wondering, to see the One they have waited for. I imagine His hands, still scarred, reaching into every place that seemed unreachable.

A way to live it: If you carry griefs that seem sealed away, trust that Christ has gone even there. If you mourn those who have died, know that His love searches for them. No shadow is too deep. No heart is too lost.

The Held Grief: Love That Does Not Rush to Fix

Holy Saturday is the day God teaches us to let grief breathe. He does not rush from death to life. He allows time for sorrow. He honors the real weight of loss.

This is not because He is powerless. It is because love is patient, even with suffering.

Today, we are called to honor what is not yet healed. We are called to make room for grief that has not found its resurrection yet.

What it looks like to me: I think of every prayer I have prayed that has not yet been answered. Every loss that still aches. Every hope that has not yet bloomed. Holy Saturday teaches me that these places are not failures. They are sacred spaces where God keeps vigil with me.

A way to live it: Name your grief honestly before God today. You do not have to explain it or justify it. Simply offer it. Trust that He holds it tenderly.

The Quiet of the Tomb: Love That Rests

Even in death, Christ honors the Sabbath.

His body rests in the tomb. The earth holds its breath. Heaven waits.

There is a holiness in this stillness. A sacred weight in this rest.

What it looks like to me: I imagine the tomb sealed, dark, and still. I imagine the world tilting into quiet, the angels holding vigil unseen. I imagine the deep, slow heartbeat of a world about to be remade, even though no one can yet feel it.

A way to live it: If you are weary today, let yourself rest without shame. Honor your exhaustion. Sleep if you need to. Pray quietly. Trust that waiting is not wasting. It is holy work.

Closing

Holy Saturday is the space between.

It is sacred.

It is the day God teaches us that grief has a place.

That waiting is not wasted.

That death does not have the final word, but it is still a real word, and it deserves to be honored.

Today, do not rush. Do not explain away the silence.

Stay with it.

Stay in it.

He is here, even in the waiting.

He is here, even in the silence.

He is here, even in the grave.

And love is not finished yet.

Good Friday: Love That Suffers and Stays

 

Good Friday does not rush. It does not explain. It does not defend or tidy up.

It simply stays.

It stays at the foot of the Cross, while the world darkens and love bleeds.

Good Friday is not a performance. It is an invitation to be present to a sorrow that does not resolve neatly, to a love so deep it chose the nails.

Through the mystery of the Church's liturgy, we are not just remembering a death that happened long ago. We are standing inside the hour when God laid down His life for love of us.

Let's walk slowly. Let's not look away.

The Solemn Entrance: Silence That Speaks

Good Friday begins not with music, not with words, but with a profound, aching silence.

The priest and ministers process in and then fall to the ground in full prostration before the stripped altar. The people kneel.

The silence says everything.

What it looks like to me: When I kneel in that silence, I feel the world hold its breath. I feel the weight of every wound, every grief. I feel how desperately we need a Savior.

A way to live it: Let the silence open your heart. Do not fill it too quickly with words. Let your heart break a little.

The Passion: Love That Pours Itself Out

The Gospel of John is proclaimed slowly, unhurriedly. Every word of Christ's Passion is spoken aloud: the betrayal, the arrest, the denials, the trial, the scourging, the way of the Cross.

There are no shortcuts. No quick resolutions.

We walk each step with Him.

Some churches include a dramatic reading, with different voices. Others chant it in a haunting, almost otherworldly tone. However it is proclaimed, the weight of it sinks into the bones.

What it looks like to me: I listen for the sound of the whip. I hear the crowd shouting for Barabbas. I see His eyes, steady and sorrowful, meeting mine across centuries.

A way to live it: When you hear the Passion today, don't just "listen to a story." Stand within it. Let yourself be known by the One who carries every sorrow for you.

The Great Intercessions: A World Laid Bare

After the Passion, the Church prays the Great Intercessions — prayers for the Church, for the world, for the suffering, for the unbelievers, for all.

It is the most expansive moment of the year: the Church lifts up the whole wounded world to the mercy of Christ.

What it looks like to me: As each intercession is sung or spoken, I imagine the prayers rising like incense from every corner of the earth — from hospital beds, from broken homes, from lonely streets, from secret prayers whispered by those who don’t even know they believe.

A way to live it: Offer your own hidden intentions. No suffering is too small to be brought to the Cross.

The Veneration of the Cross: Love That Stretches Wide

Then comes the most intimate moment: the Veneration of the Cross.

The Cross is brought forward, usually veiled. Slowly, it is unveiled, piece by piece:

• "Behold the wood of the Cross, on which hung the salvation of the world."

• "Come, let us adore."

The people approach one by one — to touch, to kiss, to kneel.

It is not an idol we adore. It is the instrument of love’s victory.

What it looks like to me: When I kneel before the Cross, I see not only Christ's wounds, but the wounds He carries for me. I see the bruises I have caused, and the healing He pours out.

I kiss the Cross with trembling, grateful lips.

A way to live it: Venerate with your whole heart. Bring your weariness. Bring your sin. Bring your longing. Lay it all at the foot of Love.

The Stations of the Cross: Walking the Road Beside Him

Many parishes pray the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday. We follow Jesus through the 14 stations:

• His condemnation

• His falls

• His meeting with His Mother

• Simon helping Him

• Veronica offering her veil

• The crucifixion and death

Each station is a step deeper into His suffering and His mercy.

What it looks like to me: At each Station, I find myself not only witnessing, but accompanying. I become Simon, Veronica, the weeping women. I become the beloved disciple. I become the one Christ looks at with mercy.

A way to live it: Walk the Stations slowly. Let your heart break and be remade at each stop.

The Silence: Love That Holds the World

Good Friday ends without a final blessing.

There is no dismissal.

We leave in silence.

The Church herself seems to hold her breath, waiting.

What it looks like to me: As I walk out into the dimming day, I feel the world tilting, waiting for something it cannot name. The ache of absence is real. And it is holy.

A way to live it: Let the silence linger. Do not rush to distract yourself. Carry the weight of Love into the hours that follow.

Closing

Good Friday is not a day to "fix" anything.

It is a day to stay.

Stay at the Cross.

Stay with Love.

Stay with the One who stayed for you.

Stay with the pierced hands that still bless.

Stay with the broken heart that still beats for you.

Stay until the silence speaks, until grief births hope, until death begins to tremble.

Stay.

He stayed for you.

Maundy Thursday: Love That Lowers Itself

Maundy Thursday is the doorway into the holiest days of the Church year. It is a night heavy with love and sorrow, rich with signs and silences, tender and terrible all at once.

It is not a reenactment. It is an entering in. Through the mystery of the liturgy, we are drawn not only to remember what happened long ago but to be present to Christ Himself. In the Church's timelessness, through grace, we are invited to keep watch with Him, to kneel beside Him, to walk with Him into the night.

Let’s walk slowly.

The Last Supper and the Institution of the Eucharist

The heart of Maundy Thursday is the Last Supper — the night when Jesus, knowing what was coming, chose to give Himself to us in a way that would endure across every age.

"This is My Body... This is My Blood."

It is the night the Eucharist was born. Bread and wine, by His word and by His will, became His Body and Blood. Not symbol, but substance. Not memory alone, but presence. Every Mass echoes this night, and every Mass draws from this well of love.

The Church teaches that in the Eucharist, time bends. We are not separated from the Last Supper by centuries. We are there. We are gathered at the table with the Twelve. We are loved, fed, and sent.

What it looks like to me: When I think of that night, I think of His hands. Rough from wood, tender in their breaking of the bread. I think of His voice, steady even as sorrow gathered at the edges. I think of His love, poured out before a betrayal was even spoken.

A way to live it: Receive the Eucharist tonight as if it were the first time. Or if you cannot receive, kneel and adore. Let your heart remember the cost of this gift.

The Mandatum: Love Made Flesh

"Mandatum" — the "commandment" — is where Maundy Thursday gets its name. "A new commandment I give you, that you love one another as I have loved you."

