The Face of God Series: The Face of God in Isaiah Chapter 11

 

Isaiah 11 (NABRE – New American Bible, Revised Edition)

*Read the full chapter on *Bible Gateway

The Face of God in Isaiah 11: The Holy Root, the Just Judge, and the Peaceful King

If Isaiah 1 introduced us to the ache of God’s broken heart, Isaiah 11 brings us face to face with His dream for the world—a vision not born of fantasy, but rooted in the fierce realism of redemption. The first chapter was an invitation to repentance. This one is a vision of what restoration looks like. It is no coincidence that Isaiah’s prophecy pivots here to a figure filled with the Spirit of the Lord—the shoot from the stump of Jesse. This chapter gives us a vivid, poetic glimpse of the Messiah, but even more so, it gives us a window into the heart of God and the life He invites us into.

Isaiah 11:1

"But a shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse, and from his roots a bud shall blossom."

God as the God of New Beginnings
God does not abandon the story when it looks barren. The stump of Jesse suggests devastation—a dynasty cut down, a promise that appears to have withered. But God is not done. He brings life from what seems dead. This is who He is: the God who makes resurrection possible, the God who sees potential in the ruins. Even when the Davidic line seems broken beyond repair, God is already planting hope. He is the gardener who never stops tending the soil.

This is a reminder for our own lives, too. When we feel like stumps—cut down by suffering, sin, or circumstances—God is not done with us. The shoot will come.

What This Means for Us
No matter how final our failures or how deep our wounds, God is already planting new life. The spiritual life is never static—there is always a shoot waiting to blossom. Trust Him in the silence. Hope is already taking root beneath the surface.

Isaiah 11:2-3a

"The spirit of the LORD shall rest upon him: a spirit of wisdom and of understanding, a spirit of counsel and of strength, a spirit of knowledge and of fear of the LORD, and his delight shall be the fear of the LORD."

God as the Source of Perfect Wisdom
In a world that prizes performance and cleverness, God reveals that true leadership begins in reverence. The one He anoints is not merely intelligent—He is Spirit-filled. And the Spirit He pours out is sevenfold, echoing the fullness of God’s character:

• Wisdom

• Understanding

• Counsel

• Strength

• Knowledge

• Fear of the Lord

• Delight in that fear

The repetition of "fear of the Lord" may feel strange to modern ears, but in Scripture, it means awe-filled love, humble reverence, and an awareness of God's utter otherness. This is not terror; it is trust in Someone infinitely greater. The Messiah delights in this reverence. And so should we. The face of God revealed here is not only wise but willingly worshiped by the one He sends.

What This Means for Us
The spiritual life begins in reverence. Ask God for this sevenfold Spirit. Let your prayer life move beyond requests and into relationship—a place of wonder, a place of surrender, a place where God's presence becomes your delight.

Isaiah 11:3b-5

"Not by appearance shall he judge, nor by hearsay shall he decide, but he shall judge the poor with justice, and decide aright for the land’s afflicted... Justice shall be the band around his waist, and faithfulness a belt upon his hips."

God as the Just and Faithful Judge
In Isaiah 1, we saw God's concern for the vulnerable: the orphan, the widow, the oppressed. That concern is not a passing mention. It is central to His character. Now, in Isaiah 11, we see that the Messiah doesn’t rule by bias or perception. He rules by truth. His justice isn’t performative. It is real, impartial, and righteous.

God is not impressed by appearances. He doesn't judge by reputation. He sees to the heart. And the justice He brings is especially good news for the poor and afflicted. His faithfulness is not a soft trait—it is the strength He wears like armor. When we long for leaders who are both strong and good, this is the standard. And it flows from the very character of God.

What This Means for Us
We are called to reflect this same justice in our relationships. Don’t judge by appearances. Defend the afflicted. Let your words be guided by truth, not hearsay. Faithfulness in the small places of our lives becomes the belt we wear in service to the Kingdom.

