Let It Be Done: A Life Shaped by Saying Yes to God

The Annunciation has always felt like a quiet moment that carries immense weight. In the stillness of an ordinary day, the angel appears to Mary with a message that will change everything. There is no long preparation and no perfect timing. There is only an invitation and a calling. What strikes me most is not just that she said yes, but how she said it. Not with full understanding. Not with guarantees. Not with control over what would happen next. She said yes in faith, in trust, without knowing the cost, yet believing that God would be present within it.

I am reminded of this every time I look at the artwork above the tabernacle at my parish, Sts. Anne and Joachim Catholic Church. The image draws your eyes upward and holds together the mystery of God’s plan in a single frame. At the center is Christ on the cross. Above Him is God the Father, with the Holy Spirit present. Surrounding it are moments of salvation history that began with a yes. It is a visual reminder that the Annunciation was not just a moment. It was the beginning of everything that followed.

And it started with Mary’s yes.

I have come to recognize that much of my own life has been shaped by those same kinds of yeses, not always confident, not always easy, but still, yes.

Saying yes to moving away from family and friends meant leaving behind what felt familiar and steady. It meant stepping into places where I did not yet know the people, the rhythms, or even who I would become there. There were moments of deep loneliness and moments of growth that only came because I was no longer surrounded by what was comfortable. In those spaces, I learned to rely on God in a different way. I learned that home is not only a place, but a presence that travels with me when I trust Him.

Saying yes to new job opportunities often came with more questions than confidence. I wondered if I had enough experience, enough knowledge, or enough strength to carry what was being asked of me. Each new role stretched me beyond what felt manageable at the time. Yet in stepping forward, I began to see that readiness is not always something we feel before we begin. Sometimes it is something that is formed within us as we go. God did not wait for me to feel fully capable. He asked for my willingness and met me in the learning, the uncertainty, and the responsibility that followed.

Saying yes to becoming a teacher meant trusting that I could guide and support others even as I continued learning myself. It was a calling that required patience, humility, and a willingness to grow alongside those I was meant to serve.

Saying yes to stepping into leadership roles I did not feel fully prepared for meant accepting responsibility when I would have preferred more time, more clarity, or more certainty. Those moments asked me to rely not on my own confidence, but on God’s grace and the quiet assurance that He equips us for what He calls us to do.

Saying yes to writing meant allowing myself to be seen in ways that felt deeply personal. It meant sharing thoughts, experiences, and faith in a way that could be received, misunderstood, or even rejected. Writing became an act of trust, of offering something real and believing that God could use it for someone else.

Those yeses were not simple. They carried grief, uncertainty, and sometimes loneliness. They asked me to trust when I would have preferred clarity. And yet, looking back, I can see that each one became a place where God met me in a real and tangible way. That is what the Annunciation reveals so beautifully. God does not wait until everything feels secure. He enters into our ordinary lives and invites us into something greater, often before we feel ready. Mary’s yes was not a one time decision. It was a lifelong unfolding of trust, lived out in moments both hidden and profound.

The same is true for us. Faith is often less about having answers and more about being willing to respond. It is choosing to trust that God’s grace will meet us in the unfamiliar. It is believing that even when we leave something behind, we are not left alone.

There are still moments when I hesitate. Moments when I want reassurance before I respond. But the Annunciation, and that image above the tabernacle, remind me that faith is not built on certainty. It is built on relationship. It is built on trust. The cross at the center of that image makes it clear that every yes carries cost. It also reveals something deeper. God is present in all of it, from the first yes to the final surrender.

Mary’s yes continues to echo, not just as a moment in Scripture, but as a way of living.

And today, I am reminded that my own yes does not need to be perfect or fearless. It only needs to be willing.

“Let it be done to me according to your word.”

That prayer is not just Mary’s.

It is mine too.

The Thirst Beneath Our Striving

On Friday night, I had a long conversation with a friend that stayed with me long after we finished talking. During the conversation she shared something her daughter had asked her. Her daughter wondered how you can tell the difference between not being content and always searching for the next best thing, or simply trying to do better and improve yourself by setting goals. That question immediately caught my attention. It is such a simple question, but it touches on something many of us quietly wrestle with. Are we striving because we are never satisfied, or are we striving because we are trying to grow?

