Our Prayer | In The Arena

God of All Consolation,

You have called me into the arena— not to fight alone, but to lead with courage, to serve with compassion, and to trust in your accompaniment even when the path is unclear.

In this season of uncertainty, when I do not know which door will open, when I fear I am not enough, when the weight of past mistakes feels heavy, remind me: You do not call the qualified. You qualify the called.

Grant me the grace to take the next faithful step, even when I cannot see the entire staircase. To send the email, make the call, do the work— trusting that you are already at work in ways I cannot yet see.

When I am tempted to despair, when rejection stings and silence feels like judgment, when I wonder if my value has been lost, whisper again your truth: "You are imperfect, you are wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging."

In moments of consolation, when doors open, when clients say yes, when Charlie makes progress, when hope stirs, let me receive these gifts with gratitude, knowing they are signs of your faithfulness, not my own achievement.

In moments of desolation, when fear grips, when anger rises, when isolation presses in, do not let me make decisions from this place. Instead, hold me steady. Remind me of what is true. Lead me back to the light.

For those we love whose paths are uncertain and whose struggles are real— give us wisdom to love them well, patience to walk beside them without controlling, and hope that their stories are still being written, that healing is possible, that your grace is sufficient for all of us.

For my work, whether in a school or through coaching, whether the path is employment or entrepreneurship— help me remember: This is not about proving my worth. This is about serving your people. This is about accompanying principals who are exhausted, isolated, and wondering if they can stay in the arena.

Use my struggles. Use the places where I have stumbled. Use even the shame I carry— transform them into compassion, into solidarity with others who bear hidden burdens, into witness that redemption is real.

Give me courage to show up and be seen, to risk rejection, to offer my gifts even when I fear they are not enough.

Give me wisdom to discern your voice from the voice of fear, to know when to push forward and when to rest, to trust the process even when results are slow.

Give me strength to do the hard things: to exercise when I don't feel like it, to reach out when isolation feels safer, to keep trying when every door seems closed.

Give me hope that January 2027 will come, that I will drive again, that Charlie will find his way, that the coaching business will grow, that a school will say yes, that financial stability will return, that this season of uncertainty will give way to solid ground.

And if none of these things happen on my timeline, if the path looks different than I imagined, if your plan is not my plan— give me the grace to trust anyway.

Teach me to pray, as Ignatius taught, "Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, my entire will. You have given all to me. To you, Lord, I return it. Everything is yours; do with it what you will. Give me only your love and your grace. That is enough for me."

And when I forget, when I grasp and control and try to force outcomes, when I confuse my value with my productivity, when I lose sight of your presence— gently call me back.

Remind me: I am not alone in the arena. You are with me. You go before me. You work in ways I cannot see. You are writing a story I do not yet understand.

This is enough. You are enough. I am enough. Amen.