Isaiah 11:6-9

"Then the wolf shall be a guest of the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat... They shall not harm or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth shall be filled with knowledge of the LORD, as water covers the sea."

God as the Bringer of Peace
This passage is more than poetic idealism. It is a vision of restored creation—a peace so deep it rewrites the instincts of predators and prey. In Eden, before sin, there was harmony. Isaiah 11 promises a return to that harmony, not through human effort alone, but through divine intervention.

This is the peace of the Kingdom. And it shows us something profound about God: He is not content with individual salvation. He wants cosmic restoration. He dreams of a world where even natural enemies are reconciled. And He is working toward that future.

What This Means for Us
We are called to be agents of this peace. Not merely to avoid conflict, but to be peacemakers—people who transform hostility with the knowledge of God. Let your presence disarm aggression. Let your words sow gentleness. Let the Kingdom break through in how you live.

Isaiah 11:10

"On that day, the root of Jesse, set up as a signal for the nations, the Gentiles shall seek out, for his dwelling shall be glorious."

God as the Hope of All Nations
Here we see God’s mission expanding beyond Israel. The root of Jesse—Jesus, as Christians will later understand—is not only the fulfillment of Jewish hope but the invitation to the whole world. This Messiah is not tribal. He is global. His dwelling is glorious not because of gold or grandeur but because He welcomes all who seek Him.

This is the face of God: open-armed, world-reaching, glory-bearing. He is not hidden. He is lifted up like a banner so that all may come.

What This Means for Us
We are part of a global family. Faith is not a private possession—it’s a signal to the world. Live your life like a banner lifted up. Let others be drawn to Christ not by your perfection, but by the spaciousness of His welcome flowing through you.

Isaiah 11:11-16

"On that day, the Lord shall again take it in hand to reclaim the remnant of his people... There shall be a highway for the remnant of his people that is left from Assyria, as there was for Israel when it came up from the land of Egypt."

God as the Gatherer of the Scattered
God does not forget His people, even when they are scattered across the nations. Isaiah closes this chapter with a vision of divine reclamation—a second Exodus, this time not from one land but from many. From Assyria, Egypt, Cush, Elam, and beyond, God will gather His people like a shepherd calling every last sheep.

This shows us the heart of God as a restorer of what has been broken, a mender of what was torn. He does not lose track of even one. The highway imagery is especially powerful: where once there were obstacles and barriers, now there is a way. He makes a path through the wilderness to bring His people home.

This promise has both a historical and spiritual dimension. For Israel, it foreshadowed return from exile. For us, it reminds us that no matter how far we’ve strayed, God is already building the road back. He is not just willing to welcome the lost; He is actively seeking them. Actively seeking us.

What This Means for Us
God has not lost you. You are not forgotten. There is always a path home. And once you begin walking it, you can help clear the way for others. Become part of the highway construction crew. Help remove obstacles. Be part of the gathering, not the scattering.

Final Reflection: God’s Heart in Isaiah 11

Isaiah 11 is one of the clearest portraits of the Messiah in all of Scripture—but more than that, it reveals God’s heart for His people, His creation, and His Kingdom. He is the God of new beginnings, the source of perfect wisdom, the righteous judge, the bringer of deep peace, the hope of every nation, and the gatherer of the scattered.

And He is not far off. He is already at work. In Christ, the shoot has sprouted. The Kingdom has come, even if not yet in full. And we are invited to live in its light—not just someday, but now.

What part of this vision speaks most to you today? Where do you need to remember that the shoot will come?

Let this chapter awaken hope in you. The face of God is not only just and holy—it is beautifully, faithfully near.

To explore these themes more deeply, I recommend the Ignatius Catholic Study Bible (affiliate link). It brings clarity and depth to every chapter of Scripture, and has been an invaluable companion in this series.

