inspired by Faithfully Yani

A Catholic Reflection on Pride, Heaviness, and the Mercy of God

This morning someone said to me, “Don’t chase the wind. Follow the One who made the wind.”
It landed in my spirit with the weight of truth.

I woke with a heaviness I couldn’t explain — as though overnight something catastrophic had unfolded. I felt as if I were standing amid ruins, trying to piece together how to survive. Yet nothing had actually happened. My children are healthy. My work is busy, but seasonally so, just like last year. Our bills are paid. Life, factually, was unchanged.

And still my joy was gone.
Where did it go?

After reflecting, I realized the entire emotional storm came from one thing: one moment where God’s plan diverged from mine. I wanted this, God allowed that, and suddenly all the blessings that filled my life yesterday were overshadowed by this single disappointment.

It was then I saw the painful truth:
I was behaving like a spoiled child before God.

The Saints Confront Me

St. Augustine once wrote:

“God is always trying to give good things to us, but our hands are too full to receive them.”

My hands were full — not with gratitude, not with surrender — but with my own expectations. The one thing I did not receive became louder in my heart than the hundred blessings I had already been given.

I realized that, on some arrogant level, I had quietly believed God was only “good” when He agreed with me. But the moment His will contradicted mine, I acted as though He had disappointed me.

St. Teresa of Ávila directly rebukes this kind of thinking:

“All troubles in life come from our not keeping our eyes on God.”

My eyes were on the wind, not the Maker of the wind.

Martyrdom in Theory, Not Practice

At Mass this week we heard readings from Maccabees — stories of men and women ready to die for God with courage and praise on their lips. I always imagined myself among those heroes. Yet this morning the mirror revealed a different truth.

I am willing to follow God as long as God’s plan looks like mine.

But St. Ignatius of Loyola warned of this very trap:

“It is not hard to obey when we love the one we obey.”

Real obedience begins where agreement ends.

If I only trust God when His will matches mine, then I am not a disciple —
I am a negotiator.
Worse, I quietly place myself on a throne beside Him.

The Beginning of Wisdom

Scripture says:

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” (Proverbs 9:10)

Pride is the opposite of that fear — the quiet assumption that I know better.

St. Bernard of Clairvaux, who wrote extensively on humility, warned:

“It is pride that changed angels into devils; it is humility that makes men as angels.”

This morning, my heaviness was the smell of smoke — not from hell, but from pride burning inside me.

I saw that I am not the humble man I imagine myself to be.
I am capable of outward good and inward vanity.
I am capable of speaking holy words while clinging to unholy expectations.
I am capable of loving God… but only when He does what I want.

St. Francis de Sales describes such a soul succinctly:

“Nothing is so strong as gentleness, nothing so gentle as true strength.”

My so-called “strength” this morning was nothing more than fragile pride disguised as holiness.

The Rich Young Man Lives in Me

The thought that shook me the most was this:
I am the rich young man of the Gospel.

Not because of my possessions —
but because of my reluctance to surrender everything, especially my agenda.

Jesus told him to let go.
He walked away sad.

Today, that was me.

St. John of the Cross explains exactly why:

“To come to the knowledge you have not, you must go by a way in which you know not.”

I want God — but I also want the map.
I want holiness — but I want control.
I want faith — but only if faith behaves predictably.

The Weight That Was Mine

And in the end, I realized the heaviness I woke with wasn’t from God.
It wasn’t an attack.
It wasn’t spiritual desolation.

It was my own weight — the weight of pride pulling me downward, away from the One who lifts the humble.

St. Thérèse of Lisieux described the spiritual life this way:

“Everything is grace.”

But pride blinds us to grace.
It makes one disappointment look bigger than a hundred mercies.

A Mercy That Calls Me Higher

Christian history is filled with men and women like me — doing good externally while clinging internally to self-glory. People who want to store up applause on earth instead of treasure in Heaven. People who follow Christ only as far as the road matches their expectations.

But the saints consistently teach one thing:

Holiness begins the moment we stop arguing with God.

So today, I begin again.
Today I lay down my claims, my expectations, my imagined control.
Today I stop chasing the wind.
Today I follow the One who made the wind.

And by His grace — that alone — I will become the man He intended me to be.