Reflections from a Weekend of Faith, Tears, and Ladybugs
I wasn’t meant to stay. Just a day trip, I told myself.
But as grace often does, plans shifted.
A friend had an extra sleeping bag and space in her tent. It felt like God was extending an invitation – subtle, gentle, but unmistakable.
That weekend – in a muddy field, a tent that leaked, and weather colder than I’d packed for – turned into something I will carry with me for the rest of my life. It was a Catholic gathering, WeBelieve first ever festival, but more than that: a festival of faith. A retreat into the wilderness – not just physically, but spiritually.
Discomfort as an Opening
The first night I barely slept.
I layered every item of clothing I had, shivering, whispering, “Jesus, come.” I felt exposed, uncertain, restless.
With morning light, discomfort softened into presence, and as the day went by, something shifted. A drier, more private tent became available.
How quickly we forget pain when it lifts. And how clearly we remember the grace that replaced it.
Throughout the weekend, I found myself taking naps, something I rarely do. Those naps felt divine, like I was being held. Each one felt like a gift from the Spirit, offering space to reset, to receive.
“Our hearts are restless until they rest in the Lord.”
Even when it’s cold. Even in the mud.
The Sacred Unburdening
John Pridmore, who went from a life of darkness to working with people like Mother Teresa, said something that lingered deeply:
Creation is inherently good, and it’s the misuse or distortion (sin) that corrupts it.
Sin isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a slow drift. A subtle rejection of what is sacred.
As I listened to his sermon, in the quiet between moments, I felt the weight of what I had been carrying. Not dramatic sins, but quiet ones. Subtle rejections of what is holy. Times I chose pleasure over purity, silence over truth, self-sufficiency over surrender.
When I finally went for confession, through trembling lips, I cried. Hard.
There’s something deeply cleansing about naming things, really naming them, and placing them in the hands of a God who meets our shame with mercy.
As I stepped out of the confessional, still raw, a stranger saw my tears and asked if I needed a hug. I nodded. And in his arms, I wept again.
It felt like God was holding me.
Whispers of the Spirit
Throughout the weekend, I began tuning in to something subtler than sermons: the gentle nudges of the Holy Spirit. These aren’t grand gestures. Just everyday openings.
Father Frankie Mulgrew said something I now carry like a compass:
“If only good can come from it — do it.”
When I felt a small pull to write a letter to a friend, I did.
When I felt prompted to compliment a stranger, I did.
And each time, it felt like stepping into alignment.
A reminder that holiness often arrives through the smallest doors, when we’re paying attention.
It helped that I was off social media all weekend. The stillness created space for whispers I would’ve otherwise missed.
And among those whispers… ladybugs.
Ladybugs & the Language of Symbols
They were always near my tent. Perched on my bags. Every time I returned, there they were.
Same pattern: 3 dots on each side. The Trinity. I live at number 33. Jesus lived 33 years.
At first, I thought it was just one ladybug, returning. But on the last day, I saw two.
It made me wonder – me, a future partner, and Christ in the center?
Maybe it meant something. Maybe not. But it made me look up, smile, and whisper “Thank You.”
Sometimes that’s all signs are meant to do.
Holy Longing
There were children everywhere that weekend. Crying during Mass, laughing through workshops, even babbling through quiet talks. At first I thought the noise might distract me. But it didn’t. It stirred something deeper.
A longing.
More than envy. More than impatience. A sense of readiness. Of prayerful hope.
A priest encouraged me to pray with that longing, not to suppress it or rush it, but to let it take root. He said to bless those families I saw, and to ask the Virgin Mary to send the right partner for me in divine timing.
It made me realize: I don’t just want a relationship. I want Holy Love. A love that sharpens, sanctifies, and mirrors Christ. A love that’s patient, present, and prayerful. A love that’s a mission, not just a feeling.
Work as Worship
For years, I thought I had to choose between God and career.
That my job in tech, my “corporate” path, somehow pulled me away from faith. Fr Frankie Mulgrew said something that re-framed it entirely:
“Your professional prestige is your fisherman’s hook.”
If I do excellent work, people might wonder why. What drives me. What gives me peace. And in that space, I get to point to Jesus.
My job then becomes a vessel. There is holiness in emails. In projects. In deadlines, when they are offered up, not just executed.
“God, bless my work. Make it honest. Make it good. Make it Yours.”
Heaven in the Ordinary
Throughout the weekend, I caught glimpses of Eternity.
In the silence after communion. In the giggles of toddlers. In a nap on grass. In a hug from a stranger. In prayers whispered into the wind. In the simple decision to stay when I could’ve left.
Heaven, I realized, is harmony.
Not perfection, but Alignment. And that Harmony can begin here – in the most ordinary things, made extraordinary through grace.
So What Now?
At the end of the weekend, one question was offered to us:
“What’s your next good step?”
I’m not sure I have the full answer yet. But I think it starts with staying close to the Light. To believe that holiness is not some distant mountaintop, but something I can live here, now.
In the way I love. In the way I forgive. In the way I surrender.
And maybe that’s the invitation: to let God turn my life into a living prayer.
To follow the whisper. To trust the nudge.
