August 18, 2026 // Tuesday of the Twentieth Week in Ordinary Time Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Matthew 19:23-30 Reflect on the Word //  I was talking with a friend recently about all the things that haven't gone according to plan. Somewhere in the conversation, I found myself listing the things I felt I had surrendered to God over the years—relationships that didn't work out, opportunities I walked away from, expectations I had to release. I wasn't angry, exactly. Just tired. And beneath the surface was a question I was almost afraid to ask: Was it worth it? Not because I doubted God, but because I couldn't yet see what He was doing with all that I had placed in His hands. In today's Gospel , Peter asks a question that feels surprisingly human: "We have given up everything and followed you. What will there be for us?" (Matthew 19:27) I love that he says it out loud. After all the teachings, miracles, and acts of faith, Peter still wonders what all this surrender is leading toward. Jesus doesn't rebuke him. Instead, He promises that whatever has been given up for His sake will be returned a hundredfold. The Lord promises him abundance even in the place of apparent loss.  Jesus doesn't deny the cost. The disciples really did leave things behind. Following Christ requires sacrifice. But Jesus invites them to see their losses through a different lens—not as things taken away, but as things entrusted to God. That's the part I'm still learning. Sometimes, surrender feels less like a single decision and more like a daily choice to release my grip on what I cannot control. My plans. My timelines. My expectations for how God should work. We all know what it feels like to count the cost of discipleship. May we also remember the promise that accompanies it: nothing surrendered to God is ever wasted. Even when we cannot yet see the fruit, we can trust that He is doing more than we know, and giving more than we can imagine. Relate to the Lord // Make “Jesus, I trust in you” your prayer today.

July 14, 2026 // Memorial of Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, Virgin [In the Dioceses of the United States] Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s First Reading: Isaiah 7:1-9 Reflect on the Word //  My mind was already ten steps ahead of reality. One small situation turned into ten “what ifs,” each one worse than the last. I could feel the anxiety building, my thoughts spiraling faster than I could slow them down. Nothing had actually happened yet—but internally, everything felt like it was falling apart. I kept trying to reason my way out of it, to find some sense of control, but the more I thought, the less steady I felt. In that moment, I realized how quickly fear can distort what’s actually in front of me. What starts as something small can feel overwhelming when I let my thoughts run unchecked. Instead of staying grounded in what’s real, I begin reacting to what might happen. It’s exhausting—and it leaves me feeling anything but firm. In Isaiah 7:1-9, the king and his people are described as trembling, “as the trees of the forest tremble in the wind” (Isaiah 7:2). You can almost feel the panic in that image—unstable, shaken, at the mercy of forces outside their control. And it’s there, right in the middle of that fear, that God speaks: “Take care you remain tranquil and do not fear. [. . .] This shall not stand” (Isaiah 7:4, 7). God doesn’t dismiss the situation, but He reframes it. What feels overwhelming is not ultimate. What looks threatening will not last. And then comes the invitation: “Unless your faith is firm, you shall not be firm” (Isaiah 7:9). That line stays with me. Stability isn’t found in figuring everything out or controlling every outcome—it’s found in trusting the One Who already holds it all. Faith doesn’t remove uncertainty, but it anchors us within it. We all face moments when fear feels louder than truth. May we learn to pause, to listen, and to trust God’s voice over the noise. For when our faith is rooted in Him, we find a steadiness that circumstances cannot take away. Relate to the Lord // Where does your trust need to be firmed up? Ask for the grace to be steadfast in trust. 

