Perhaps courage is loving God and others—caritas—enough to tell the truth.

Courage doesn’t always show up with certainty. More often, it arrives as a quiet, whispered yes—uttered before we feel ready, before the road is clear, before the story feels safe to tell.

I’ve been thinking a lot about courage, wisdom, and calling. About what it means to share hard, raw, real stories in a world that often prefers tidy endings or inspirational summaries. I share a lot that is honest, raw, real. Sometimes I am questioned about that. Sometimes I question myself. And yet, there are also moments when I feel called to hold back—to wait, to listen longer. That discernment and prayer matters too.

There is a real cost to telling the truth. There is vulnerability in naming what has been lost, what has been carried quietly, what still aches. Sometimes that honesty is misunderstood or judged. Still, I believe this is part of the call. It is not to perform strength, but to bear witness.

Scripture is filled with people who were called long before they felt prepared. David—we just saw the movie—wasn’t chosen from a place of visibility or power, but from the fields, among sheep that required patience and care. He was faithful in the unseen, tending what had been entrusted to him, lifting his eyes toward God. His courage didn’t begin when he was anointed or when he stood before Goliath. It was formed slowly, in obscurity, where only God was watching. He trusted that God would provide what he lacked. Go see David, the movie, if you have a chance.

I believe this is what courage looks like—cooperating with God rather than relying on ourselves, responding with obedience to what has been entrusted to us.

I believe this too. When I stand before the only Judge who matters, I hope I can say that I showed kindness, loved well, and had the courage to respond with obedience when and where I was called.

Then there is Anna in today’s Gospel—the prophetess and widow who had known both great love and great loss. Her life was marked by waiting. By prayer. By presence. She did not demand answers or force outcomes. She stayed. She prayed without ceasing.

“She never left the temple, but worshiped night and day with fasting and prayer.”—Luke 2:37

And when the moment came, she recognized the Christ child immediately—not because she had certainty, but because she had lived attentively through the long in-between, faithful to the quiet whispers of the Spirit.

Anna’s courage was steady and quiet. Longstanding. Her witness came not from resolution, but from faithfulness. From remaining open to God within the waiting. From trusting His voice.

I am learning that courage in a calling like this is less about clarity and more about consent. About cooperation and obedience. About continuing to say yes to truth, even when it feels tender to hold, even when courage feels fragile. About trusting that honest stories—told with care—can become places where others feel seen, less alone, and quietly met by God.

Not every story needs a neat ending. Some are meant to be told faithfully, in their uncomfortableness and unfinishedness. I am learning courage, drawing strength not from myself, but from Him.

Maybe this is why I keep showing up—listening, discerning what and where God is asking me to share courageously, whether in brief reflections, in the raw and real, uncomfortable and unfinished, in longer chapters, or in the pages of books He is calling me to write.

I am learning that my own call—especially in this season of rebuilding after loss—is not to explain pain away or dress it up with easy answers, but to speak honestly and gently about what faith looks like when life breaks open. I am learning it takes courage to tell stories that make room for both grief and hope, for joy and pain. To accept the call, like David. To remain attentive, like Anna, and say: I see Him here. Even after the waiting. Even after what was lost. Even when I do not feel strong.

Perhaps courage is loving God and others—caritas—enough to tell the truth.

Perhaps calling is less about being sent somewhere new and more about being faithful right where we are—tending, watching, waiting, and speaking or writing when the moment comes.

Heather Lebano is a mom, writer and widow who artfully blends faith, family, and resilience, uncovering beauty and hope in life’s most unexpected moments. Through her blog, House of Love and Laughter, she shares deeply personal reflections on love, loss, and the courage it takes to navigate life’s detours. In her writing, Heather weaves together the threads of grief and healing after the recent loss of her husband and her parents offering insights and solace to those who are also navigating profound loss. When she writes, Heather invites others into a shared journey—one filled with truth, goodness, and the quiet assurance that even in life’s hardest moments, joy and love remain.

In addition to writing, Heather is the owner of a shop, where she creates handmade, faith-inspired products that bring joy and hope to others and gives glory to God. You can find her writing and shop on houseofloveandlaughter.com where words are a matter of the heart.