As someone who is almost always working on something, the question felt very personal. I spend much of my time writing books, going to school, learning, and creating. There is often another idea forming, another story to write, another project to move forward. Hearing that question made me pause and really think about my own motivations. Why do I keep moving forward? What is driving that desire to continue learning and creating? Is it simply ambition? Is it purpose? Or is there something deeper that is harder to name?

If I am honest, sometimes my tendency to keep doing and producing is not always about growth. Sometimes it is about avoiding stillness. For many years I learned how to stay busy. Work, writing, school, projects, plans. Staying in motion can sometimes feel easier than sitting quietly with what is happening inside your heart. Activity can become a way to keep moving forward without having to fully feel everything that is underneath the surface.

There are moments when I recognize that pattern in myself. It is easier to write another chapter, sign up for another class, or map out the next idea than it is to sit in silence and allow certain memories, questions, or emotions to surface. Busyness can become a shield. Doing can become a way of not feeling.

But there is also another side to this. Not all striving comes from avoidance. Sometimes the desire to grow and create comes from something much deeper. Sometimes it comes from a real thirst that lives inside the human heart. A thirst for meaning, for purpose, for beauty, and for truth. A thirst to use the gifts we have been given in a way that matters.

That is why my friend’s daughter’s question felt so important. It asked something many adults rarely stop to examine. How do we know the difference between restless searching and genuine growth?

Then last night, during Mass, something I heard in Father Luke’s homily brought that question back to the surface in a new way. He said something that immediately caught my attention. He said that it is okay not to feel content and to recognize our thirst, as long as we continue bringing that thirst to Christ. He spoke about how Jesus desires our hearts and our longings. Christ does not ask us to eliminate our desires. Instead, He invites us to bring those desires to Him.

That thought reframed the whole question for me. We often hear that we should be content, and contentment is certainly a good virtue. But sometimes the word contentment can sound like we are supposed to quiet our desires completely or stop longing for something more. Yet when we look at Scripture, thirst is often used as a powerful image for the human relationship with God. The human heart naturally longs for meaning, love, belonging, and purpose. Beneath many of our goals and ambitions is a deeper longing that ultimately points toward God.

When we chase accomplishments on their own, our thirst can turn into restlessness. No milestone ever feels like enough because the next one is already waiting. But when we bring our desires to Christ, something different begins to happen. The striving becomes an offering rather than a burden. Our goals become part of our prayer. The work we do can become a way of serving others and participating in the gifts God has placed within us.

Writing books, continuing my education, and pursuing new ideas do not have to come from a place of dissatisfaction with life. They can come from a place of gratitude and stewardship. God gives each of us talents, ideas, and passions. Those inner stirrings are not problems that need to be suppressed. They can be invitations to grow and to share what we have been given.

At the same time, it is important to be honest about the tension that can exist inside the heart. Sometimes the drive to keep moving comes from a place of avoiding pain. Other times it comes from the genuine desire to respond to the gifts God has placed within us. Discerning the difference requires honesty and prayer.

The key question may not be whether we are striving, but where our striving is leading us. If our goals leave us anxious, constantly comparing ourselves to others, or feeling like we are never enough, then our thirst may be directed toward something that cannot truly satisfy us. But if our desires lead us back to Christ, if they deepen our trust in Him and help us use our gifts to serve others, then those desires can become pathways of grace.

The human heart was never meant to be completely satisfied by the world alone. We were created with a deeper longing that points toward God. Sometimes the quiet thirst we feel is not a sign that something is wrong. Sometimes it is an invitation to bring our hearts more honestly to Christ, who understands both our striving and our longing.

And sometimes the work of faith is learning to sit with both truths at the same time. To recognize when we are trying to stay busy so we do not have to feel, and to recognize when the desire within us is something holy, a longing that invites us to bring our hearts honestly before Christ, the One who alone can satisfy the deepest thirst of the human heart.