I am not a catechumen yet. Even that has been a quiet surprise to me. Before anything is named, before any formal process begins, I have been asked simply to be here. To attend. To stand. To listen. Three or four months, they said. Longer if needed. Time to bask in the Church. Time to marinate in it. Time to take it in without needing to explain what is happening.
This alone has been unsettling in the best way. I am used to beginnings being marked quickly. To thresholds that require a step forward and a declaration. Here, the threshold feels wide and unguarded. No one is rushing me toward the next word. No one seems concerned that I might linger too long without a title. It feels less like delay and more like care.
I notice how much of my earlier faith was shaped by urgency. By the sense that movement itself was proof of sincerity. That clarity had to come quickly, and be spoken aloud. Standing here now, unnamed and uncounted, I am learning how deeply that urgency lived in me. How closely it was tied to fear. Fear of not arriving. Fear of being wasted time.
This season before catechism has begun to loosen something in me. I am not being measured by readiness or resolve. I am being trusted with time. The services go on whether I understand them or not. The prayers do not wait for my comprehension. I am allowed to receive without producing anything in return.
I sometimes feel the old pull to ask, When does this start? But more and more, that question fades. I am starting to sense that this is already the beginning. That formation does not wait for permission. That the Church is already teaching me, quietly, by refusing to rush my soul.
So I remain where I am. Not yet named. Not yet entered. Letting the rhythm work on me. Letting slowness say what words cannot. And learning, little by little, to trust that what is true will still be true when it is time to speak it.