I cried at the pulpit.

A few weeks ago, I stood at the lectern of my church parish to invite fellow parishioners to sign up for the upcoming annual Rosary Congress. It was meant to be a simple, three-minute announcement – an easy invitation to be part of something beautiful, deeply Catholic, and spiritually meaningful, if only for one hour. Nothing dramatic, no personal testimony, and certainly nothing emotional.

As a lector, I’m very comfortable speaking at the microphone. This should have been straightforward. And it was – until it wasn’t.

I began my script with, “I’d like to share a true story.” It was about a lay missionary in China who later became a priest upon returning to the United States. Years later, he went back to China as a tourist, traveling incognito since known clergy were being arrested and imprisoned. He stayed in a small village house, and on his second night, he awoke to the sound of people moving about. Curious, he asked one of the men in the house what was happening.

“We’re going to the wall,” the man replied. “You can come with us.”

I had read the story several times before. I knew what was coming. But as I spoke those words aloud, I suddenly felt my throat tighten. Surprised by the wave of emotion, I paused, took a deep breath, and continued.

The priest, whose identity was unknown to the others, got dressed and followed the group. They walked for miles, joining more men, women, and children along the way – nearly 120 in total. As they reached a forest, some of the men climbed trees. Once they entered a clearing, the group quietly knelt before a crumbling wall – the remains of an old building.

This is where my voice began to waver. I stopped and apologized for the unexpected emotion, explaining this wasn’t supposed to be a personal or emotional talk. I took a few deep breaths to steady myself, then kept going.

One man approached the wall and carefully removed a single brick. Behind it, hidden, was a tiny monstrance containing the Blessed Sacrament. The group spent one hour in silent adoration of the Eucharist. When the hour ended, the man returned the monstrance to its hidden place, replaced the brick, and the group dispersed into the night. The men in the trees climbed down from their lookout positions, and everyone quietly went home.

At this point, I could no longer hold back tears. To finish, I lowered my voice to a whisper, trying to hold it together. Through blurred eyes, I looked out at the congregation – and saw that every eye was on me. I pressed on to share the most powerful part of the story:

These men, women, and children risked imprisonment, torture, or even death simply to spend one hour with Jesus in the Eucharist. They knew what was at stake. And yet, they went once or twice a week into the forest in the dead of night, just to kneel before the Real Presence of Christ.

And here we are, blessed with the freedom to adore Him at any time, every day.

With my voice now steadier, filled with conviction, I invited my fellow parishioners at St. Michael Church to join in the upcoming October Rosary Congress in Crowley – an opportunity to spend time in Adoration while praying the Rosary.

Afterward, I thanked everyone for listening, and thanked Fr. Mark Miley for the opportunity to speak. I apologized once more for the unexpected emotion. But Father simply said, “Never apologize for the Holy Spirit moving through you.”

With Fr. Mark’s words, I was reminded that the Holy Spirit moves in ways we don’t always expect and often when we least feel prepared. In that moment of unexpected emotion, I wasn’t just telling a story. I was being used as a vessel, likely to get someone’s (or many someones’) attention. And that’s what we’re all called to be: open, willing instruments of God’s grace, even in our weakness. The Holy Spirit doesn’t wait for perfect timing or polished words.

In my words to you today, with conviction in my heart, I invite you to consider that perhaps you, too, are being called to be a vessel: to step out, speak up, show up, and let Him work through you.