When The Face of God in Isaiah series is complete, you’ll be able to purchase the full edition in our Ko-Fi store at ko-fi.com/convertingtohope. Stay with us as we continue the journey.

Catholic, Autistic, and Beloved: Finding God When You Feel Like a Misfit

Intro: The Faith Was Never Meant to Be a Social Test

If you’ve ever sat in a pew and felt completely out of place—not because you didn’t love God, but because the way church feels doesn’t fit your brain—you’re not alone.

If incense makes your head spin, if eye contact during the Sign of Peace fills you with dread, if small talk outside the sanctuary feels harder than confession—this is for you.

Autistic Catholics exist. We’re not broken. And we are not spiritual failures because we find religious environments overwhelming or confusing. We are not misfits in the kingdom of God.

We belong—not despite our neurology, but within it. God made us whole. And that includes the parts that don’t blend in easily.

This reflection draws from personal experience, spiritual direction sessions, and years of walking with other neurodivergent believers who love their faith but often feel alien in the pews. You’re not broken. You’re beloved.

If you’ve ever searched for phrases like “autistic Catholic,” “neurodivergent and church,” or “faith when you feel like a misfit,” you’re in the right place.

When You’re Too “Much” or “Not Enough” for Church Culture

Church spaces—especially in parishes that lean social or extroverted—can sometimes feel like a constant test of your capacity to perform neurotypical behavior. There’s pressure to:

• Smile even when your body is shutting down

• Join groups that move too fast and talk too much

• Make sense of metaphors that feel imprecise

• Participate in “fellowship” that leaves you more drained than nourished

For many autistic Catholics, these pressures don’t just cause discomfort—they create spiritual dissonance. We start to wonder: If this is what belonging looks like, is there something wrong with me that I can’t do it?

There isn’t.

The Church is richer than its social surface. Your belonging isn’t measured by how well you fake being comfortable. It’s measured by the fact that you were baptized into the Body of Christ—and nothing can undo that.

I’ve heard this time and again from autistic Catholics I’ve counseled and spoken with: “I love Jesus. I just can’t do church.” That tension is real—and it’s not evidence of failure. It’s evidence of deep desire trying to find real expression.

This section touches on a common concern among people searching for “can autistic people be Catholic” or “Catholicism and social anxiety.”

What the Faith Gets Right (and What We Sometimes Miss)

Catholicism, in its fullness, is profoundly sensory and structured. That’s not a bug—it’s a feature. For many autistic folks, the beauty of liturgy, the predictability of the Mass, the deep symbolism of the sacraments, and the rhythm of the liturgical year offer stability.

But what the culture around it sometimes gets wrong is assuming that holiness always looks social, expressive, or emotionally demonstrative. And that just isn’t true.

Some of the Church’s greatest mystics were profoundly interior. Some of its most faithful souls were quiet, awkward, or deeply misunderstood. Autistic Catholics are part of that lineage.

You don’t have to love coffee hour to love Jesus.

In spiritual writing and formation groups I’ve led, I’ve watched autistic Catholics thrive when given space to engage on their terms—through structure, intellect, beauty, or silence. There is no one neurotypical path to holiness.

People looking for “Catholic sensory-friendly Mass,” “autism and liturgy,” or “introvert in Catholic Church” will find language here that affirms their experience.

Finding a Language for Faith That Makes Sense

One of the hardest parts of autistic spirituality is finding language that feels right. You might wrestle with:

• Abstract devotional language that feels emotionally manipulative

• Praise-and-worship environments that flood your senses

• Homilies that lean heavily on metaphor or unwritten social assumptions

• Spiritual direction that asks you to emote in ways that aren’t accessible to you

These struggles aren’t a lack of faith. They’re differences in processing. And you’re allowed to find different ways in.

You’re allowed to pray through structure, through movement, through silence. You’re allowed to sit in Mass without singing. You’re allowed to say, “I’m here, Lord,” without knowing what you feel.

God doesn’t need you to perform. He just wants you present.