And He shows what love looks like. He gets up from the table, takes off His outer robe, ties a towel around His waist, and washes the feet of His disciples. Even the one who will betray Him.

The King stoops like a servant. The Master becomes the least.

What it looks like to me: It’s easy to talk about love. It’s much harder to kneel before dirt-streaked, calloused feet and touch them with tenderness. Maundy Thursday love isn't sentimental. It's deliberate. Humble. Willing to serve even when it knows it will be betrayed.

A way to live it: Find a way to serve someone unseen. Love where no applause will follow. Offer mercy where it may never be repaid.

The Stripping of the Altar

After the Last Supper liturgy concludes, the church changes.

The altar is stripped of every cloth, candle, and ornament.

The sanctuary grows bare and silent. The tabernacle is emptied. The red sanctuary lamp is extinguished. Christ has gone out into the night, and the Church shudders in the hollow space He leaves behind.

What it looks like to me: When I watch the altar stripped, it feels like watching a heart laid open. There is no beauty left to shield the sorrow. Only the ache remains. It is a visual echo of what happens when Love leaves the table and walks into betrayal.

A way to live it: Let yourself feel the emptiness. Stay after Mass if you can, and sit in the hollowed silence. Do not rush to fill it.

The Garden Vigil: Watch and Pray

And then — the garden.

The most tender and urgent part of this night comes after. The Body of Christ, the Blessed Sacrament, is carried in procession to an Altar of Repose — a place apart, adorned with simple beauty. Flowers, candles, hush.

There, we are invited to "watch one hour" with Him, just as He asked of His disciples.

We are not spectators. We are companions.

Christ kneels in the Garden of Gethsemane, His soul "sorrowful unto death." He sweats blood. He sees every sin, every betrayal, every agony that will be laid upon Him. And He chooses to embrace it, out of love.

In Ignatian prayer, we are encouraged to enter this moment with all our senses:

• Feel the cool earth beneath our knees.

• Hear the whisper of the olive trees.

• Smell the dust and the press of the night air.

• See the anguish on His face, the tenderness in His eyes.

He looks for His friends — for us — to stay awake, to be near.

And even when we grow tired, even when our prayer falters, He treasures our presence.

What it looks like to me: I imagine slipping into the Garden, clumsy and tired, yet aching to be near Him. I imagine resting my head on the cold earth nearby, whispering, "I'm here. I'm trying." And I believe it matters to Him. Not perfect prayers, not eloquent offerings — just presence. Just love.

A way to live it: If you can, go to the Altar of Repose tonight. Stay. Even if your mind wanders. Even if your heart feels dry. Stay. Love Him by being with Him. If you cannot go, set aside an hour at home. Dim the lights. Light a candle. Tell Him He is not alone.

Why it matters: We are not meant to rush from table to tomb without lingering in the Garden. The Garden is where love proves its strength. Where we learn to stay, even in sorrow. Where friendship with Christ is tested and deepened.

The Garden is not an optional stop on the way to the Cross. It is the place where we learn what love truly costs.

Closing

Maundy Thursday is the beginning of the great journey into the Passion.

It is the night love lowered itself. It is the night love let itself be betrayed. It is the night love stayed awake even when the world slept.

And tonight, we are invited to stay with Him.

Not to fix. Not to flee.

Simply to love.

Stay with Him.

The Temptation to Disappear: When Faith Feels Like Too Much to Hold

There are days—maybe even seasons—when faith feels less like a comfort and more like a burden. You believe. You pray. You show up. And yet, something inside begins to fray. It’s not disbelief that haunts you, but exhaustion. The ache of being seen and expected and spiritually responsible. The weight of carrying your soul through another hard day.

This is the temptation to disappear. Not in rebellion or rejection—but in quiet retreat. A gentle fade. A longing to step offstage, unnoticed. To not be asked to trust or persevere or testify. To slip into some kind of holy anonymity where no one needs anything from you—not even God.

And here is the hidden mercy: even this ache is known to Him.

When Faith Feels Like a Heavy Garment

Sometimes the spiritual practices that once sustained you begin to feel like too much. Prayer feels dry. Mass feels distant. Scripture reads like sand. You look around and see others thriving in their spiritual life and wonder what’s broken in you.

But nothing is broken. You are simply human.

Faith is not an escape from being human. It is a way of walking through it with God. And being human means there will be days when belief feels heavy, when hope stretches thin, and when love must become a choice more than a feeling.

This is not failure. It is fidelity.

The God Who Finds You in Spiritual Exhaustion

If you find yourself longing to disappear—to stop trying, to stop showing up—remember this: God does not require you to hold Him up. You are not responsible for sustaining divine love. He is.

God is not afraid of your silence or weariness. He does not recoil when you pull back. In fact, Scripture is full of stories where God seeks the one who withdraws: Elijah under the broom tree. Hagar in the desert. Peter after the denial.

Each time, God doesn’t scold. He comes close. He meets them with food, rest, a question, or a gentle restoration.

Faith as Surrender, Not Performance

Modern life often teaches us that faith should be productive. That we should always be growing, bearing fruit, testifying. But the truth is, there are seasons when faith looks like letting yourself be held.

The temptation to disappear is often a sign that you need rest, not reprimand. That your soul is asking for mercy. That you’ve been trying to do too much alone.

In these moments, faith is not a performance to maintain but a surrender to receive.

You don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to stay visible to stay loved. God sees you, even in the quiet retreat. He knows when you’ve given all you can. And He is already coming to find you—not to demand more, but to carry you.

Honoring the Ache Without Erasing It

If you’re in a season where faith feels too heavy, honor it. Don’t rush to fix it. Instead, try these gentle practices to support your spiritual mental health:

• Name what hurts. Be honest with God about your exhaustion, your numbness, your fear of being too much or not enough. He already knows.

• Find one safe space. It doesn’t have to be a full church group or spiritual director—just one person who can sit with you without trying to fix you.

• Let go of performance. If your prayers are wordless sighs, that’s enough. If Mass feels hard, just go and let yourself rest in the presence.

• Mark small mercies. Keep a simple list—not of victories, but of graces. A moment of peace. A verse that catches your breath. A kindness received.

Why You’re Still Called to Spiritual Community

It might feel easier to stay isolated. To disappear not just from God, but from His people. But the call to community isn’t about meeting obligations—it’s about being held when your own strength runs out.

We are not made to carry faith alone. Christian community reminds us we are not the only ones who ache, or falter, or doubt. It is where God’s love often arrives with skin on.

To ease back in:

• Choose presence over pressure. You don’t have to talk. Just show up.

• Start with small proximity. Sit in a pew. Join a potluck. Send a message. Let yourself be near others without forcing connection.

• Ask for prayers, not solutions. Sometimes what we need most is to be gently remembered in someone else’s talk with God.

Let Yourself Be Found by God’s Mercy

Let yourself be found. Even if it means disappearing for a little while.

Not into despair. Not into hiding. But into rest.

Into the arms of the God who never stops looking for you.

Into a faith that includes your quiet seasons. Into a community that can hold your silences. Into the mercy that honors your humanity as much as your hope.

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The Role of Anger in Conversion: When Holiness and Justice Meet

Intro: The Anger You Didn’t Expect

Anger isn’t something most people associate with conversion. Awe, repentance, relief—sure. But anger? That seems out of place. And yet for many of us, anger was the first honest emotion that surfaced when we started walking toward God.

Maybe you were angry at a Church that had wounded you.
Maybe you were angry at injustice—personal, global, systemic.
Maybe you were angry because the truth cracked something open, and everything you built to survive came tumbling down.

If any of that rings true, you’re not broken. You’re not faithless. You’re just waking up. And your anger might be one of the clearest signs that God is doing something real in you.

I’ve seen this not just in my own journey, but in others I’ve walked with—especially those coming to faith after spiritual abuse, deconstruction, or years of moral disillusionment. Anger doesn’t mean you’re rejecting God. It means you’re letting go of the things that never belonged to Him.

