Pilgrims of Hope, Part 1: Grace Delayed Is Not Grace Denied

I was hoping to go on pilgrimage for the Jubilee year, but had no definitive plan. I had a few groups I had been invited to go with, but there were so many uncertainties and no one invitation that gave me that Holy Spirit sense that I had to go.

One February morning, Fernando and I woke up feeling hopeless. Despite having gone to Mass, the circumstances of life still seemed a lot greater than the promises of God. We then went to the gym to blow off some steam and try to shake the heavy feeling of despair. All throughout the workout, my mind was racing and mulling over this thought: “This is not the end of the story, but right now everything feels too hard.”

Later, when we got in the car, I continued to contemplate and ask God: what next? Then, a thought came to mind—“Go to Rome.” Although I immediately thought of my laundry list of things to do, and my fears over finances, I turned to Fernando and said, “Do you want to go to Rome on Friday?” It was Monday morning, so naturally, he looked at me like I was insane, started to say something, paused, and then said, “Let’s do it.”

At St. Mary Major, one of our favorite site in Rome.

There’s a lot I could share—and will share—about this trip in subsequent posts, but for this one, I actually want to fast forward to post-pilgrimage, because I think it’s the most important.

Oftentimes we return from retreats, pilgrimages, or even a visit to the chapel with expectations. Though on the surface we go to God because it is the good and just thing to do, in our heart of hearts we often carry a transactional mentality—hoping that in exchange for doing the “right” and “holy” thing, God will give us what we want or even desperately need in that moment.

After returning from Rome, Fernando had an interview for a job we were convinced was the one. On the outside, everything looked like a great fit. In addition to going to Rome to consecrate our family to Our Lord and Lady, we also specifically prayed that this opportunity would go through and finally bring an end to this long chapter of unemployment.

While Fernando was in the interview, I went to Mass to pray. Although I was hopeful, I had this odd feeling that this wasn’t the job for us. I really, really wanted it to be. I didn’t want to continue to live in uncertainty. I wanted to see my husband find a job he loved. For that reason, I told myself this had to be the one. I thought back to our pilgrimage in Rome—we had offered this up at the most holy sites in our faith. How could it not be the right opportunity?

Sure enough, Fernando returned from the interview: “It went well,” he said, “but I don’t think this is the right fit.”

I cried a lot of bitter tears over that. I was beyond angry and upset. I felt a weariness in my heart and a helplessness unlike ever before. It had been a year of what felt like radio silence from the Lord.

When is relief coming? What are we doing wrong? I miss You, Lord—where are You?

I didn’t want to pray. I didn’t want to keep going to Mass. Yet, somehow, every morning, Fernando and I would get out of bed and sit down to pray. We took turns being the strong and faithful one.

It didn’t happen overnight, and even now, as we’ve moved into a new season of life, there wasn’t one moment in which—poof—everything went back to normal or we got everything we were praying for.

Since our pilgrimage to Rome, walking through this season and entering into another has been like watching the sunrise. Little by little, we have watched the light of the love of God illuminate even the darkest moments. First, through prayer—watching the words of the Psalms and Scriptures pop up in our minds and hearts as we went about our day. By faithfully praying the Liturgy of the Hours and going to Mass, even when we didn’t want to, we saw those words stay with us and give us strength as life made us feel like all hope was lost.

One moment, I would be lamenting to God about the lack of His presence and care, when suddenly, I would realize my words were the exact words of David in the Psalms: “How long must I carry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day?” (Psalm 13:3). There was something comforting about connecting my lament with the lament of David, Job, and even our Lord. With time, I began to feel less like I was all by myself crying out into a void, and more like I was accompanied by the most faithful of friends—daring to cry out to the Father even in the most difficult of times.

Again, I am learning the lesson that I so often write about: God does not will that we suffer, but through suffering, He reveals the deeper sicknesses that lie in our hearts—things like self-reliance, control, fear, resentment. Long-suffering is excruciating, but just as some treatments for physical ailments require time to strike that delicate balance—ridding the body of illness without weakening it beyond repair—so too does the healing of our souls require precision, gentleness, and time.

The providence of God is perfect, in all of its ways and times. He does not rush or delay. He works within the quiet, often hidden rhythms of grace.

And so, looking back on our spontaneous pilgrimage, I see now that the graces from that trip were not wasted. They didn’t expire or evaporate simply because we didn’t get what we thought we were going for. Those graces came into fullness at exactly the time we needed them most—not in the answers we sought, but in the strength to keep hoping, to keep showing up to pray, and to keep believing that our circumstance of the moment was not the end of the story.

The real miracle wasn’t a job offer—though that did come later through another avenue we did not expect, but are so grateful for—it was the slow and sacred rebuilding of trust. It was purifying our hearts of a transactional relationship with the Father and allowing Him to work in His time and way.

We went to Rome with the intention to not allow hopelessness to define and defile our family. Though the human side of me hoped that healing would come through an incredible trip and then immediate change upon our return, I see the real grace was a deeper abandonment and trust in the providence of the Father—particularly when things do not go our way.

We are still walking—sometimes limping, often waiting—but not alone. And maybe that’s the hidden grace of pilgrimage: that the journey back is just as sacred as the journey there.