I’ve walked with autistic adults who finally found peace through the Divine Office, or visual meditation on icons, or tactile prayers like rosary beads. When the Church’s tools are offered without pressure to conform, they open real doorways.

Jesus Knew Misfits. He Loved Them on Purpose.

Christ consistently reached for the ones who didn’t quite belong. The socially awkward. The emotionally intense. The ones who got labeled too much—or not enough. The ones who had to step outside the crowd to be themselves.

He didn’t just tolerate them. He chose them.

And He chooses you, too.

Not when you’re masking well enough to pass.
Not when you’ve fixed all the things that make you “difficult.”
Not when you’re finally fluent in group dynamics.

Now. As you are.

You don’t have to “fit” the culture to belong in the Church. You already do. You are Catholic. You are autistic. And you are deeply, unshakably loved.

This is not just comfort. It’s truth—rooted in scripture and tradition. Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). That includes those burdened by invisible labor, sensory overwhelm, and social exhaustion.

If you're searching for “Jesus and neurodivergence” or “Catholic autism support,” this is your sign you’ve found home.

Want to explore your faith through a lens that honors neurodivergence and spiritual depth? Subscribe to Converting to Hope for weekly reflections, or visit our Ko-Fi page to access journaling tools, printable prayer guides, and neurodivergent-friendly spiritual resources. 

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.

Want to explore your conversion story with more honesty and depth? Subscribe to Converting to Hope for weekly reflections, or visit our Ko-Fi page for guided prayer tools, journals, and conversion resources. Keywords like Catholic conversion resources and spiritual growth with trauma are part of what we speak into every week.

Why the Church Feels Slow—And Why That Might Be Okay

Subjects Covered: Catholic conversion, waiting for sacraments, OCIA experience, faith formation, Catholic patience

There’s a common ache among adult converts, especially those of us coming from high-energy Protestant communities: Catholicism can feel slow.

The parish calendar moves at a different pace than we’re used to. Discernment takes months or years. Sacraments unfold slowly, often through complex processes. It’s not unusual to feel like you’re endlessly waiting—for clarity, for paperwork, for permission, for someone to see how ready you are.

And in that waiting, it’s easy to feel forgotten.

But what if that slowness is part of the Church’s fidelity, not its flaw?

The Fast Church We Left Behind

When my husband and I began this journey, we brought with us years of experience in fast-paced ministry. We were used to momentum. We were used to altar calls that pulled you forward in a rush of emotion. We were used to communities that equated movement with faithfulness.

So it felt disorienting to sit in stillness.

We weren’t used to spiritual growth unfolding over liturgical seasons. We weren’t used to waiting months just to complete paperwork, or discerning vocation over a yearlong timeline. We had to learn not to interpret that stillness as a lack of care—but rather, as care of a different kind.

It’s not that we stopped growing. It’s that growth was happening underground.

Many of us came from faith traditions that moved fast. Worship was emotionally charged. Decisions were made quickly. You could declare yourself saved, step forward at the altar, and be baptized on the same day. The response was immediate, the energy was tangible, and the sense of spiritual movement was constant.

That rhythm shaped us. It taught us to expect transformation in real time. To expect quick answers. To equate spiritual aliveness with visible activity.

So when we land in the Catholic Church and are asked to slow down—to submit to long processes, to wait for seasons to change—it can feel like we’ve hit a wall.

Slow Isn’t the Same as Cold

If you’ve ever felt like no one sees how urgently you want to belong—you’re not imagining it. But you’re also not alone. Many converts feel that ache.

But the Church moves slowly because she takes sacred things seriously. The Catechism teaches that the sacraments are not private declarations but divine actions that configure us to Christ (CCC 1116: Sacraments of the Church). And divine things—like Eucharist, reconciliation, and confirmation—require preparation, not performance.

The Church is not being dismissive. She’s being faithful. Slow grace is not lesser grace. It’s the kind that settles deep, changes your instincts, and shapes you for the long road.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the slowness of the Church isn’t apathy. It’s reverence.

