What is the Spirit Saying?

 As the vesper light falls and silence settles around me this Sunday evening, I find myself asking, What is the Spirit saying to me now?

I returned to my faith on Ash Wednesday, March 5, after many years away. In truth, though, I never wandered too far. A friend once said, “You’ve always been Jesus adjacent,” and I think that’s right. Even in the wilderness, I watched from a distance, longing. Still, some words feel strange in my mouth. Phrases like “the Spirit speaking to my heart.” They once felt natural. Now they feel borrowed. And yet, as I sat outside tonight, the question rose unbidden: What is the Spirit saying to me?

I hear the call of Jesus, beckoning me to know him more deeply. Though I have returned to him, parts of me remain guarded. Quiet corners still shaped by fear of rejection or pain. But Christ does not demand. He invites. “Come, sit, and dine,” he says. And somehow, in the mystery of the Eucharist, I do. There, my fragmented soul finds healing. There, I begin again. The table becomes a place of union, like a marriage bed of grace where nothing is hidden.

Still, this call is not without fear. To follow Christ is to step into his life, and also into his wounds. His suffering. His surrender. And yet my soul whispers, Lord, help me to say yes. Help me to open in a way that leaves behind the smaller self. The one that only seeks comfort and avoids the fire of transformation.

Another word has stirred, gentle but firm. A warning. A caution not to cling too tightly to apologetics. For while reason has its place, it can become a fortress. A way of being right rather than being real. When it loses its heart, it ceases to be holy. So I pray: Let your love soften me. Shape me. Let it flow through me, not as a weapon, but as a current. Wide, deep, and healing.