[Y]ou shall be my special possession, dearer to me than all other people, though all the earth is mine. // Exodus 19:5 I am picking up on a pattern in my life with the Lord. When He asks something missional of me, I can work backward and see that the “sending forth” is preceded by a period of particular intimacy with Him. (And, before that, a hefty dose of suffering, pruning, or purification.)  God made us for Himself, so He is aware of our deep longing for Him. We want to be His “special possession.” We desire to be “dearer” to Him “than all other people.”  And, blessedly, we are.  This extravagant love is so generous that we can be tempted to believe that it may be true for everyone else . . . just maybe not for us. After all, look at all I’ve done. Look at how I’ve failed and faltered. Look at my laundry list of sins and shortcomings. Look at my littleness. Yet it is precisely this helplessness that draws His Heart toward us. We see this in today’s Gospel when “At the sight of the crowds, Jesus’ heart was moved with pity for them because they were troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd” (Matthew 9:36). Even Saint Paul in the First Reading proclaims the truth that “God proves his love for us in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). God brings the unworthy and unlikely to Himself. He loves us as a shepherd, in spite of our brokenness. He loves us specifically and sets us apart. Then, He sends us out—still unworthy and unlikely—but transformed by His grace. His love is not merely consoling: it’s propelling. Being chosen by and brought close to God necessarily ignites within us the desire to tell others about this life, too.  He is not concerned with the worldly size of our mission field. It does not matter whether you are speaking of His love on a stage in a stadium, or to your toddler at bedtime, or with your co-workers during lunch.  You have been set apart to proclaim His Heart.  Sister, consider today how the Lord is bringing you close to Himself. Then, ask Him where He would like you to labor for the harvest.

He went down with them and came to Nazareth, and was obedient to them; and his mother kept all these things in her heart. // Luke 2:51 The change happened slowly. Month after month, my husband and I continued to face the stark reality of infertility, and my heart began to sink into dark places—places I had never been before.  Every pregnancy announcement and every comment about motherhood, whether it be good or bad, started to prod open a festering wound that had taken root within me. I started to think uncharitably, harboring bitterness and jealousy towards other women.  I confessed this to a priest one day, desperately needing a safe place to lament my struggles, and feeling guilty for having these ugly thoughts. I’ll never forget his response.  “When you experience a moment that’s painful for you, I want you to place your hand over your heart and silently say to yourself, ‘Jesus, I know you are here with me right now.’” I was totally taken aback by his tender suggestion.  I didn’t have to clench my fist and attempt to repel those moments of pain, but rather open my hand and invite Jesus into my heartache. They became opportunities to let His healing grace wash out the enemy's venom.  It still hurt—but Jesus was there. And it made all the difference.  As I reflect on the Immaculate Heart of Mary, our feast for today, I’m struck by the fact that her heart was human, too. She experienced all the female emotions, just like us. She says herself that she was filled with anxiety amidst the search for her lost Son (see Luke 2:48). Think of all the other moments of her life when she was likely filled with worry, fear, sorrow, and frustration.  Mary “kept all these things in her heart,” as women do best, but she let Jesus dwell in those painful places as well. She welcomed Him with total surrender.  Sister, are there things kept in your heart that are causing you pain? I invite you to put your hand over your heart right now, and ask your Divine Healer to meet you there, in the hidden places. Ask the Immaculate Heart of Mary to show you how. 