The Catholic Church doesn’t rush because what she’s offering is real. Sacraments aren’t symbolic—they’re embodied. They do something. And anything that sacred is approached with caution and care.

It may feel like people don’t understand your urgency. But what’s actually happening is that the Church is choosing formation over transaction, discernment over impulse, and depth over spectacle.

The slowness is deliberate. And sometimes, it’s a mercy.

It’s Okay to Feel Impatient

I’ll be honest—there have been moments when I’ve felt the ache of waiting. While our own OCIA team has been deeply kind and attentive, the larger systems—like the tribunal or diocesan offices—sometimes moved at a pace that felt glacial. In those quiet, uncertain stretches, I occasionally wondered if we’d slipped through the cracks.

But every time I brought that ache into prayer, I heard something quiet and unshakable: This is forming you. Not punishing. Not sidelining. Forming.

The slowness forced me to listen more. To reflect more. To dig past emotional surges and ask deeper questions about faith and trust.

The USCCB reminds us that formation is not just intellectual—it’s personal and relational (source). What feels like delay is often invitation—into deeper knowing, deeper surrender, and deeper communion with the Church herself.

Still, the struggle is real. It’s okay to feel frustrated by the pace. It’s okay to feel restless. That doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong.

There’s a sacred tension between the fire in your heart and the pace of the institutional Church. Hold that tension gently.

You’re not alone. Many converts walk this same path—eager, uncertain, wondering if they’ll ever feel fully caught up.

But over time, that slowness becomes something else. It becomes rhythm. It becomes rootedness. It becomes space to breathe.

Catholic Devotional Tools for Trusting the Wait

Sometimes what we need most in the waiting is a physical reminder to pause, breathe, and trust. That’s where sacred objects come in—not as magical solutions, but as gentle anchors.

I keep a Tiny Saints St. Monica Keychain on my bag. It’s a cheerful little reminder that patient, faithful waiting can be powerful—because St. Monica waited 17 years for her son’s conversion. And her persistence bore fruit.

On my desk is a small Saint Elizabeth (Mother of John the Baptist) figurine. She reminds me that joy sometimes arrives late—and that unexpected hope is holy, too.

If you’re navigating a season where grace feels slow, surrounding yourself with reminders of saints who understood waiting can be quietly transformative.

Final Thought: Embracing the Slow Work of God

If you’re in this in-between place, I want you to hear this from someone walking it with you: You are not behind. You are not forgotten. And you are not disqualified because the calendar hasn’t caught up to your heart.

You are becoming Catholic in the marrow. You are participating in the Church’s slow grace. And that counts.

If you need a place to feel seen in the meantime, we’ve built Converting to Hope for you—for all of us—who are finding holiness in the hesitation. We are your companions in the waiting, not because we’ve finished it, but because we’ve chosen to stay.

Take heart. The slow Church sees you. And so does Christ.

You may feel stuck, but you’re still becoming.

God’s timeline is not dictated by parish schedules. Your growth is not stalled because someone forgot to call. Every moment of waiting can still be infused with grace.

And maybe, just maybe, the slow Church is exactly what our fast hearts need—to breathe, to heal, and to deepen our faith through real Catholic formation.

If you’ve found comfort or companionship in this reflection, consider supporting our mission or exploring our other resources at ko-fi.com/convertingtohope. Your presence helps us continue building a community where waiting is honored, and faith is formed slowly, together.

Peace in Delays: When You’re Still Waiting on Your Annulment

Everyone else is being received into the Church next week. We’re still waiting.

My husband and I have been in OCIA for months. We’ve walked this journey with deep commitment and real anticipation. And now, as others prepare for sacraments, we’ve been asked to wait—not because our faith isn’t strong, but because our annulment paperwork is still in process.

If you're in a similar place, I want to share what we're learning—and how this waiting can still be holy.

