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.