The LORD set his heart on you. // Deuteronomy 7:7  My spring was unusually full, traveling nearly every weekend, January through April, to speak and lead retreats. And these were often fraught with challenges.   At one retreat center, the power, heat, and water went out due to a terrible snowstorm. Yet not one woman left. Not one grumbled. At another retreat, my brand-new laptop, which had all of my talks for the weekend on it, died. At another, a historic ice storm shut down the city. I barely made it to the event. It’s not uncommon for events to be plagued with thorns in this way. But by the end of this run of work, I was so worn down, I was ready to collapse.   “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened,” Jesus says in today’s Gospel, “and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light” (Matthew 11:28-30).  But what can this mean when I find myself so exhausted and there’s so much more work to do?  I’m not advocating for working yourself to death, but I am aware that in every instance, the Lord has provided. At every retreat, every talk, in every kind of weather, in every time zone, no matter the obstacles, the Lord provided the energy, creativity, and the means needed to bring Him glory. And there is rest that surpasses all understanding in His provision.  On this Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, I want to remember that the Lord indeed has His Heart set on me, His Sacred Heart, His Heart that was pierced for my offenses. And it is His Heart that accompanies me in and truly accomplishes this work.  Rest in the Lord’s Sacred Heart today. Yoke yourself to His Heart and let Him accomplish what He will through your labor and your burdens, whatever they may be.

Therefore, if you bring your gift to the altar, and there recall that your brother has anything against you, leave your gift at the altar, go first and be reconciled with your brother, and then come and offer your gift.  //  Matthew 5:23-24 I walked into the restaurant eager to catch up with my dear friend for breakfast. I walked by a table filled with familiar faces—friends I once spent time with regularly in another season of life. Some were friends for whom I had thrown baby showers, dropped off coffee on the porch, or enjoyed countless play dates.  As I joined my friend, I couldn’t shake that feeling of awkwardness of running into people you once knew intimately and no longer know well. Sipping my warm cappuccino, I felt the foam touch my nose. I rubbed it off and caught myself looking past my friend’s shoulder at the other table. A thunderous laughter erupted from them, distracting me from my meaningful conversation, which made me wonder why those other friendships were left unrequited and unfulfilled.   “Therefore, if you bring your gift to the altar, and there recall that your brother has anything against you, leave your gift at the altar, go first and be reconciled with your brother, and then come and offer your gift” (Matthew 5:23-24).  I used to think that a worthy gift at the altar meant knowing where I stood in all of my relationships. Yet not every fizzled-out-friendship merits an explanation, reason, or apology. There is no ill will or resentment between you. Sometimes reconciling means simply loving someone else despite not having reasonable answers for why the relationship or friendship didn’t endure.  As my friend and I got up to leave, I smiled and gestured goodbye to my past friendship table.  Today’s Gospel proclamation, “I give you a new commandment: love one another as I have loved you” (John 13:34), reminds us that reconciliation and love complement each other, even if it can only happen within one’s own heart. Our unrequited relationships offer us the opportunity to follow this new commandment, to ask ourselves if it is about us or the other person.  Sister, bring these relationships to the altar of the Lord, offering thanksgiving for the relationships you once had, and gratitude for the ones you have now.

For if what was going to fade was glorious, how much more will what endures be glorious. // 2 Corinthians 3:11 I pressed my cheek against the cool wall of my house, tears rolling down my face. I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere else in my life. And now I’m being called elsewhere? God, I prayed, If You take this away from me, what will I have left? And there in my mind, He spoke the answer as clearly as the sunrise parts the mist on the lake in the summer: You’ll have Me. For over a decade I’ve poured my life and energy into building friendships and community in my parish in Chicago. It has been beautiful and rewarding to see ministry and relationships flourish. A few years back, we experienced a kind of heyday: many of us moms with young kids all lived within walking distance of the beautiful church we called home. The vestibule in back was jammed with strollers on Sunday morning, the choir loft rang with beauty, and we met up for spontaneous park dates, coffee, book clubs, and moms’ nights. I thought, as we human beings tend to do, that nothing would change. But cities are expensive and stressful places to raise kids, and job opportunities and family ties pulled one family after another away from our neighborhood, until it felt almost like we were starting from scratch. And then God started pulling at my heart, asking me to reconsider my own priorities, asking me to quiet my pride and give Him control. To surrender, again. When we experience truth, beauty, and goodness in this life, we glimpse the eternal life that is promised to us. That’s why it hurts so much when what was good, true, or beautiful fades away. We were not made for death and decay; God’s deep desire is for us to be one with Him in Heaven forever. And so we long for Home, where we will bask endlessly in His perfect radiance. This life is passing away, and Heaven calls to our aching hearts. Today, sister, I challenge you to approach the throne of grace in gratitude for the gifts in your life that call your heart to Heaven, even as you offer them back to Him. The most glorious things in our earthly lives will fade, but they pale in comparison to what awaits us beyond.

