Full Circle and Saying Yes, When You Can't See

Last night, on the eve of the Annunciation, I returned to a church I hadn’t visited since 2019. I found myself reflecting on all God has brought me through since then.

A place near where my daughter once called home—a place that formed her deeply, helping shape her direction and sense of vocation. It formed me too.

Now, years later—with a diploma and two degrees—she sat beside me in the pew, grown. She moves forward not as planned, but still learns, grows, discerns, detaches, and quietly says yes to God in faithful, creative ways.

Seated beside me was my now 18-year-old—one of my homeschooled kids—who had also prayed in this church. In the fall, she will head off to college, following in the footsteps of her siblings and many of the alumni around us.

This was a place where I once came faithfully—daily Mass, Monday Adoration—to lay down my burdens and pick up my cross, especially in the tender days after my dad died, while also walking with my mom through her own loss as she grieved the life she had known.

It was there, in those quiet hours with Jesus, that I kept asking: Where are You calling me next? Back then, Jon and I made plans for the future and dreamed about days to come. Now, those days are in view, but not at all as we imagined.

It was there that I heard the nudge to change course—to bring my two youngest home to be schooled at home for a season.

I didn’t know then what that “yes” would hold.

I didn’t know it would prepare us for a lockdown. Suddenly, it would become necessary anyway. I didn’t know it would prepare us for the unraveling that would come with brain cancer. I didn’t know it would help when caring for my husband after his stroke. For the sacred, heartbreaking days of walking my husband—their dad—home.

And yet…God knew.

He knew we would need a sense of home. Even when it was incredibly hard. Even when I was questioned. Even when the responsibility felt too immense. There was peace. There was grace.

Last night, during Holy Hour, I was surrounded by familiar faces—some from earlier days, some new, some who knew Jon and us. I felt the weight and the grace of it all. In the Presence of Jesus, how could I not?

The weaving.
The witness.
The unknown.
The trust.
The suffering.
The grace.
The healing that came, even while walking through such hard circumstances.

God gathers our stories, threads them through time, and brings us back to places that once held us—places where we questioned our worth and ability. Now, after time has passed, we arrive changed, able to see what we could not before. Looking back, I begin to recognize where He was—and where He is.

Full circle.

I realized how much this month has held, how much God has revealed, and the wounds He has gently begun to heal.

March is the month when seasons begin to shift.
It is also the month of Lent.
It holds my birthday—St. Joseph’s Feast.
Twenty-nine years ago, I entered the Catholic Church at Easter, just months before I married the love of my life.

Here I am Lord.

My conversion had long been on my heart.
Before entering the Sacrament of Matrimony, we desired this deeply.
When so much in life felt uncertain, this became home.

As I write this, it’s the Solemnity of the Annunciation, where Mary gave her yes.

I can see now how many times I have been invited to say yes to God—again and again. Maybe you can, too.

And I see it in my children, too.

My son recently said (or asked for) yes to a call placed on his heart—a beautiful, biblical call to serve the Lord. A priest reminded me to thank him for that, yes.

I said yes to a life of faith, and came home to the Catholic Church, this month 29 years ago. That doesn’t mean life would be neat and pretty. Sometimes I think it asks more of us.

But it has been clear that the Lord is always walking with us.
Sometimes we only see it later.
Sometimes we don’t always see it while we’re in it.
Sometimes it remains a mystery until we reach heaven.

I do not have the perfect faith or obedience of Mary. But I have been given a vocation—to be a wife, a mother…and now, a widow and I choose to live out those calls with God by my side.

And we have been given witnesses, to help us on our journey.

For example St. Monica, a widow and saint, whose life bears witness to perseverance, prayer, and trusting God through what she could not yet see.

It felt more than fitting to end the day in Adoration in this very church, named for that saint, with my bookends beside me. Others who were also called to be there joined us. I could see the threads God was weaving in every encounter.

To sit with Jesus.
To remember where I’ve been.
To honor what has been formed in me through faith, through love, through loss.
To share stories of where God is moving. Even in the most devastating moments.

“May it be done according to your word.”

Faith. Hope. Love.

The faith that has carried me.
The sacraments that continue to give me grace.
The Church Triumphant, like St. Monica, who shows us how to persevere.
The Church Militant—those walking faithfully in their vocations. They strive to live humbly with the Lord.
The beauty of the Church leaves me in awe every time I enter.

Without this yes to the faith, without being held in this sacred Body of Christ, I do not know how I would have endured these losses and challenges. I still know hope, still seek joy, and still believe that suffering can draw me closer to the glory of God.

Because I don’t know that I would have ever imagined this life—

That I would one day sit in that same Church—holding both hard memories and beautiful ones—with my children grown, among friends connected by school, by college, and by a community, a Body of Christ, that still, and so generously, holds us.

But here I am.

And it still feels like home.