This post is for anyone searching terms like anger and faith, righteous anger in Catholicism, or spiritual healing after church hurt. You’re not alone in this tension—and you’re not off-track for feeling what you feel.

Why Anger Shows Up in Conversion

Conversion is a movement toward God—but it’s also a movement through everything that’s been in the way.

And when you begin to see the truth of who God is—His holiness, His justice, His mercy—it casts light on all the ways the world has been unholy, unjust, and unkind. That light reveals things. And sometimes what it reveals… hurts.

You begin to notice:

• The ways you were harmed by people who claimed to represent Christ

• The ways others are still being harmed

• The silence of churches in the face of injustice

• The gap between the Gospel you now see and the version you were taught

This is holy anger. Not because it’s perfect—but because it’s born of truth. The prophet Isaiah didn’t shrink from naming injustice (Isaiah 10:1–3). Jesus flipped tables in the Temple (Matthew 21:12–13). St. Catherine of Siena wrote boldly to Church leaders, calling out spiritual rot. Anger isn’t the enemy of holiness. It can be the beginning of it.

If you’ve ever Googled is it okay to be angry at the Church? or anger in spiritual growth, this section is for you.

Anger as a Sign of Love

Underneath most anger is love. You’re angry because you care.
You’re angry because dignity matters.
You’re angry because God matters—and He’s not being reflected in the places that bear His name.

That kind of anger is not something to push down or sanitize. It’s something to pray with.

Bring it into the light. Rage if you must. Let it burn away what’s false.
Because sometimes, anger is what happens when your heart is finally aligned with God’s own.

In spiritual direction and mentoring, I’ve had the privilege of hearing these stories—people who thought they were “too angry to be holy,” when in fact they were finally experiencing the kind of moral clarity that makes holiness possible. When rightly directed, that fire becomes a forge.

Searches like anger and spiritual maturity or Catholic anger and justice point to a deep hunger: we want to believe it’s possible to feel this way and still belong.

What to Do With Your Anger

You don’t have to resolve your anger before you belong in the Church.
You don’t have to pretend you’re peaceful to be welcomed at the altar.

But you do have to bring it to God.

Here’s how that might look:

• Pray the Psalms. Let David’s raw honesty be your model. (Psalm 13, Psalm 22, Psalm 94)

• Name your anger. Be specific. Is it toward people? Institutions? Your own silence?

• Ask God to guide it. Not to erase it—but to direct it toward restoration.

• Find safe space. Spiritual direction, trauma-aware confession, or just one friend who won’t flinch when you’re honest.

If your anger feels too sharp to pray with, know this: God already knows it. You’re not hiding anything by staying silent. But you are missing the chance to let Him join you in it.

Anger That Purifies

In the Catholic tradition, anger has long been understood as both a potential vice and a potential virtue. Righteous anger—the kind that moves us to protect the vulnerable or reject corruption—is not sinful. It’s necessary.

When stewarded well, anger becomes a fire that purifies rather than destroys.

• It helps us reject false idols.

• It makes us brave enough to say “not here, not again.”

• It reveals what we’ve tolerated that never should have been acceptable.

Conversion doesn’t just turn us toward God. It also turns us away from anything that degrades His image in us or others. And that turning can feel like grief, like fury, like fire. That doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It might mean it’s real.

St. Thomas Aquinas argued that the absence of anger in the face of injustice is actually a failure of love. Let that reframe what you’ve been taught about meekness. Holiness does not mean disengagement. Sometimes, it looks like getting loud.

Final Thought: Holiness Is Not Passivity

If you’ve ever been told that anger is unholy, remember this:

Holiness isn’t passivity.
Holiness is not smiling quietly while others are crushed.
Holiness burns—clean, steady, and full of justice.

If you’re angry in your conversion story, you’re in good company. The saints, the prophets, and Christ Himself have all carried fire.

Don’t be afraid of yours. Let it teach you what matters. Let it burn what needs to go. Let it be holy.

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How the Saints Handled Doubt (and What It Means for You)

 

Saints weren’t immune to doubt. They just didn’t let it have the last word.

When you think of a saint, it’s easy to imagine unwavering certainty: pristine faith, perfect trust, no questions. But the real stories are far more human—and far more encouraging.

From dark nights to intellectual struggles, many of the saints wrestled with doubt. And not just once. Their paths were winding. Their trust was hard-won. And yet they stayed. They kept praying. They kept walking.

This post isn’t about glorifying struggle for its own sake. It’s about showing how real faith includes real questions—and how doubt can become a teacher, not just a tormentor.

Saint Case Study #1: Mother Teresa

Her doubt: For nearly 50 years, she experienced what she called a "darkness" in her prayer life—a sense that God was absent, even as she served Him with her whole being.

What she did: She kept going. She remained faithful to prayer, service, and the sacraments. She didn't deny the silence—she offered it.

What we can learn:

• Silence doesn’t equal abandonment.

• Your faithfulness matters even when your feelings vanish.

• God's presence is not always emotional—it is often sacrificial.

Try this: On days when God feels distant, light a candle and say aloud, “I will still show up.”

Saint Case Study #2: Saint John Henry Newman

His doubt: As an Anglican priest deeply drawn to Catholicism, Newman faced intense internal conflict. His conversion was slow, full of intellectual and spiritual tension.

What he did: He read deeply, prayed steadily, and allowed the tension to guide him into greater clarity. He didn’t rush his decision.

What we can learn:

• Doubt can be a sign you’re thinking deeply, not falling apart.

• Slow discernment is holy.

• Faith can grow through questions, not in spite of them.

Try this: Journal the questions that won’t leave you alone—not to solve them immediately, but to notice where they’re pointing you.

Saint Case Study #3: Saint Thérèse of Lisieux

Her doubt: Toward the end of her life, Thérèse experienced a crisis of faith. She doubted heaven, God’s love, and the very promises she had built her life on.

What she did: She clung to trust, even when her feelings contradicted it. She described walking in darkness, but holding God’s hand anyway.

What we can learn:

• Trust isn’t the absence of fear. It’s choosing love anyway.

• When your head is full of questions, your heart can still choose to stay.

• God receives even the smallest, most fragile acts of trust.

Try this: When doubts come, whisper, “Jesus, I trust in You”—not because you feel it, but because you choose it.

Saint Case Study #4: Saint Thomas the Apostle

His doubt: He missed the Resurrection appearance and refused to believe without seeing Jesus himself. His nickname—Doubting Thomas—has stuck for centuries.

What he did: He brought his doubt directly to Christ. He didn’t fake belief—he asked for proof. And Jesus met him there.

What we can learn:

• Jesus doesn’t shame honest doubt.

• Bringing your doubt to God is an act of faith.

• You don’t have to pretend.

Try this: In prayer, speak plainly. “I don’t understand. I’m scared. Help my unbelief.” That’s not a failure. That’s how trust grows.

Final Thought: Doubt Isn’t the Enemy. Despair Is.

Doubt can deepen your faith when it drives you to ask, seek, and wrestle with God. The saints show us that fidelity isn’t about perfect certainty. It’s about continuing the conversation.

So if you're walking with questions right now, you're not disqualified. You're walking a path many holy feet have walked before you.

Want a simple tool for navigating seasons of doubt and clarity? Download our Lectio Divina Journal Template in the Ko-Fi store to pray with scripture and track where God is moving—even in the questions.

What Is Spiritual Consolation? A Beginner’s Guide to Discernment

 

Consolation is not just a feeling. It’s how God speaks to the heart.

If you’ve ever felt a sudden stillness during prayer, a surge of clarity in the middle of grief, or an unexpected joy that feels anchored rather than giddy—you’ve likely experienced spiritual consolation.

But for many Catholics, especially those new to intentional discernment, it’s hard to know what those movements of the soul mean. Is that peace from God—or just a mood swing? Does discomfort mean I’m doing something wrong—or something brave?

This beginner’s guide will help you start answering those questions. You don’t need a theology degree to begin noticing how God is moving in your life. You just need attention, honesty, and language.

What Is Spiritual Consolation?