You are the salt of the earth. // Matthew 5:13 My roommate has recently become mildly obsessed with Samin Nosrat’s book Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat and its corresponding Netflix series about the four essential elements of any good meal. She has since been peppering me (pun 100 percent intended) with more than I knew that I needed to know about salt. For instance: “Did you know,” she asks me one night as she’s preheating a skillet, “that when you add salt to meat before you cook it, it flavors it from within?” I did not know this, but as I take another bite of my own meal and determine it a bit too bland, I admit my cooking could have benefited from this fact. I allow myself a few moments to chew over this new knowledge (okay, okay, I’ll stop with the puns), and I find myself thinking of today’s Gospel.  Jesus tells us, “You are the salt of the earth” (Matthew 5:13). And our mission as His disciples, nourished by the grace of a rich sacramental life, is to flavor this world from within: within our homes, within our communities, within our parishes, within our careers, within a world that is often hostile to the Church. We need only look to the work of this day to determine where we are called to be seasoning. And when we show up wholeheartedly in those areas—with great faith, hope, and love—we can trust that the Lord is using us to bring the world to fullness of flavor in faith. Sister, take a few moments to consider the communities to which you belong, and pray about how the Lord might be asking you today to flavor them from within, through your witness to the Gospel.   

Father of compassion and the God of all encouragement, who encourages us in our every affliction, so that we may be able to encourage those who are in any affliction . . .  // 2 Corinthians 1: 3-4 As I listened to a podcast, I tried to understand the turmoil the speaker was sharing. She suffered from anxiety and depression. My heart felt for her, but it was hard for me to relate to it. Although intellectually I knew she couldn’t just shake off the negative thoughts or pray her way out of depression, it was hard for me to understand what she was going through.  However, now I’m witnessing the struggle with mental health in someone close to me. They confided in me the depth of their struggle, and I had no idea how bad it was. As I walk with them and offer them support, my heart breaks to see them suffer this way. In this case, there has not been a quick solution, but there are moments of hope when light breaks through and progress is made.  Now when I hear someone speak about mental health, I don’t just shrug it off. It has made me more compassionate towards others, especially knowing that there may be struggles that I don’t see.  In today’s First Reading, Saint Paul gives thanks to the “Father of compassion and the God of all encouragement who encourages us in our every affliction, so that we may be able to encourage those who are in any affliction . . . ” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4). God pours out His mercy and compassion on us and we in turn pour it out to those around us. Although we may each have different struggles and crosses, we share a universal need to be supported, encouraged, and loved.  Sister, consider the people in your own life and in your community. Ask the Holy Spirit to place on your heart someone He wants you to reach out to—whether it’s a friend you can call, a family member you can visit, or an act of kindness to a stranger. Today let God work an act of compassion through you.  Lord, help me to not be so wrapped up in my own life that I ignore the needs of others. Use me to bring encouragement to my sisters or brothers in Christ.

