A few years ago, my house was broken into on Super Bowl Sunday. Turns out, it’s a great day for burglars. If the TV isn’t on, people are probably watching the game somewhere else, so … easy pickins’. I’ll never forget walking into my bedroom and realizing someone had been there.

Not long ago, I was called to a hospital to anoint a woman in her early 80s. She was dying, and visibly in pain. But what struck me most wasn’t her suffering — it was the atmosphere in the room. She had eight children and 30 foster kids, and many of them were gathered around her. You’d expect sorrow, fear, maybe even despair.

When I was a kid growing up in New England, I’d occasionally go on a whale watch. Once we went out with calm waters and clear skies. But on the way back in, the sea got rough. I was just a kid, and I remember thinking we should turn left or right toward the shoreline I could see. But the pilot of the boat kept going straight — right into the waves — focused on a small, discouragingly distant lighthouse. Even when it flickered in and out of sight, he stayed the course. He knew where he was going.

When I was 22, I entered St. Peter’s Basilica for the first time. It floored me. I could hardly take it in, its grandeur, majestic arches, vibrant colors, and the light that danced through its high windows. Somehow, amidst such splendor, I felt an overwhelming sense of belonging, as if I had finally come home.

My grave is in the corner of a cemetery in rural southeastern Wisconsin. For at least a mile in every direction, all you can see is farmland — cows, barns and quiet country roads. It’s beautiful, serene. I imagine the hand of God writing me into existence — she lived, she died — using for ink the very dirt that fills this grave. The dust from which I was created.

Every now and then readers of these reflections write letters in which they object to something. Years ago, this Gospel of Luke 18 prompted such an email. A man wrote to me: “I find it deeply offensive that you suggest we are still sinners once we are God’s sons and daughters.” His objection stirred in me a profound awareness of the paradox at the heart of our faith. Are we sinners or beloved children of God?

A woman in my parish has an adult son who has rejected his faith. She prays for him every day. She lights candles, says rosaries, and asks God again and again to bring him back. But nothing changes. Is God listening? Is He delaying? She told me once that she feels like the widow in Jesus’ strange parable — crying out for justice, but hearing only silence. And yet, she said, she is at peace. I asked why. She responded, “God is already answering. I just can’t see it yet.”

Dear Parish Family,

As both your pastor and a licensed professional counselor, I know how deeply mental health touches many lives. Mental illness is not a sign of weak faith. It is a human struggle that affects individuals and families across every walk of life. The Church reminds us that those who live with mental health challenges are never alone—they are beloved sons and daughters of God, deserving of compassion, dignity, and hope.

Dorothy Day, the great Catholic activist, doubted God’s existence. At least in her early adult years. But something changed when after giving birth to her daughter, she experienced an overwhelming gratitude. She later described how, as she held her daughter, the only appropriate response was a kind of unlimited gratitude. She had done nothing to deserve such a gift — this tiny, miraculous life — but there she was, flooded with gratitude, completely undone by the love of such a Giver.

A priest friend of mine received a call from a family whose elderly mother was dying. Within thirty minutes, he was at her bedside, offering the consolation of the sacraments, anointing her with the oil of the sick, and commending her soul to God. She passed not long after, and for months, her family spoke of their deep gratitude for his presence. When I phoned him to commend his faithful ministry, he simply said, “I was just doing my job.”

One day, my kids were playing outside in the snow, and I decided to take advantage of the quiet house to make a few important phone calls.

Fool. I forgot Murphy’s Law of Parenting, which dictates that as soon as you dial a phone number, a bomb of irritation and neediness explodes within the heart of your loudest child. Sure enough, as soon as the person on the other end of the line picked up, my son was at the back door, whimpering loudly. Horror of horrors, he had snow in his boot.

Dealing with money is unpleasant.

You might be good at dealing with money (I am not). You might even do it for a living (I do not). You might be careful to use as much of your money as you can for good purposes (I try to, but man, these skyrocketing grocery prices are killing me).

“Holiness isn’t for wimps,” Mother Angelica famously said. “And the Cross isn’t negotiable, sweetheart — it’s a requirement.”

I love Mother Angelica and I love this quote. Following God is tough, and to do it you have to make a decision to be tough, to endure tough things — and ultimately, to love the toughness of it all, because within that struggle God meets us with mercy and salvation.

One hot Arizona summer afternoon my car ran out of gas. I phoned the parish office and begged for help. My secretary came and helped me fill the gas tank. She chided me, “If you can’t manage getting your car from A to B, how can we expect you to guide the parish where it needs to go?” Point taken, Julie. I vowed to always make sure I have plenty of gas in my car.