In the tradition of St. Ignatius of Loyola, spiritual consolation refers to an increase in faith, hope, and love—a movement of the soul that draws you closer to God, others, and your true self.

It’s not always a positive emotion (though it can be). It’s more about orientation. Does this movement draw you inward and downward—or outward and upward? Toward fear and isolation—or toward love and trust?

Spiritual consolation often includes:

• A sense of peace or clarity, even in hardship

• A deepening of prayer or desire for the sacraments

• A renewed desire to serve, love, or offer oneself

• An experience of feeling “in tune” with God’s will

How Is It Different from Just Feeling Good?

Not every happy feeling is consolation. And not every uncomfortable feeling is desolation.

Consolation is not the same as emotional relief. Sometimes consolation feels difficult—like the courage to face grief, or the conviction to change course.

Discernment is about direction more than mood. Ask:

• Where is this movement leading me?

• What fruit does it bear in my relationship with God and others?

• Am I being drawn toward freedom—or toward anxiety and confusion?

Learning to Notice the Pattern

Consolation and desolation often come in waves. When you begin to name them, patterns emerge.

Start by paying attention to:

• Your prayer life: When do you feel drawn to God—and when do you feel dry or disconnected?

• Your emotional responses: What moments give rise to deep peace versus disorientation?

• Your daily rhythms: Are there times of day, environments, or relationships that seem to stir you toward or away from God?

You don’t need to analyze everything. But gently noticing is the first step toward discernment.

What to Do When You Feel Consolation

Don’t rush past it. Soak in it. Let it teach you something.

• Write it down. Consolation can be fleeting. Journaling helps you remember how God speaks.

• Stay with it. If you feel drawn to prayer, linger a little longer.

• Anchor it. If a verse, image, or insight accompanied the consolation, return to it during harder days.

What If I’m Not Feeling Anything?

That’s okay. Spiritual dryness is part of the life of faith. Many saints, including Mother Teresa and John of the Cross, experienced long seasons of desolation.

Silence doesn’t mean absence. Sometimes, God is drawing us to deeper trust—not with emotions, but with endurance.

In dry seasons:

• Stay faithful to prayer, even when it feels empty

• Receive the sacraments regularly

• Talk to a spiritual director if possible

Discernment isn’t about chasing consolation—it’s about becoming attuned to God’s movements, even subtle ones.

Final Thought: God Desires to Be Known

Spiritual consolation is not a reward for good behavior. It’s a grace—a glimpse of divine love breaking through ordinary life.

As you begin to notice it, your prayer life deepens. Your choices align more with who you’re becoming in Christ. And your heart learns to recognize the Shepherd’s voice.

Want to go deeper in your prayer life? Try our free prayer helps in the Ko-Fi store, designed to help you listen, reflect, and respond to God’s word—one day at a time.

Faith on the Spectrum: Neurodivergence, Devotion, and the God Who Made Your Brain

 

There is no one right way to be a mind. There is no one right way to be a soul.

And yet—so many neurodivergent people grow up feeling like their way of engaging with God is somehow broken. Too intense, too literal, too distracted, too intellectual. Not quiet enough. Not emotional enough. Not "normal" enough.

But what if the God who formed you in your mother’s womb already knew what your sensory profile would be? What if your prayer life doesn’t have to mimic anyone else’s to be holy?

This is a gentle guide for anyone who has ever wondered whether their brain gets in the way of their devotion—or whether, just maybe, it could become a doorway into deeper faith.

The Myth of the "Correct" Catholic

There’s a cultural script that suggests a “good Catholic” is always reverent in the same ways: quiet in adoration, composed at Mass, fluent in long prayers. But that model often reflects neurotypical preferences—not spiritual superiority.

Neurodivergence includes a wide range of experiences: autism, ADHD, OCD, sensory processing differences, Tourette’s, dyslexia, and more. And yet, Catholic spaces often assume one-size-fits-all participation. When you don’t fit that mold, it’s easy to internalize shame.

But reverence is not about performance. It’s about orientation of the heart. And often, the pressure you feel to perform is not coming from others—it’s coming from the fear that you won’t be accepted as you are. The truth is, most people aren’t judging you. They’re focused on their own prayer, their own presence, their own path to God. And even if a few misunderstand you, God never does.

God doesn’t need you to mask your needs to be welcome in His presence. In fact, your relationship with Him may deepen the more you unmask. Authenticity isn’t a spiritual liability—it’s sacred ground. When you bring your whole self into prayer, without performance or pretense, you’re not being disruptive. You’re being real. And real is where communion begins.

When Traditional Devotions Don’t Fit

You’re not broken if:

• The Rosary feels too long to sustain attention

• Adoration feels physically painful because of sensory discomfort

• You struggle with eye contact, liturgical responses, or kneeling

• You need movement, stim tools, or a fidget item to stay grounded

These aren’t signs of spiritual immaturity. They’re signs that your body and brain are telling the truth. And God doesn’t ask you to lie with your body in order to be close to Him.

Alternative practices that honor your wiring count. That might mean:

• Praying with art, music, or movement

• Short bursts of the Divine Office instead of long prayer marathons

• Writing prayers instead of saying them aloud

• Using timers, visual schedules, or sensory aids to create rhythm

The point is not to force a neurotypical model—but to build a sustainable devotional life that brings you closer, not more ashamed.

God Doesn’t Misfire When He Creates

Your brain—however it processes—is not an error.

Scripture is full of people whose interactions with God did not follow neat social patterns. Prophets who saw visions. Disciples who spoke impulsively. Saints who wrestled with intense focus, compulsive thoughts, or unusual sensory experiences. And through it all, God called them anyway.

Neurodivergence doesn’t disqualify you from sanctity. It might just prepare you for it—because it teaches you how to endure, how to adapt, how to feel and seek and reach in ways the world doesn’t always see.

God sees.

A Church Big Enough for All Brains

The Body of Christ is richer when it includes all its members—not just the ones who sit still, speak fluently, or follow social cues with ease.

If the Church is truly universal, then neurodivergent Catholics shouldn’t have to leave part of themselves at the door. We need more parishes that:

• Offer sensory-friendly Mass options

• Respect assistive devices and stim tools

• Train clergy and catechists on neurodivergent inclusion

• Welcome different forms of reverence without judgment

Your presence in the Church isn’t a problem to fix. It’s a gift to receive.

Final Thought: Your Way Counts

If you’ve ever walked out of a church wondering whether God was disappointed in your distraction—or your overwhelm—or your silence—please hear this:

God is not disappointed in the brain He gave you.

There is room for your way of loving Him. There is room for your intensity, your honesty, your logic, your movement, your curiosity. None of it is a barrier to faith.

You don’t have to earn the right to belong in the Church.

You already do.

Want more inclusive resources or sensory-friendly devotional tools? Visit the Converting to Hope Ko-Fi Shop to explore guides, journals, and creative aids for prayer.

Saint Dymphna: A Witness of Courage, Compassion, and Healing

When we think of saints, we often imagine people whose lives were tidy, holy, and peaceful. But many saints lived through chaos, grief, and trauma. Saint Dymphna is one of those saints. Her story is difficult—but her witness is deeply pastoral for anyone who has experienced fear, family wounds, or mental anguish.

Dymphna was born in Ireland in the 7th century, the daughter of a pagan king and a Christian mother. She was secretly baptized and raised in the Christian faith. When her mother died, her father—grief-stricken and mentally unstable—descended into a dark place. In his madness, he desired to marry Dymphna, seeking to replace his wife with his daughter. Dymphna fled the country with her confessor, Father Gerebernus, and a few companions. They found refuge in Gheel, Belgium, where they built a life of prayer and service to the poor. But her father eventually tracked her down, and when she refused his demands, he killed her. She was only around fifteen years old.

What We Learn from Dymphna

1. You Are Not Defined by What You've Survived

Dymphna’s story reminds us that suffering, even unimaginable suffering, does not define the worth of a soul. She is remembered not for how she died, but for how she lived—with bravery, integrity, and compassion. Her story offers solace to anyone who has faced abuse, trauma, or fear: God sees, God knows, and God calls you by name—not by what you’ve endured, but by who you are.