Amen, amen, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you do not have life within you.  Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him on the last day. // John 6:53-54 Hey, remember Holy Thursday? It was two months ago, and—if your family is anything like mine—it was a busy day in a busy week. It’s easy for the significance of Jesus’ institution of the Eucharist on that night at the Last Supper to be overshadowed by all of the other important events of the day, to say nothing of the rest of Holy Week and the Triduum. In my family, Holy Thursday is the busiest day of the entire liturgical calendar. (And for us that’s saying a lot!)  Saint Thomas Aquinas must have felt similarly because in 1264, he convinced Pope Urban IV to institute the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ, also known as Corpus Christi. Aquinas also wrote the beautiful sequence, “Lauda Sion,” that we hear during the Mass today. Without being tied up in the sorrows of Christ’s Passion and death, on the Feast of Corpus Christi we can better rejoice in the extraordinary gift of the Eucharist. Jesus is truly with us and truly present in every tabernacle in every Catholic church in the world. Christ has given to us his body to eat and his blood to drink. It’s humbling and . . . unsettling, right? Jesus’ followers thought the same thing. Just after the words of Jesus in today’s Gospel, many of His disciples abandoned Him, calling it a “hard saying” (John 6:60).   How can we make it easier? How can we “practice” belief in the Real Presence? Hopefully your parish offers a Eucharistic Procession for the solemnity today! A procession is a profound witness to our love for Jesus in the Eucharist. (And how cool is a processional umbrella?!) Spending time in Eucharistic Adoration is another, of course. Two simple habits that have helped me are (1) Staying for a few minutes after Mass, kneeling before the tabernacle to thank Jesus for staying here with us, and (2) Making the Sign of the Cross whenever I walk or drive past a Catholic church. Both are easy reminders of a hard—but beautiful—truth. P.S. It’s a great time to start! The United States Council of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) is in the midst of a multi-year push for National Eucharistic Revival. See their dedicated website for details on how individuals and parishes can get involved. Consider attending the United States’ first National Eucharistic Congress in 83 years (!). It will be held in Indianapolis in 2024.

This poor widow put in more than all the other contributors to the treasury. For they have all contributed from their surplus wealth, but she, from her poverty, has contributed all she had, her whole livelihood. // Mark 12:43-44 She was a quiet woman, the kind who really didn’t have the headspace for a lot of idle chit-chat. She found herself welcoming home her newborn nephew whose parents could not care for him. I sat with her as we talked about options to feed this baby who would be separated from his mother. I urged her to take two cans of formula from our center’s donated items instead of only one. Resolutely she shook her head and thanked me for one, and then swiftly left to return home to her nephew and the other little ones in her care.  I knew what she knew . . . that despite her difficult circumstances there were those in her community who likely needed that extra can of formula even more than she did. And that she would manage, by God’s provision, with what she had. Her generosity in that moment stayed with me for a long time, sister. How easily I cling to things that I feel are owed to me, while this woman so willingly shared from her lack to bless another woman in her community. Just like the widow in today’s Gospel (see Mark 12:38-44) she gave from the very little she had. No one would have judged her for taking a little extra, but she chose instead to trust. Where is the Lord asking you today to loosen your grip and give where you think you just don’t have enough? Does He desire that you tweak your budget so that you can tithe a little more to the Church? Has He placed it on your heart to share your limited time with a person who you know feels lonely and abandoned? Ask Him today to multiply what is meager and to embolden you with a spirit of generosity.

Welcome to your home with blessing and joy. Come in, daughter. // Tobit 11:17 For the longest time “church” had been a place where I went on Sunday, but toward the end of my time in high school it became the place I felt at rest. I remember when I started to understand that the Church is my home. It is a place where I belong, where I am delighted in, where I find refuge and strength. Church is where the Father calls me out of the crazy busyness of life to sit in His embrace, to hear Him calling me His beloved, His beautiful one, His daughter. There were, and are, and will always be times when I play the rebellious daughter and stray from the home of that embrace, preferring the comfortable ease and “rest” that comes from floating in the current of the secular culture. But the reality is, that is not real rest. The culture offers a rest that brings about complacency and stagnancy. The Father offers a rest that comes with blessing and joy. Mercifully, we have a Father in Heaven who never ceases waiting for us at the gate, to welcome us back into His embrace, to our true and lasting home. He does not tire of calling us daughter, no matter where we have been. Sister, when is the last time you let the Father call you His daughter, let Him enfold you in His merciful love, let Him speak the truth of who you are in His eyes to the little girl heart within you? When is the last time you were at home with the Father? When did you last experience the rest of the Father’s delight in you? Whether it was years ago, months ago, or yesterday, take a moment today and hear Him speak these words over you: “Welcome, my daughter…welcome to your home with blessing and joy. Come in, daughter!” (Tobit 11:17) Let these words delight your heart, dear sister, because they are true. With Him, you are always welcome; there is always blessing and joy. With Him, you are always home!