You Belong Right Now

Being asked to wait doesn’t mean you’re less ready. It doesn’t mean you’re not faithful enough. It doesn’t mean you’ve missed your moment.

It means the Church is slow. And sometimes, slow is sacred.

The annulment process is one of the hardest parts of entering the Catholic Church as an adult. It’s slow, deeply personal, and often requires you to revisit pain you’ve already worked through. When you finally submit the paperwork, you want it to be done. You want to move forward.

But sometimes God asks us to wait even after we've said yes.

This Delay Is Not Rejection

You are not spiritually sidelined. You are not in limbo. You are not being punished.

This delay is not about your worth. It’s not about shame. It’s not about being seen as less-than. It is simply the Church’s legal process doing what it must.

And even within that process, God is working.

Let the Longing Become Holy

My husband and I have been walking this road together. When we joined OCIA, we knew we’d have to wait for our annulments, but we didn’t realize how it would feel—watching others move forward while we stood still.

The first time someone asked if we were getting confirmed with the group, I smiled and said, “Not yet.” But inside, it stung. Because we’ve shown up for everything. We’ve prayed, studied, committed. We believe this is home. And still, we wait.

There have been moments where I felt angry—not at God, but at the process. It felt like a disconnect between what we knew in our hearts and what the paperwork allowed. It felt like love and obedience weren't enough. And it’s hard to sit with that tension.

But I had to reframe it.

Waiting doesn’t mean denial. It means preparation. It means our wedding vows, our shared faith, our family’s journey—none of that was unseen. It’s being folded into something larger than we can yet name.

The ache hasn’t disappeared. But it’s become sacred. And when the day comes that we kneel side by side and receive Him fully, it won’t be a patch. It will be fulfillment.

Because I know what it costs to get there.

Your Yes Still Matters

You are not in spiritual pause. You are in preparation.

Every day you keep showing up—at Mass, in prayer, in community—you are living out your yes. Every time you wrestle with doubt but choose to stay, you are echoing Mary’s fiat. And God sees it.

You are not forgotten. You are not on the outside. You are walking the long road, and it is holy.

What the Church Actually Teaches About Annulments

It’s easy to feel like the annulment process is some kind of test, or worse—a judgment on your past. But the Catechism of the Catholic Church reminds us that marriage is a sacrament, and as such, it must be entered into freely, fully, faithfully, and fruitfully (CCC 1625–1632: Catechism of the Catholic Church - The Celebration of Matrimony). An annulment isn’t a declaration that your past relationship was meaningless. It’s an acknowledgment that something essential was missing when that marriage began.

The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) affirms that annulments exist to uphold the dignity of the sacrament—not to punish people. Their FAQ on annulments clarifies that a declaration of nullity is not about erasing a past but about understanding it in light of Church teaching.

And while it’s hard to wait, the Code of Canon Law (can. 1066–1067: Code of Canon Law - Title VII: Marriage) outlines the Church’s responsibility to investigate a person’s freedom and readiness for sacramental marriage. This isn’t bureaucracy for its own sake—it’s the Church taking marriage seriously, the way God does.

These teachings don’t erase the ache. But they remind us that the ache itself can be part of a holy journey.

Books to Deepen Your Journey

Our One Great Act of Fidelity: Waiting for Christ in the Eucharist by Fr. Ronald Rolheiser beautifully explores the sacredness of waiting and presence, particularly in relationship to the Eucharist. If you’re struggling with feeling left behind or unsure how to hold the tension of delay, this book offers deep spiritual insight and comfort.

Annulments & the Catholic Church: Straight Answers to Tough Questions by Dr. Edward Peters is a must-read for anyone confused or overwhelmed by the annulment process. It gives honest, compassionate answers and helps you feel less alone in the waiting.