2. God Is Near to the Brokenhearted

Dymphna is the patron saint of those with mental illness, emotional suffering, and nervous disorders. Her intercession is sought not only because of her father’s madness, but because her life—and her death—testify to God’s closeness to those in anguish. If you are navigating the fog of depression, the sting of anxiety, or the weight of emotional pain, Dymphna stands with you. Not as a perfect example, but as a friend who has known suffering and has been made whole in God.

3. Healing Is Possible, Even If the Story Isn’t Clean

After Dymphna’s death, the town of Gheel became a place of pilgrimage and healing. For centuries, people with mental illness were welcomed into the community, not institutionalized but treated with dignity and integrated into village life. It became a model for compassionate care long before modern psychology. This legacy tells us something profound: even when life ends in tragedy, God can still bring healing. The ripple effects of faithfulness, even in pain, can outlast the suffering.

4. Boundaries Are Not a Lack of Love

Dymphna fled because staying would have been unsafe. Her courage to leave—even from someone she once trusted—was not a rejection of love, but a protection of dignity. For anyone struggling to reconcile faith with the need to walk away from harmful situations, Dymphna offers a powerful witness: that God honors boundaries, especially when they guard the sacredness of life.

A Final Word of Encouragement

Saint Dymphna’s life is not easy reading, but it is essential reading. In her, we see that holiness does not require an easy life or a picture-perfect ending. It requires fidelity, courage, and a heart turned toward God.

If you are struggling with mental health or emotional wounds, you are not alone. Saint Dymphna is already praying for you. And you don’t need to be healed to be holy—you only need to be willing.

Saint Dymphna, friend of the wounded, pray for us.

Visit our Ko-Fi store at ko-fi.com/convertingtohope for downloads inspired by saints like Dymphna and others who walk with us in suffering.

The Monastery in My Mind: Slow Living as a Spiritual Practice

The Monastery in My Mind: Slow Living as a Spiritual Practice

Sometimes I daydream about living in a real monastery. The kind with quiet halls, morning bells, and long stretches of time where nothing needs to be done but everything matters. I crave that rhythm—not as an escape from modern life, but as a return to something more human.

But here’s the truth: I have deadlines, bills, responsibilities, and a nervous system that doesn’t always cooperate. So I started building the monastery in my mind instead.

This isn’t about aesthetic escapism. It’s about reclaiming the interior space where God still speaks.

What Is Slow Living (Really)?

Slow living isn’t about doing everything slowly. It’s about doing the right things at the right pace for your soul. It’s about refusing to treat your worth as a function of productivity. It’s about prayer before performance. Presence before progress.

It means making peace with unhurried obedience. It means noticing when your pace outruns your purpose, or when the world’s metrics of value begin to eclipse Christ’s.

When I live slowly, I:

• Take time to notice what God is doing in the ordinary

• Pause before reacting

• Build routines that leave room for grace (I created a printable daily rhythm template inspired by this idea—available in my Ko-fi shop if you’d like a companion to help build your own sacred routine)

• Listen to my body like it has something to teach me (because it does)

• Let silence stretch long enough for Christ to enter

Anchoring the Day with Sacred Rhythm

Monastic life has a natural rhythm: prayer, work, rest. We can mimic that in our own lives, even if our schedules are chaotic. I anchor my day with small practices:

• Lighting a candle before I write

• Whispering the Liturgy of the Hours (even imperfectly)

• Taking a quiet walk and letting it count as prayer

• Leaving space between tasks instead of cramming everything in

Some days, my rhythm falters. The candle doesn’t get lit. I snap at someone I love. I let anxiety set the tone. But the sacred rhythm is still there—ready to receive me again. That’s what makes it holy. It’s not performance. It’s invitation.

Jesus isn’t pacing, waiting for us to catch up. He’s already seated beside the well.

The Monastery as a Mindset

You don’t have to move to the woods to find holiness. The monastery isn’t just a place. It’s a posture.

We create it by choosing slowness in a world that demands speed. We create it by honoring stillness, cultivating beauty, tending to the unseen. Slow living becomes spiritual when it turns our gaze toward God’s presence in the hidden moments.

Sometimes my monastery shows up in how I fold a blanket or the way I linger over Psalm 131. Sometimes it’s washing dishes while asking Christ to make me clean, too. I don’t need stone walls—I need sacred attention.

Living slowly, for me, means choosing a Kingdom rhythm in a culture that monetizes momentum. I move through the day asking not just “What should I do?” but “Where is Christ already waiting for me?”

When the World Doesn’t Slow Down With You

Slow living isn’t always possible. Some days are full of errands, caretaking, or crisis. But even in the rush, I try to return to small moments of surrender:

• The breath before speaking

• The prayer tucked inside a walk to the mailbox

• The short pause before I refresh the page again

Christ is in those spaces, too.

Slowness is not about control—it’s about consent. I consent to the reality that I am not God. I consent to the idea that I am not behind schedule if I am following Him.

Final Thought: You Are Not Behind

If your life feels fragmented or messy, you’re not failing. You’re learning how to build a sacred rhythm in an unsacred world. The monastery in your mind can become a refuge—a place where your soul can catch its breath and remember that God moves slowly, too.

If this reflection spoke to you, you’ll find more tools for slow living, prayer journaling, and intentional rest in my Ko-fi shop. Everything there is designed to make space for Christ in the ordinary.

Jesus walked. He stopped. He asked questions. He wept. He blessed interruptions. He lived with enough time.

So can we.

And when we forget—when the pace of the world overtakes us—Christ is still there, waiting in the quiet, whispering us back into rhythm.

The Catholic Toolbox: Daily Practices That Don’t Feel Forced

If you’re returning to the Church—or just exploring your way in—it can be hard to know where to start. Everyone seems to have a different opinion about what “counts” as a good Catholic day. Maybe you’ve felt the pressure to pray all four sets of Rosary mysteries, read the entire day’s Mass readings, journal extensively, and cook a feast for your patron saint’s feast day… all before lunch.

Let me tell you something that may surprise you: God does not require overwhelm. He wants your heart. And He knows when something is real and when it’s performative. If you’ve struggled to establish a spiritual rhythm that feels genuine, welcome. You’re not alone—and you’re not failing. You might just need a better toolbox.

We don’t build our faith with guilt. We build it with grace. And the best habits are the ones you can sustain with your real energy, not just your aspirational self. These practices won’t earn you holiness points—but they will draw you closer to Christ, one sincere step at a time.

Here are a few daily practices that are deeply Catholic, deeply formational, and blessedly not performative. These are things you can carry into your life right now, without having to fake it or force it.

1. The Morning Offering (One Line Counts)

You don’t need to launch into a full formal prayer. If all you can say before your feet hit the floor is, “Jesus, I offer this day to you,” that is a powerful spiritual act. Over time, you can add more if it feels right. But even one intentional line sets your compass for the day.

Some people write their offering on a sticky note or keep a holy card on the nightstand. The point is presence—not perfection.

2. Touching the Font (Even If It’s Dry)

If you pass a holy water font, bless yourself. If it’s empty, bless yourself anyway. The sign of the cross is a silent declaration: I belong to Christ. And that matters more than you think. If you live alone, you can even keep a small font by your door or in your prayer space.

This tiny gesture can become a grounding rhythm that reminds you who—and whose—you are.

3. Short Scripture Anchors

Instead of trying to read the whole daily reading set, start with a single verse. One that sticks. One that calls you back throughout the day. Something like, “Lord, I believe—help my unbelief,” or “Create in me a clean heart, O God.” God doesn’t need quantity to work in you. He just needs a crack in the door.

Let that verse become your companion. Write it on your hand. Whisper it in traffic. Let it interrupt your worry loops and breathe light into your moments.

4. A Moment of Silence Before Meals

Whether it’s a whispered grace or a brief pause to breathe and say thank you, reclaim the moment before food as sacred. Not out of obligation—but as an act of love. It reminds you that your body and soul are both worth nourishing.