Allow us to live together to a happy old age. // Tobit 8:7 This line from Tobit was a saving grace on my thirty-second birthday. I had recently moved by myself to a new state for a short-term assignment. The physical distance from my family and friends felt painfully far on that birthday. My remote location and limited technology were another isolating factor. I mentioned my birthday earlier in the week to my housemates, but no one seemed to remember it on that Sunday morning. It was disappointing. I brought this to Jesus in prayer and felt completely known by Him. He knew. He knew everything. Jesus knew my fear of being forgotten. I wanted Him to be enough for me. I remained in His Eucharistic presence in the Adoration Chapel that morning. The previous year had been excruciating and my tender heart struggled to hope that anything would change. I paged through my worn-out Bible, and noticed the prayer of Tobiah and Sarah, which I highlighted years before: “Call down your mercy on me and on her, and allow us to live together to a happy old age” (Tobit 8:7). As I read these words again, I experienced a gentle outpouring of mercy from the pierced Heart of Jesus. Christ’s gaze of love soothed my own pierced heart. Jesus was with me and would not abandon me. And on top of that⁠—He desired for me to live together with Him to a happy old age. I spent that memorable birthday in solitude with Him. I went on an extended hike along a gorgeous river and my heart received a supernatural joy that only comes from union with the Holy Trinity. And in Jesus’ mercy, my housemates did remember my birthday late that night and whipped up a celebratory dessert. Birthday cake is best enjoyed with others!  Sisters, on the darkest nights, when you are feeling isolated and alone, let Jesus be your consolation. He sees you. He knows you. He loves you. Receive His mercy and lean into the hope of an abundant life with Him. 

“He is not God of the dead but of the living.” // Mark 12:27 I love a good series. Book, movie, or television, I love when a creator builds upon an intricate world they’ve made or further develops beloved characters and the relationships we’ve watched unfold. I especially enjoy when they’ve added hidden details or nods to other parts of their stories that you might not notice if you haven’t read carefully or are starting in the middle of the series.  Unsurprisingly, I also love it when the daily readings for Mass have a clear connection to one another. There is always wisdom to be gained from praying with all Scripture passages selected for the day, but I find it especially fruitful (even exciting) when I read the Gospel and notice that there is a direct reference to another reading for the day.  On its own, I don’t know that I would have made the connection of the marital situation the Sadducees pose to Jesus in Mark’s Gospel (see Mark 12:18-23) to that of Sarah in the Book of Tobit (see Tobit 3:7-8). But in noticing the relationship between the two passages, the Word was opened up in new ways for me.  Previously, I saw the question of a woman with seven husbands as hyperbolic and posed to trick Jesus. But on hearing the tale of Sarah and the death of her seven husbands (maybe not brothers, but all close relatives), I was left wondering if the Sadducees knew the story of  Tobit, Tobiah, and Sarah, even though it was not a part of the Jewish Scripture, having been composed in the exile from Jerusalem. If they did know, it seems the story should have left them empathizing with their pain and in awe of their prayers and praise of God during such devastating times.  And with this new insight, I’m left wondering: where in my own life is my focus on the wrong thing?  Sisters, where do we ignore the pain and prayers of others, focusing on what we deem more important? And how can we always turn our eyes and our hearts to the God “not of the dead but of the living”? 