Every Step Has Value

If you're still waiting, know this: the waiting isn't wasted. Every Mass you attend without receiving, every time you kneel and pray with longing in your heart, every time you say yes to the journey even when it aches—that matters. It is not filler. It is formation.

In this season of delay, I’ve come to believe that waiting is not the absence of grace, but one of the ways grace enters. Slower, quieter—but no less real.

There is value in the patience you’re learning, the humility you’re practicing, the tenderness you’re holding for others who don’t know how hard this part is. There is value in resisting the urge to disappear. There is value in staying connected, even when it feels like everyone else has moved ahead.

You are not behind. You are being deepened.

Final Thought: Let This Be Yours

When your annulment is granted and you are received into the Church, it will not be a consolation prize. It will not be a makeup moment. It will be your own sacred beginning.

And maybe—just maybe—it will be even more beautiful because it wasn’t rushed.

You are loved. You are seen. You are on your way.

For more stories of conversion and Catholic life, visit Converting to Hope

The Spiritual Discipline of Being Seen: Letting Others Know You

 

Some disciplines are visible—kneeling in prayer, fasting, receiving the Eucharist. Others are quieter, hidden, unfolding in the invisible chambers of the soul. This is one of those: the call to let yourself be seen.

Not just seen as in “noticed.” Seen as in known. As in vulnerable. As in letting your story, your wounds, your longings, your needs show up in the light where love can find them.

And for many of us—especially those who’ve been hurt, overlooked, or burned by spiritual communities—that might be the hardest discipline of all.

Why Being Seen Matters

God made us in His image—not as islands, but as people created for communion. The Catechism tells us that “man is by nature and vocation a religious being. Coming from God, going toward God, man lives a fully human life only if he freely lives by his bond with God” (CCC 44).

But part of that bond with God is reflected in our relationships with others. That’s not just a feel-good suggestion—it’s theological. The Body of Christ isn’t a metaphor. It’s the truth of how God chooses to work in the world.

When we hide out of fear or shame, we begin to wither in the dark. When we let ourselves be known—even in small ways—we begin to heal.

“Confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, that you may be healed” (James 5:16).

What Being Seen Actually Looks Like

Being seen doesn’t mean dumping your whole life story on someone the second you meet. It doesn’t mean confessing to people who haven’t earned your trust. It’s a process—and it’s holy.

• Telling a friend you're struggling instead of pretending you're fine

• Admitting that you don’t know what you believe, but you want to

• Letting your priest, pastor, or mentor know the real question you’re carrying

• Opening your heart in spiritual direction—even if it shakes as you do it

• Naming the wound. Or the hope. Or the ache. Out loud.

It’s not about performance. It’s about presence.

Why It Feels So Hard

For many of us, visibility has been dangerous. We’ve been judged for asking too much, feeling too deeply, or needing more than someone was willing to give.

Some of us have experienced spiritual trauma—times when our vulnerability was weaponized, or our honest questions were met with shame. So we learned to stay hidden, even from people who love us.

But here’s the deeper truth: when Christ calls Lazarus out of the tomb, He doesn’t just raise him from the dead. He calls the community to unbind him (John 11:44). That’s how resurrection happens—in the presence of others, with help.

And yes—it might go badly. You might try to open up and get shut down. You might show your heart and meet silence. But that’s not the end of the story. Because the act of being seen isn’t really about trusting people. It’s about trusting God.

When you choose to step out of hiding, you’re not saying, “I believe everyone will handle me well.” You’re saying, “Even if they don’t—God will.”

Faith isn’t the absence of risk. It’s the decision to move anyway because grace will catch you if things fall apart. That’s what Peter trusted when he stepped out of the boat (Matthew 14:29). And even when he started to sink, Jesus didn’t scold him for trying. He reached out and caught him.

Letting yourself be seen might feel like stepping onto water. But Christ is already standing there. And grace is already moving toward you.