5. End-of-Day Check-In (No Guilt Trip Required)

The Examen is a beautiful tradition, but you don’t have to follow a full five-step process to meet God at night. Just ask: Where did I feel close to God today? Where did I pull away? What do I want to bring into tomorrow? Keep it honest. Keep it short. Keep it real.

Even 60 seconds of reflection can invite grace into your rest.

6. Call on the Saints Casually

You don’t need a full novena to ask for help. You can whisper, “St. Joseph, be with me,” when you’re trying to finish your work. “St. Dymphna, please cover me,” in a moment of mental struggle. The saints are family—they don’t need a formal introduction every time.

These one-line prayers become spiritual muscle memory. They teach your heart to reach toward heaven as naturally as it reaches for help.

7. Sacred Beauty on Your Walls (or Lock Screen)

Hang an icon. Print a verse. Use a wallpaper that makes you breathe differently when you open your phone. Surround yourself with beauty that speaks of God—not to impress guests, but to invite your own heart into reverence.

Visual cues matter. They soften your inner world, re-center your attention, and act as small altars in the noise of modern life.

8. Lighting a Candle with Intention

If you’re holding space for someone in prayer, grieving a loss, or just needing to feel close to God—light a candle. No words required. The flame itself becomes the prayer. You can say a simple line like, “This light is for You, Lord. Receive what I can’t express.”

This ancient practice connects us to centuries of faithful prayer, reminding us that small light still pierces deep darkness.

9. Carrying a Pocket Sacramental

A small cross, a saint medal, a blessed object in your pocket or bag can be a powerful touchstone. Reach for it in moments of stress. Let it remind you that you are not alone. These items aren’t lucky charms—they’re reminders of deeper truths.

Something as humble as a worn rosary bead can become your lifeline when you’re too tired to pray with words.

Final Thoughts: Faith That Fits in Your Real Life

You don’t need to imitate anyone else’s Catholicism to be close to Christ. What matters is that you show up sincerely. That you let God into your actual day—not the day you wish you had, or the version you’d post on social media.

The Catholic life is not a performance. It’s a relationship. It’s built in ordinary moments, slow habits, sacred pauses. And it can start right now—with one breath, one verse, one candle, one cross.

Start small. Stay honest. Trust that God sees the hidden things—and delights in them. You’re building something beautiful here.

If this article helped you, you can support more like it at ko-fi.com/convertingtohope. Every download or tip keeps these resources going for others who need them.

When Your Mind Needs Help: Why Mental Healthcare Honors God's Design

For many Catholics—especially new or returning ones—mental health can feel like a complicated topic. Is it okay to see a therapist? What if you need medication? Does struggling with anxiety or depression mean you lack faith?

Let’s be clear: needing help for your mental health doesn’t mean you’re spiritually weak. It means you’re human. And caring for your mind is not just compatible with Catholic faith—it’s part of it.

Many converts and returning Catholics come from backgrounds where mental illness was misunderstood, dismissed, or even blamed on spiritual weakness. You might carry deep questions about whether you’re allowed to need help—or whether faith alone should be enough. Let’s gently untangle that, together.

God Made Your Whole Self—Body, Soul, and Mind

The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches that human beings are made in the image of God, with both body and soul (CCC 362–365). Our minds are part of that design. Just as we seek medical care when something is wrong with our bodies, it’s appropriate—and often necessary—to seek help when something is wrong with our thoughts, emotions, or mental stability.

God didn’t make you to suffer in silence. He made you to live fully, love deeply, and participate in the healing work He continues through others.

Jesus didn’t rebuke people for being sick or hurting. He met them with compassion. That same compassion extends to your mental and emotional pain today.

Therapy Isn’t Replacing God—It’s Often an Answer to Prayer

We pray for healing, strength, and peace. But sometimes, God’s answer to those prayers is through trained mental health professionals: therapists, counselors, psychiatrists, and support groups.

Working with a therapist—especially one who respects your faith—can help you navigate deep wounds, anxiety patterns, trauma, or mood disorders with tools that support your whole self. Seeking that kind of support is not a rejection of God’s grace. It’s a participation in it.

Some therapists, particularly those trained in Catholic counseling approaches, help integrate your moral beliefs, prayer life, and values into the healing process—making it not just emotionally restorative, but spiritually grounding.

Medication Isn’t a Moral Failure

There’s a persistent myth in some Christian spaces that medication for mental health is somehow a lack of trust in God. That myth is not only wrong—it’s harmful.

Many mental health struggles have biological or neurological components. Medication can be part of restoring balance, improving quality of life, and allowing a person to fully participate in their vocation and community. That’s not weakness. That’s stewardship.

If you had diabetes, you’d take insulin. If you have depression or bipolar disorder, treatment might include medication. That doesn’t make you less faithful. It makes you responsible.

Saints Struggled, Too

You’re not alone. Many saints faced profound emotional and psychological suffering:

• St. John of the Cross endured intense spiritual darkness and imprisonment.
• St. Thérèse of Lisieux wrote about crippling anxiety and obsessive thoughts.
• St. Benedict Joseph Labre likely lived with untreated mental illness and is now a patron saint for those who are mentally ill.

The path to holiness doesn’t require perfection. It requires honesty, humility, and perseverance. Seeking help is not a detour from the faith journey—it’s part of walking it faithfully.

What About Confession?

Struggling with mental illness is not a sin. Intrusive thoughts, emotional numbness, or depressive episodes don’t reflect a lack of virtue. The Sacrament of Reconciliation can be healing, yes—but it’s not a substitute for mental healthcare. In fact, therapy can help clarify what truly needs confession and what needs compassion.

When mental health and spiritual health overlap, it’s not always easy to sort out which is which. That’s okay. Part of being a faithful Catholic is knowing when to seek both spiritual and professional support.

A Final Word: You Are Not Alone

If your mind is hurting, don’t hide it. You’re not a burden. You’re not broken. You are deeply loved by God—right now, as you are.

There is no shame in seeking healing. There is grace in every step you take toward it.

If you’re unsure where to start, begin with a simple prayer: “God, help me find the right help.” That, too, is an act of faith.

If this message gave you peace, affirmation, or hope, consider leaving a tip to support more faith-rooted content like this: ko-fi.com/convertingtohope.

A Simple Lectio Divina Guide for Catholic Converts

 

When you’re new to the faith, prayer can feel intimidating. You may wonder:

• How do I talk to God?
• What should I say?
• Am I doing it wrong?

The truth is, prayer doesn’t have to be complicated. Jesus says, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock...” (Revelation 3:20). Lectio Divina is one of the most ancient and beautiful ways to open that door and begin to let Him in—a slow, sacred way of reading Scripture that helps you listen to the voice of the Holy Spirit.

This guide is written especially for Catholic converts and returning Catholics who want to grow in prayer without pressure or perfectionism.

What Is Lectio Divina?

Lectio Divina is a contemplative way of reading the Bible that dates back to the early Church. It’s not about Bible study or analysis. It’s about encounter. You read a short passage and let it speak to your heart. In my experience, this is one of the best ways to learn the voice of God and build intimacy.

There are four traditional steps:

1. Lectio – Read
2. Meditatio – Reflect
3. Oratio – Respond
4. Contemplatio – Rest

Let’s walk through each one.

Step 1: Lectio (Read)

Choose a short passage of Scripture. You can use:

• The daily Mass readings (found on USCCB.org)
• A Gospel story you’re drawn to
• A Psalm that reflects your mood

Read slowly. Pay attention to any word or phrase that catches your attention. Don’t analyze—just notice.

Tip: If your mind wanders, that’s okay. Gently bring it back. God is already there with you.

Step 2: Meditatio (Reflect)

Reread the passage. Sit with it quietly.

• What stands out to you?
• What do you feel in your heart?
• Is God drawing your attention to anything specific?

This is not about having a brilliant insight. It’s about being present and open.

Step 3: Oratio (Respond)

Talk to God about what came up in your reflection.

