I Was Asking the Wrong Question

For a long time, I thought I was afraid of not receiving an annulment.

I prayed about it.

Thought about it.

Imagined every possible outcome.

I would tell myself that I was simply trying to prepare my heart for whatever the Church eventually discerned.

That sounded reasonable enough.

But one day, while praying, I realized something that made me stop.

I wasn't actually afraid of the annulment.

I was afraid of what it might ask of me.

Those aren't the same fear.

If I'm honest, I don't think the tribunal itself ever frightened me. The Church has every right to investigate my marriage. I want the truth. I genuinely do. If my marriage was invalid from the beginning, then I want to know that. If it was valid, then I want to know that too.

Truth has never been the enemy.

The unknown has.

As I kept praying, another question quietly surfaced.

"What if the bond is real?"

I had asked myself that question before, but usually with panic.

This time...

I simply let it sit there.

No arguments.

No rehearsed answers.

Just silence.

Then another thought came.

"Would you still love Me?"

I don't know if those were God's exact words or simply the place where my prayer had finally arrived.

Either way, they exposed something in me.

I realized that my greatest fear wasn't lifelong fidelity.

It was lifelong uncertainty.

There's a difference.

I think I could carry almost any cross if someone promised me exactly how long it would last.

If someone said, "This will make sense in five years," I would probably find the strength to endure it.

But that's not how discipleship works.

Jesus never handed His disciples a timeline.

He handed them Himself.

I've noticed how often I want guarantees before I surrender.

I want to know the destination before I take the first step.

I want to know how the story ends before I trust the Author.

But faith has never worked that way.

Faith has always been one step.

Then another.

Then another.

As I've continued praying, I've discovered something unexpected.

I'm not asking God for an answer nearly as often anymore.

I'm asking Him for the grace to be faithful, whatever the answer turns out to be.

That feels like a much holier prayer.

Not because it's detached.

Because it's surrendered.

Do I still hope?

Of course I do.

I'm human.

I still have desires.

I still have dreams.

I still have moments when I imagine a future that makes me smile.

But those hopes no longer feel like demands.

They've become offerings.

They're simply places where I say,

"Lord, this is what I would choose... but I trust You to choose better if You must."

I never thought I would be able to pray that sincerely.

A year ago, I probably couldn't have.

Today...

I think I can.

Not because I've become stronger.

Because God has become more trustworthy in my eyes.

I still don't know what the Church will one day determine.

I don't know what my vocation will look like ten years from now.

I don't know whether my life will unfold according to the quiet hopes I still carry in my heart.

But I've begun to realize something that brings me an unexpected kind of peace.

My vocation has never first been to marriage.

Or to motherhood.

Or to ministry.

Or to anything else.

My first vocation has always been holiness.

Everything else belongs underneath that.

If I become holy, then whatever path God asks me to walk will eventually become the right one.

Not because it will be easy.

Because it will be His.

And for the first time...

that feels less frightening than it used to.

It almost feels...

like freedom.

💜