The Day She Knocked…
A Letter from the Wilderness
Liturgical Season: The Apostle’s Fast
Dear Fellow Pilgrim,
There are days when heaven brushes earth so softly, we might miss it if we blink too hard. But then there are days—like May 20th, 2025—when heaven doesn’t just whisper; it sings.
That morning began like many others: a tangle of dishes, toys, and unspoken ache. I sat across my husband, and from the ache rose a confession I had offered a hundred times before. Tears that knew their path well streamed down again. "I feel like a terrible mother," I said. A familiar refrain. This time, though, something shifted.
I love my children. But I wasn’t made for full-time home-anchored life. There—right in that moment—I said it aloud. And light cracked through. I wasn’t failing motherhood. I was merely trying to force it into clothes that didn’t fit. I am not gifted in cooking. I don’t keep a tidy home or bake cookies. But I am moved—deeply—by ideas, by vision, by the fire of creation. God placed in me a longing to build, to plan, to bring something beautiful into the world. I don’t know what, exactly. But I know this: the Lord does not give idle dreams. Perhaps one powerful thing I can teach my children is how to be aflame with purpose.
My husband smiled. He said, “I always knew you weren’t meant to stay home full-time.” And then he told me the story of a saint—St. Lydia of Philippi. She was not a homemaker in the traditional sense. She was a seller of purple—a trade reserved for the discerning, the driven, the bold. Purple dye was rare, luxurious, expensive—fit for emperors and the elite. And Lydia dealt in it with skill. She wasn’t merely surviving in a man’s world; she was thriving, conducting business with confidence, strategy, and grace. And yet, when she heard Paul speak by the river, it wasn’t her strength that responded. It was her heart. The Lord opened it wide, and she received the Gospel with joy. She was baptized—her and her whole household. And what did she do next? She did not abandon her gifts. She did not leave her passion behind. She offered what she had—her home, her means, her work—and they became sanctified. Her business became a channel of blessing. Her success, a support for the Church. Her home, a house of worship. The Church calls her Equal to the Apostles. Not because she set her business aside—but because she brought it with her into the Kingdom.
As my husband spoke, something deep within me stirred—not just comfort, but recognition. This wasn’t merely a story. It was a mirror. A quiet flame ignited in my soul. Tears welled again, but not from sorrow. From joy. Could it be that Lydia’s business—her trade, her leadership, her labor— was not just allowed by God, but appointed by Him? Could it be that her purple cloth and open hands were threads in the fabric of the Church itself?
I stood up from the couch with a reverence I can’t quite describe—like I had just been seen, named, blessed. I felt light. Free. Known. And then—a ping. I opened Facebook. And there it was. A Facebook post from an Orthodox friend from church, celebrating her daughter. The words caught like incense in my chest:
“Blessed name day to all of the Lydias out there…”
My heart stopped. My breath caught. It was her feast day. That very day. May 20th. The day I came home to myself. The day I finally saw myself clearly. The day I gave thanks for who I was, not who I wasn’t. The day Lydia knocked. And I knew—somehow, I knew—she had heard. That she, from her place among the saints, had interceded. That she might be whispering, "Embrace the shape of your soul. Embrace who God made you to be. For only in embracing… will you truly be free."
So here I am now, writing to you—whoever you are, and whatever quiet ache you carry. Maybe you've believed the lie that holiness wears only one face—that a “good” mother bakes bread with joy, that a “godly” woman never dreams beyond her walls, that a “humble” heart has no room for ambition. But let this be your sign: God made you to shine—not in a self-serving kind of way, but in a God-breathed, people-loving, God-honoring kind of way. Not in imitation of another’s light, but in the distinct, radiant flame He placed within you. Your glow may not look like your neighbor’s—and it’s not meant to. The Church needs your kind of fire.
On the day St. Lydia knocked, I stepped—just a little—more fully into who I was made to be.
Blessed name day to all the Lydias out there. And blessed day to you, dear pilgrim—be who you are, be wholly His, and be set aflame.
Scripture for Reflection: “One of those listening was a woman from the city of Thyatira named Lydia, a dealer in purple cloth. She was a worshiper of God. The Lord opened her heart to respond to Paul’s message. When she and the members of her household were baptized, she invited us to her home. “If you consider me a believer in the Lord,” she said, “come and stay at my house.” And she persuaded us.” ~Acts 16:14-15