• You can thank Him, ask questions, express emotion, or just sit silently with Him
• Be honest—God desires your real heart, not a polished script

You don’t have to sound holy. You just have to be real.

Step 4: Contemplatio (Rest)

Simply sit in God’s presence.

• You don’t need to say or do anything
• Let His love surround you
• This is the heart of prayer: being with God, not performing for Him

If distractions come, that’s okay. You’re building a habit of attentiveness, not mastering a technique.

Making It Work in Real Life

You can practice Lectio Divina:

• In five minutes or thirty
• At home, in Adoration, or with a journal
• Alone or with a small group

There is no perfect way to do it. The only mistake is never starting.

Conclusion: Let God Speak to Your Heart

Lectio Divina invites you to move from reading about God to listening to God.

Start small. Be gentle with yourself. Let Scripture become your meeting place with the Lord who loves you.

CWant a printable Lectio Divina journal to help you begin? Download it now on Ko-Fi and start your journey with the Word.

The Role of Beauty in Faith: How Aesthetics Shape Our Encounter with God

Have you ever stood at the edge of the ocean at sunset, watching the sky burn with color, and felt something stir deep within you? Or stood beneath towering redwoods, sunlight filtering through the branches, and sensed a quiet awe settle over your heart? I know I feel that pull every time I watch the waves crash against the shore, walk through a forest humming with life, or gaze at the vast night sky sprinkled with stars.

This is your soul telling you something: God has designed you for beauty and to use it to draw closer to Him.

Beauty is more than just an experience—it’s an encounter. Across centuries and cultures, the presence of beauty has drawn people toward the divine, serving as a bridge between the visible and the invisible. But in today’s world, where efficiency and utility often overshadow artistry, it’s easy to forget just how integral beauty is to the life of faith.

We need beauty—not just in our churches, but in our daily lives. Without it, something in us withers. But when we immerse ourselves in the beautiful, something in us awakens.

1. Beauty as a Pathway to God

Think about the last time something beautiful stopped you in your tracks. Maybe it was a piece of music that sent shivers down your spine or the way candlelight flickered during a quiet moment of prayer. Beauty has a way of silencing distractions and drawing us into something beyond ourselves.

The psalmist proclaims, “One thing I ask of the Lord… to gaze on the beauty of the Lord” (Psalm 27:4). St. Augustine, reflecting on his own conversion, lamented, “Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new!” For Augustine, beauty was not just something pleasing but something urgent, calling him home to God.

Pope Benedict XVI put it best: “Beauty wounds. But this is precisely how it awakens man’s longing for the ultimate.” When we encounter true beauty, we are drawn out of ourselves, reminded that we were made for more.

2. The Church’s Historical Embrace of Beauty

The Church has always understood the power of beauty to evangelize, teach, and sanctify. Step into an old cathedral, and you feel it immediately: the height of the ceilings pulling your eyes upward, the stained-glass windows painting stories in light, the scent of ancient wood and incense lingering in the air.

• Sacred Art: Icons, frescoes, and stained glass do more than decorate—they tell the Gospel story in visual form.
• Sacred Music: Chant, polyphony, and even well-composed hymns are meant to lift the heart toward God.
• Sacred Architecture: Churches were built to embody theology in stone and light, creating spaces that whisper, This place is holy. Be still and know.

Even today, a beautiful church speaks in ways that a purely functional space cannot. It prepares the heart for an encounter. It reminds us: You are standing before something greater than yourself.

3. The Modern Neglect of Beauty

But let’s be honest. Many modern churches? They feel more like office buildings than houses of God.

Somewhere along the way, beauty was sidelined as a luxury rather than a necessity. Church architecture became practical rather than transcendent. Music was reduced to what is easy rather than what is worthy. Art, where it existed, often became abstract rather than evocative.

And the result?

• Worship spaces that feel empty instead of awe-inspiring.
• Music that is forgettable instead of soul-stirring.
• A Church that, to the outside world, can seem less compelling and more ordinary.

Beauty is not an accessory to faith. It is an essential part of how we experience God.

4. Relearning to See: Cultivating an Eye for Beauty

How do we reclaim beauty in our faith lives? We start by learning to see again—to train our eyes, ears, and hearts to recognize beauty where it exists.

• In Worship: Seek out reverent liturgies. Support sacred music. Encourage churches to embrace meaningful architecture.
• In Creation: Step outside. Walk without headphones. Listen to the wind, the birds, the waves.
• In Daily Life: Surround yourself with things that lift the soul—art, music, poetry, books. Beauty doesn’t have to be extravagant. Sometimes, it’s as simple as fresh flowers on the table or the glow of candlelight in the evening.

Beauty is not an “extra” in the Christian life—it is a foretaste of heaven. The more we train our souls to recognize beauty, the more we recognize God.

Final Thoughts

We live in a world that is loud, busy, and obsessed with the functional. Beauty disrupts that. It demands stillness. It invites us to wonder.

The Church, at its best, has always understood this. We are called not just to proclaim the Gospel with words, but to make it visible in our lives, in our worship, and in the world around us.

Beauty matters. And when we allow it to shape our faith, it has the power to draw us closer to God.

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The Face of God Series: The Face of God in Isaiah Chapter 6

The Face of God in Isaiah 6: Encountering Holiness

Read the full chapter on Bible Gateway.

Isaiah 6 is one of the most vivid and powerful moments in all of Scripture—a direct glimpse into the throne room of God. Here, the prophet Isaiah experiences a vision of God’s holiness, His majesty, and His call to service. But this isn’t just an event from the past. The truths found in this chapter are just as relevant today, calling us to reflect on who God is and how we respond to Him.

Isaiah 6:1-4

“In the year King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord seated on a high and lofty throne, with the train of his garment filling the temple. Seraphim were stationed above; each of them had six wings: with two they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they hovered. One cried out to the other: ‘Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts! All the earth is filled with his glory!’ At the sound of that cry, the frame of the door shook, and the house was filled with smoke.”

God as the High and Holy King

Isaiah’s vision begins with a stunning revelation of God’s majesty. This isn’t just an impressive scene—it is a declaration of who God truly is. He is high and exalted, ruling over all creation, yet His presence is so overwhelming that even the temple—the very place where His glory dwells—is shaken to its core.

Notice how the seraphim, the highest order of angels, cover their faces and feet in the presence of God. Even these sinless beings cannot bear to look upon His full glory. They cry out, “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts!”—the only attribute of God in Scripture repeated three times. This repetition emphasizes absolute, infinite holiness. Holiness is not just one of God’s traits—it is the foundation of His entire being.

God’s holiness is awe-inspiring, but it can also feel distant. How do we approach a God so high and lifted up? Isaiah’s response gives us the answer.

Isaiah 6:5

“Then I said, ‘Woe is me, I am doomed! For I am a man of unclean lips, living among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!’”

God’s Holiness and Our Unworthiness

Isaiah’s reaction isn’t joy or excitement—it’s fear. He is immediately overwhelmed by his own sinfulness. Standing in the light of God’s holiness reveals the depth of human imperfection in a way that nothing else can. Holiness exposes what is unholy.

But here’s the key: Isaiah’s recognition of his unworthiness doesn’t lead to rejection—it leads to purification.

Isaiah 6:6-7

“Then one of the seraphim flew to me, holding an ember which he had taken with tongs from the altar. He touched my mouth with it and said, ‘See, now that this has touched your lips, your wickedness is removed, your sin purged.’”

God as the Purifier

God does not leave Isaiah in his unworthiness. Instead, He acts. The burning coal from the altar represents both purification and atonement. It is not Isaiah who makes himself worthy—it is God who cleanses him.

This is a direct foreshadowing of Christ. Just as Isaiah is purified by an action from God’s altar, we are cleansed not by our own merit, but through the sacrifice of Christ. God’s holiness does not push us away—it draws us into transformation.

Isaiah 6:8

“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?’ I said, ‘Here I am; send me!’”