I went to see some doctors for a cure but the more they anointed my eyes with various salves, the worse the cataracts became, until I could see no more. For four years I was deprived of eyesight, and . . .  my wife Anna worked for hire. // Tobit 2:10-11 Laughter floated up to the room where I lay in bed, jabbing a needle through my embroidery. My husband and kids were spending some much-needed time together—and clearly having loads of fun without me, I grumbled internally.  Stabbing the needle through the fabric again, I suddenly caught myself. When was the last time I’d offered my suffering for them? Aside from a rushed morning offering, I hadn’t allowed the Lord into a single moment of my present difficulty. I had acknowledged the weight of it, certainly. But instead of asking God to help me lift that weight and strengthen me in love, I had let it drag me down into resentful self-pity.  My heart shifted, and I silently invited the Lord to use my suffering for good. The physical pain remained, but peace and consolation quickly flooded the space where indignation and bitterness had reigned.  Through many years of physical suffering, the Lord has taught me some extremely valuable truths; truths that Tobit and his wife also discovered as his prolonged suffering took its toll (see Tobit 2:9-14).  Suffering can either harden or soften us. It can make us bitter, or it can help us to love better.  None of us will escape suffering in this fallen world—but with God’s help, we can allow it to spiritually transform us, not tyrannize us. Love Himself entered into suffering so that through His Passion, Death, and Resurrection, suffering could be emptied of its eternally destructive power and infused with redemptive, saving power. Any suffering that the enemy has devised for our ruin, God can instead work for our own redemption and others’ salvation—if we but let Him. With Jesus, every encounter with suffering becomes an opportunity to love like Him. With Jesus, our cross will sanctify us in this life, and become the ultimate doorway to the glory of eternal life—where we will never suffer again.  Until that day, let us pray: Jesus, help me to join every moment of my suffering to Your Cross. Grant me Your divine strength and peace in suffering. Redeem it all for my good and for others’ salvation. Amen.

. . . [T]hey realized that he had addressed the parable to them. So they left him and went away. // Mark 12:12It’s me. I’m the one to whom Jesus addressed the parable in today’s Gospel. You might have heard of the Ignatian style of imaginative prayer, in which you place yourself in a Bible scene. Maybe you observe as a bystander, somewhat removed from the action. Or perhaps you imagine yourself in the shoes of a key figure, among the disciples and friends of Jesus. Lately, the Holy Spirit has prompted me to imagine that I am one of the antagonists in the story. Ouch. I much prefer relating to one of the women like Martha or the woman at the well.  Today I’m stuck as a scribe. Scribes studied the Scriptures, interpreted them, and taught how to apply God’s law to daily life.  They knew the passage Jesus referenced, about the stone that the builders rejected becoming the cornerstone (see Psalm 118:22-23). I, too, have a solid knowledge of the Scriptures. I like to think of myself as a woman who stays with Jesus, keeping Him close to my heart. Every day the Lord speaks to me, and He also does to you. Most days I spend time reading Scripture, at least reading His word in the daily Mass readings.  But the hard truth is that sometimes, I’m just like the scribes who turn away, avoiding Jesus rather than turning towards Him to build my life upon Him. I’ll start my day with prayer and Scripture, often gleaning a nugget of consolation or depth of understanding I didn’t have before. No sooner have I blown out my prayer candle, the moment of consolation fades. I leave the Lord alone, forgetting His word and failing to act upon whatever He placed on my heart. I allow the daily demands of my routine to drown out the Lord, even after I experienced Jesus speaking to me in my heart. Lord, save me from wandering away from You, especially when You’ve spoken a word to me. Help me rebuild my life upon You, the cornerstone.

God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life. // John 3:16 His eyes sparkled in the candlelight as he watched the procession of altar servers and clergy with the Easter candle at the Easter Vigil. My only son was rapt in attention towards the liturgy of all liturgies. As Mass proceeded through the second of the Old Testament readings, I could not help but think of my son, my only son, as God asked Abraham to offer his only son Isaac.  Today is the eighth birthday of my only son–a son born after the sorrow of a miscarriage and followed by three more since then. I know how it feels to have an only son, for those babies entrusted to the mercy of God feel so far away.  We hear in the Gospel today for Trinity Sunday words that we have all heard before. We have seen “John 3:16” plastered on walls, on signs at sporting events, and on billboards along the highway. The words are so familiar that they wash over us.  “God so loved…” These words describe the Trinity. God, complete in His community of three Persons eternally loving, so loving that He created.  God so loved that He created the Angels. God so loved that He created the universe and our world, making it habitable. God so loved that He made us. And He did not just make us to live in this world, but He made us for eternal life. When we fell into sin, He so loved us that the Father sent his only Son, who came and died for us. Then the Son rose and ascended into Heaven, from where they sent the Holy Spirit to help us with grace to have the faith to believe in God, to love God, and to hope for eternal life.  God so loved, that even as I have offered my miscarried babies to Him, I hope to meet them in the next life, to share with them eternal beatitude in Heaven. Sister, God is Three Persons, and He so loves us all. Bask today in His Trinitarian love.

