1981.

I was thirteen.

A simple village boy, attending Roman Catholic mass every week with a sense of reverence—but if I’m honest, it wasn’t faith. It was fear. Not the holy fear that leads to wisdom, but a worldly kind—a fear taught by the eyes of people and the rules of men.

In our local church, status ruled. Those with money and muscle were treated with respect. Those with influence led. I watched quietly from the pews, wondering where God was in it all. I had discipline, yes. I wore a clean shirt and bowed my head at the right times. But inside, I was still searching.

Then one day, the catechist of the church approached me.

He had seen my outward discipline, my regular attendance, my polished behavior. Without knowing the state of my heart, he recommended me for priestly studies. A holy calling. A life to be set apart.

I didn’t know what to say.

So I nodded.

Soon after, the parish priest handed me a sealed envelope—my recommendation letter. I was to carry it to the Seminary Superior for admission. As he passed it to me, I noticed the seal—tight, official, sacred.

But curiosity got the better of me.

On the walk back home, under the shade of the tamarind trees, I broke the seal ever so carefully, slipped out the letter, and read it. One line stood out and shook me:

“This boy is a lamb given by Jesus.”

A lamb? Given by Jesus?

I looked at the paper, then looked inside myself. I knew the truth. My conscience wasn’t clean. My heart wasn’t pure. My curiosity had already broken trust. I felt unworthy. Those words didn’t match the boy I knew myself to be.

Still, I reinserted the letter into the envelope, pressed the flap back down, and tried to shape the seal back into place—like nothing ever happened.

A few days later, I arrived at the seminary.

The priest welcomed me with calm eyes and asked a few questions. Then came the moment I feared.

He took the envelope in his hand. Held it up. Examined it.

“Was this seal untouched when it reached you?” he asked.

I stumbled. I stuttered. I tried to deflect with cleverness, but my guilt was too loud. I failed the test of integrity. They saw it. I knew it. And in the end, the selection committee—kind and polite—told me I wasn’t ready.

“Finish your 10th standard,” they said gently. “Then come again.”

I walked away that day, not rejected—but redirected.

Looking back now, I see it clearly: God had called me, but I wasn’t ready. Not yet. I had to be shaped first—by truth, humility, and grace.

“Many are called, but few are chosen.”
—Matthew 22:14

Just as Gideon’s army was trimmed from 32,000 men to 300 in the Book of Judges, God was not looking for numbers—He was looking for hearts. The right hearts.

That day, God began a slow work in mine.

“Live a life worthy of the calling you have received.”
—Ephesians 4:1

“Just as He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world,
that we should be holy and without blame before Him in love.”
—Ephesians 1:4