God’s Call and Our Response

This moment marks a dramatic shift. The same Isaiah who was just crying out, “Woe is me!” now boldly says, “Here I am, send me!” His encounter with God’s holiness has not left him paralyzed—it has commissioned him.

This is what an encounter with God does. It does not leave us the same. True worship should always lead to a transformed life. Isaiah is not sent because he is strong, wise, or powerful. He is sent because God has made him ready.

Isaiah 6:9-13

“Go and say to this people: Listen carefully, but do not understand! Look intently, but do not perceive! Make the heart of this people sluggish, dull their ears and close their eyes; Lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and their heart understand, and they turn and be healed.”

God’s Sovereignty and the Mystery of Hardness

This is one of the most difficult parts of Isaiah’s commission. Instead of being sent with a message that would bring immediate repentance, Isaiah is told that the people will not listen—their hearts will be hardened, their eyes closed.

This doesn’t mean that God desires their destruction, but rather that He is revealing the condition of their hearts. Isaiah’s message is meant to expose their unwillingness to repent, making clear the spiritual blindness they have already chosen. This passage echoes the words of Jesus, who often spoke in parables, saying, “Whoever has ears, let them hear” (Matthew 13:9).

But this isn’t where the chapter ends.

Isaiah 6:11-13: The Hope of the Holy Seed

“How long, O Lord?” I asked. And he replied: Until the cities are desolate, without inhabitants, Houses, without people, and the land is a desolate waste. Until the Lord sends the people far away, and great is the desolation in the midst of the land. If there remain a tenth part in it, then this in turn shall be laid waste; like a terebinth or an oak whose stump remains standing when it is felled. The holy seed is its stump.”

Even in judgment, God leaves hope. Though the land will suffer devastation, a remnant will remain—the “holy seed.” This imagery of a tree stump suggests death and loss, yet also the promise of new growth. This remnant is a theme throughout Isaiah, ultimately pointing to Jesus, the true Holy Seed from whom redemption and restoration will come.

This passage challenges us to trust God’s long-term plan, even when it seems like all hope is lost. The message of Isaiah 6 is not just about judgment—it’s about God’s faithfulness to preserve His people and fulfill His promises.

Final Reflection: What Does This Mean for Us?

Isaiah 6 reveals a God who is holy, awe-inspiring, and utterly beyond us, yet also a God who purifies, calls, and commissions.

• God’s holiness reminds us who He is. He is not small, distant, or manageable. He is the King, exalted above all things.
• God’s grace meets us where we are. When we recognize our sinfulness, He does not reject us—He cleanses us.
• God’s call transforms us. When we truly encounter Him, we cannot stay the same. We are sent out to reflect His holiness in the world.

Like Isaiah, we are invited into this vision—not just as spectators, but as people who respond. What is God calling you to do? How is He refining you? And most of all, how will you answer when He says, “Whom shall I send?”

When The Face of God in Isaiah series is complete, you’ll be able to purchase a full copy in our store. If you’re looking for a deep and faithful study resource in the meantime, I highly recommend the Ignatius Press Catholic Study Bible—a phenomenal tool for understanding Scripture in its fullest depth.

7 Essential Resources for Catholics Seeking to Deepen Their Faith

As my family has journeyed into the Catholic Church, we've discovered a number of resources that have been invaluable in deepening our understanding and enriching our spiritual lives. These are the books and tools that have helped us along the way, and we hope they can do the same for you. Whether you're looking to strengthen your theological foundation, enhance your daily devotions, or explore Catholic teachings more fully, these resources are here to support and inspire you.

1. Ignatius Press Catholic Study Bible

The Ignatius Press Catholic Study Bible is an absolute powerhouse of Catholic scholarship. This tome stands toe-to-toe with, and easily surpasses, the very best Protestant study Bibles available today. It's packed with insightful commentary that not only makes Scripture more accessible but also brings in cultural context, references to the Church Fathers, and deep connections to the Catechism.

This is one of the most comprehensive Catholic study Bibles produced in the last century, making it an indispensable resource for anyone serious about understanding the faith. Yes, it’s an investment—but it’s one that will serve you for years to come, offering unparalleled depth and clarity in engaging with Scripture. If you’ve never seen a Catholic Study Bible quite like this, trust me—this one is worth it.

Ignatius Press Catholic Study Bible

2. Encyclopedia of Catholic Social Thought, Social Science, and Social Policy

If you've ever wanted to understand why the Church teaches what it does on social issues, this two-volume set is your answer. The Encyclopedia of Catholic Social Thought, Social Science, and Social Policy is a scholarly and expansive guide that explores Catholic teaching on economics, politics, ethics, and justice. Compiled by leading Catholic scholars, it provides historical and theological context for modern debates, breaking down these topics in a way that makes sense.

This is an invaluable resource for those who want to connect their faith with action—whether you're studying Catholic social teaching, working in ministry, or just striving to live your faith more intentionally in today's world.

Encyclopedia of Catholic Social Thought, Social Science, and Social Policy

3. Liturgy of the Hours (4-Volume Set)

The Liturgy of the Hours is one of the most ancient and beautiful traditions of the Church, uniting Catholics around the world in daily prayer. Rooted in the practices of the early Church, it’s been prayed for centuries by priests, religious orders, and laypeople alike.

This four-volume set allows you to fully participate in the same prayers recited by clergy and religious communities, fostering a deeper connection to the universal Church. It’s a structured, sacred way to engage with Scripture, Psalms, and petitions, giving a rhythm to your prayer life. Whether you pray it daily, use it for Lenten reflection, or as a personal retreat, this resource will transform how you experience prayer.

Liturgy of the Hours (4-Volume Set)

4. Rome Sweet Home by Scott & Kimberly Hahn

This book played a huge role in our conversion to Catholicism, and we can’t recommend it enough. Scott and Kimberly Hahn’s story is powerful, personal, and packed with wisdom for anyone exploring the faith.

Beyond being an inspiring faith journey, this book also provides deep Scriptural and historical insights into Catholicism. It’s an excellent tool for understanding, explaining, and defending the faith. Many converts, including us, have found it to be a crucial resource for making sense of Catholic teachings and appreciating the beauty of the Church.

Rome Sweet Home by Scott & Kimberly Hahn

5. Bible Highlighters and Pen Set

I’ve always been a firm believer in taking notes in my Bible. Not only does it help with personal devotions, but it also creates a priceless keepsake—a way to pass down your reflections and insights to future generations.

A good set of Bible highlighters and pens is essential for deepening your Scripture study. These no-bleed highlighters allow you to mark key passages, take notes, and track themes without damaging the delicate pages of your Bible. If you want to build a lasting legacy of faith, this is a great place to start.

Bible Highlighters and Pen Set

6. United States Catholic Catechism for Adults

Our OCIA director gifted this to my husband and me, and it quickly became one of the most useful resources in our faith journey. The United States Catholic Catechism for Adults takes the richness of the Catechism and makes it easier to digest. It includes reflections, discussion questions, and even stories of the saints to illustrate key teachings.

Produced by the USCCB, this catechism is a trustworthy and faithful guide for understanding Catholic doctrine. Whether you're a convert, a catechist, or just looking to deepen your knowledge, this book is an incredible companion on the journey.

United States Catholic Catechism for Adults

7. Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC)

While the previous catechism is fantastic for accessibility, nothing beats the depth, beauty, and inspiration of the Catechism of the Catholic Church. This book isn’t just an instructional manual—it’s a resource for prayer, meditation, and study.

If you want to truly understand what the Church teaches, this is the definitive guide. And honestly, this particular edition is priced so well that there’s no reason not to have a copy in your home. Every Catholic household should own one—it’s an ever-reliable source for faith formation, answering questions, and deepening your relationship with Christ.

Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC)

Final Thoughts

These are the resources that have helped us the most in our journey into the Church, and we hope they can bless you too. Whether you’re just beginning to explore Catholicism or looking to deepen a lifelong faith, these books and tools can guide, inspire, and equip you for the road ahead.

What books or resources have shaped your faith the most? We’d love to hear your recommendations!