The law of the LORD is perfect, refreshing the soul. The decree of the LORD is trustworthy, giving wisdom to the simple. //  Psalm 19:8   When my dad was diagnosed with brain cancer last fall, it was a stressful and scary time. That first night after he was admitted to the hospital with symptoms that led us to the reality of his situation, I walked out into the parking lot feeling so sad and scared. In that moment, a flash of an image came into my head. It was an image of my dad running in a race. He was happy and tired and his face radiated joy. On the sidelines were friends and family who had gone before, cheering with delight. Their good friend was about to cross the finish line into this glory; what incredible happiness. I realized, in that split-second flash, God was comforting me. Instead of seeing this trial as my dad leaving us, I had an image of him moving toward something—my dad was headed to Heaven, the communion of Saints, Jesus Himself! Over the next few months, as my dad battled cancer and ultimately crossed the finish line, that image comforted me.  He is not moving away from something, I knew in my heart, but towards it. I’m not sure how I had the grace to trust Jesus, but it was truly a childlike trust. I simply chose not to question that God would comfort me and my family in our time of sorrow. This image, I knew deep down, was proof that He would. Today’s First Reading from Sirach anticipates the Responsorial Psalm. “When I was young and innocent, I sought wisdom openly in my prayer” (Sirach 51:13). We call this kind of innocent faith “childlike”—but it doesn’t need to be exclusive to the young. We all of us have the opportunity to trust and believe the precepts of the Lord.  When our faith is in the Lord and His goodness, our souls are refreshed. When we direct ourselves to wisdom, our hearts will delight in God’s comfort and truth. Lord, please give joy to our hearts! Remind us to have a childlike trust in You so we can be fully immersed in all the goodness, peace and grace You so freely give. 

The Lord takes delight in his people. Let them praise his name in the festive dance, let them sing praise to him with timbrel and harp. // Psalm 149:4a, 3 Coming home from work one Friday afternoon, saddled with bags and the week’s exhaustion, I came upon my kids running towards me with–snails. My immediate internal reaction was EW, but four little voices fought over one another to tell me about the treasure trove of snails they discovered in the courtyard. “We discovered ‘Snail-topia!’” one exclaimed. Another wanted me to pet his new friend. (I politely declined.) But they eagerly described their escapades in snail hunting and coming upon a tree covered in them. With them tugging at my arms, I dropped my stuff on the grass and was led to the special tree and shown all the magic of “Snail-topia.” The day’s hardships were forgotten as my children lifted leaves, talked about snail babies, and marveled at the snail poop (!!!) on their hands. Their eyes were sparkling with joy and wonder. And I, in turn, delighted in them. Their unbridled interest and fascination was completely mesmerizing to me. If I can be so enamored by “Snail-topia” and the joy of my children, how much more so is our Lord delighted by us? I can picture Him watching us while we enjoy our hobbies or interests, while we master a new skill, while we bask in our own loved ones. Nothing is trivial or uninteresting for Him. He delights in you. Sister, I invite you to take joy in something today. Let your Heavenly Father gaze upon your smiling face. Pick up an old hobby again. Dance in the kitchen. Start that book you’ve been meaning to read. Bake cookies and eat them while they’re still warm from the oven. Roll in the grass. Play that dusty instrument again. Roll the windows down and sing from the top of your lungs on your commute home. Praise His name.