Sitting At St. Scholastica's - (Im)Patiently Waiting on the Powers That Be
Dear Henry,
It’s not a secret that I have struggled to find my place in Tulsa.
It isn’t that there is anything wrong with the city. Tulsa has a rich history, beautiful architecture, and far more depth than it often gets credit for. But it is loud. There is traffic. And from the start, I have found myself unable to settle into it comfortably.
The disorientation surprised me. Coming from a small parish in Northwest Arkansas to the much larger parishes of the Broken Arrow–Tulsa area, I felt oddly unmoored at church as well. I knew where I should belong, but I couldn’t seem to locate myself within it.
Even finding stillness at St. Scholastica Adoration Chapel, my closest adoration chapel, proved awkward. (For those unfamiliar, adoration is a quiet space of prayer, something like a meditation room, but with the belief in Christ’s real presence.)
The first time I visited, I accidentally set off the building’s alarm.
I did manage to return after that memorable introduction, but subsequent visits were plagued by smaller indignities — most notably a wobbly kneeler that clattered across the sanctuary floor every time I so much as inhaled. It was there, kneeling awkwardly and apologetically, that I was reminded of one of the most consistent truths of my life: barring another miracle, I will always be at least a little uncomfortable and fairly awkward.
Still, a deeper question lingered: Why has this move been so hard?
The opportunity to relocate to Tulsa had been an answer to many prayers. By all reasonable measures, this was a good thing — and yet I felt unsettled, frustrated, and increasingly isolated. In an effort to connect, I registered at St. Benedict Catholic Church, the nearest parish that didn’t sing the Our Father during Mass. Almost immediately, a COVID spike shut down classes and social gatherings, closing the very doors I had hoped would help me build community.
I was struggling not just with a new city, but with what I began to think of as God’s answer.
Clarity began to arrive unexpectedly while listening to the first Advent meditation of the year from Ascension Presents. In the vlog, Sister Miriam James reflected on Mary’s faith, particularly the period between the Annunciation and God’s visible resolution of events.
I had never seriously considered what that waiting must have felt like: Mary, newly pregnant after an overwhelming spiritual encounter, confiding in Joseph only to be met with the news that he intended to divorce her quietly. And yet, somehow, she remained faithful, trusting that God would finish what He had begun.
Sister Miriam’s point was simple and unsettling: sometimes the holiest thing you can do is give God the space and time to complete His work. Sometimes, when you feel most adrift, the right response is not movement, but waiting.
Patience, as it turns out, has never been one of my virtues.
Still, I kept pleading, often on that wobbly kneeler, to be released from apartment living and given a house with a yard and a porch. We searched. And searched. Inventory was scarce. Frustration grew.
And then the house appeared.
Not where we had been looking. Not in the area I thought we needed to be. But in Owasso, a quieter suburb north of Tulsa, about twenty minutes from where I assumed my life would unfold.
That’s when it clicked.
I couldn’t connect to this place because I wasn’t meant to stay rooted here. I wasn’t failing to acclimate. I was simply early. God hadn’t finished yet.
The realization echoed another reflection I’d heard from Father Mike Schmitz, who once described wrestling with God, only to discover that the struggle was over a path God never intended for him to take. Sometimes, he said, we fight fiercely for the very thing we’re meant to release.
I think that’s what I had been doing. Fighting my own shadow.
As the year comes to a close and we prepare to move, I find myself less anxious and more willing to trust that a community will meet me where I’m meant to land. For now, the work is waiting. Sitting. Letting God finish.
xoxo,
a.d. elliott
About the Author
a.d. elliott is a wanderer, photographer, and storyteller traveling through life
She shares her journeys at Take the Back Roads, explores new reads at Rite of Fancy, and highlights U.S. military biographies at Everyday Patriot.
You can also browse her online photography gallery at shop.takethebackroads.com.
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