Making Being Seen a Spiritual Practice

Like any discipline, this one grows over time. You don’t have to start with your biggest fear or deepest sorrow. Start with truth in small doses:

• Pray honestly: “Lord, I want to be known. Help me find the right people.”

• Share one real thing with someone safe this week

• Receive love without arguing with it

• Let someone stay when you're tempted to pull away

This isn’t about being emotionally naked with everyone. It’s about choosing not to hide from God, from the people He sends, and from the parts of yourself still waiting for light.

A Final Word

Being seen is scary—but it’s also sacred. It’s the practice of saying, “Here I am, Lord,” and letting that echo into your relationships.

You are not too much. You are not too late. You are not alone.

Letting yourself be seen won’t solve everything. But it might start to heal something.

And in that healing, the Body of Christ grows stronger.

“Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it” (1 Corinthians 12:27).

The Quiet Conversion: When God Changes You Without a Flash of Light

 

Not all conversions come with thunderclaps. Some don’t even come with words.

For many of us, the call to God wasn’t a dramatic moment. It didn’t shake the ground or split the sky. There was no road to Damascus. There was just a slow turning—a pull, gentle but persistent. And over time, without fully realizing it, we began to live differently. Think differently. Love differently.

That, too, is conversion. And it’s holy.

Grace Works Quietly

The Catechism of the Catholic Church reminds us that “conversion is first of all a work of the grace of God who makes our hearts return to him” (CCC 1432). But grace isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always knock the wind out of us or demand immediate surrender.

Sometimes grace works like water wearing down stone. It enters slowly, seeping into the dry places, softening what once seemed immovable. You don’t notice it right away. You just start craving prayer. Or truth. Or the nearness of God, even if you can’t yet name Him.

Jesus often worked this way. In the Gospel of Luke, we meet Cleopas and his companion walking the road to Emmaus. They are heartbroken, confused, and grieving. Christ walks with them, unrecognized, patiently unfolding Scripture. He doesn’t reveal Himself until they’re ready—until they invite Him in (Luke 24:13–35).

That’s the quiet way. No spectacle. Just presence, and transformation that dawns like morning light.

Signs You’re Already in the Middle of a Quiet Conversion

If you’ve ever wondered, “Is God doing something in me?”—He probably is. Here are some signs of a slow, deep work:

• You feel drawn to revisit faith—even if you left it long ago

• You start asking deeper questions about suffering, meaning, and love

• Your desire for peace outweighs your craving for control

• You notice stirrings of repentance or tenderness that weren’t there before

• Church, Scripture, or the Sacraments start pulling at you, gently but persistently

You’re not imagining it. That’s the Holy Spirit.

Quiet Conversion Still Requires Response

Grace is a gift—but it still invites participation. Conversion, even in its gentlest form, asks us to turn. To allow our hearts to be re-formed. That might mean:

• Confessing things we’ve kept hidden—even from ourselves

• Coming to Mass, even if we’re unsure what we believe yet

• Beginning to pray—awkwardly, imperfectly, honestly

• Asking for help. From a priest. A friend. A saint. Christ Himself.

No one needs to witness it for it to be real. But when you choose to say yes to God, even quietly, the heavens rejoice (Luke 15:7).

When Conversion Feels Incomplete

It’s okay to still wrestle. Conversion is not a finish line. It’s a lifelong process of becoming—of learning to love as God loves.

The Catechism says that interior conversion “urges expression in visible signs” (CCC 1430). That means it will begin to shape how we live, even if our beliefs still feel half-formed. Don’t wait to be perfect before you start. God meets you in the middle of the story.

Let It Be Quiet—and Let It Be Holy

If you’ve never had a dramatic testimony, you’re not a lesser Christian. You are a beloved one. The Church doesn’t need more spectacle. It needs more people who are quietly, daily turning toward the light.

Your story matters—even if it starts with a whisper.

God knows how to speak your language. And if He’s calling you gently, you don’t need to shout back. A quiet yes is still a yes.

“Lord, I am not worthy… but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.”