June 23, 2026 // Tuesday of the Twelfth Week in Ordinary Time Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Matthew 7:6, 12-14 Reflect on the Word //  I stared at my phone longer than I’d like to admit. The message was typed out, honest but uncomfortable. I knew it needed to be said, but I kept rereading it, softening the words, wondering if I should just delete it altogether. It would’ve been easier to avoid it or stay vague in order to keep the peace. My finger hovered over “send,” caught between what was easier and what was right. In that moment, I realized how often I equate peace with ease. If something feels uncomfortable, I assume it must not be the right choice. But more often than not, the easier option isn’t the more honest one. It doesn’t require courage, or trust, or surrender—it just keeps things smooth on the surface. And yet, I’ve started to notice that the choices that shape me most are rarely the ones that feel effortless in the moment. In Matthew 7:13-14, Jesus speaks plainly: “Enter through the narrow gate; [. . .] How narrow the gate and constricted the road that leads to life.” There’s something unsettling about that. We don’t like limitation—we associate it with restriction, not freedom. But Jesus reframes it. The narrow road isn’t about confinement; it’s about direction. It leads somewhere real, somewhere lasting. What I’m learning is that the narrow path often looks like small, daily choices: choosing honesty when it’s easier to stay vague, choosing prayer when I feel distracted, choosing trust when I’d rather control the outcome. It doesn’t always feel significant at the moment. It can feel hidden, even unnoticed. But over time, these small yeses shape a life rooted in something deeper than comfort. The wide road promises ease, but the narrow one promises life. And not just any life—true life, the kind that forms us, anchors us, and ultimately leads us home. We live in a world that constantly invites us to take the easier path. May we have the courage to choose the narrow way, trusting that even when it feels small or difficult, it is leading us into the fullness of life God desires for us. Relate to the Lord // What small yes are you being invited to give today? Maybe it is going to daily Mass, forgiving someone, putting down your phone, etc.

May 2, 2026 // Memorial of Saint Athanasius, Bishop and Doctor of the Church Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: John 14:7-14  Reflect on the Word // I’ve noticed how often my prayers sound like Philip’s. Just show me. Show me what you're doing. Show me that you're really here. Show me something unmistakable so I don’t have to keep wondering. I find myself asking this in the middle of ordinary days, halfway through a prayer, mid-thought, mid-doubt, simply longing for something concrete to hold on to. There have been moments when faith felt like squinting in the dark, trusting God’s presence without feeling His closeness.  I didn’t stop believing; I just wanted reassurance. Something tangible. Something more. In today’s Gospel, Philip voices that same desire: “Master, show us the Father, and that will be enough for us” (John 14:8). And Jesus responds—not with anger, but with a kind of gentle ache: “Have I been with you for so long [. . .] and you still do not know me?” (John 14:9) Jesus isn’t withholding revelation; He is the revelation. To look at Him is to see the Father’s heart—His mercy, His patience, His compassion in flesh and blood. God is not a hidden mystery; He has made himself visible in Christ. What strikes me is that Philip wasn’t rejecting Jesus; he simply wanted clarity. And Jesus meets that longing by redirecting it. It’s almost as if He’s saying, “Don’t look elsewhere. Don’t wait for something bigger or more dramatic. Look at Me. Listen to My words. Notice My work.”  Faith isn’t about chasing extraordinary signs—it’s about trusting that God has already come near. Jesus then goes even further, extending an invitation: Those who believe will share in His work (see John 14:12). Knowing the Father doesn’t end in understanding; it flows into action, prayer, and participation in God’s life. We often ask God to show Himself more clearly. May we learn to see Him in Jesus—in His words, His works, and His love made visible in Scripture and in the Eucharist. And trusting that He is already with us living within our hearts, may we live and pray with confidence, believing that God is nearer than we think. Relate to the Lord // Turn to Jesus in Scripture today. Reread today’s Gospel (John 14:7-14) and let Jesus reveal Himself to you personally there. 

March 16, 2026 // Monday of the Fourth Week of Lent Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: John 4:43–54 Reflect on the Word // There’s a quiet tension in waiting for God to act after He’s already spoken. I’ve been there and often find myself there—praying, sensing a promise or a direction from the Lord—and then I wake up the next day to . . . nothing having changed. The circumstances look the same. The ache is still there. And in that space, it’s so easy to start questioning: Did I hear Him right? Did I make that up? Faith, I’ve realized, isn’t just believing that God can act; it’s trusting that His word is already at work, even when I can’t yet see the result. In today’s Gospel, a royal official comes to Jesus pleading for his dying son. He begs Jesus to come with him, but instead, Jesus simply says, “You may go; your son will live” (John 4:50). That’s it—no sign, no journey together, just a sentence to cling to. And the Gospel says, “The man believed what Jesus said to him and left” (John 4:50). That line always stops me. He had to walk the whole road home holding nothing but a promise. Yet, somewhere along the way, before he even reached his house, the miracle had already begun. That’s what real faith looks like, not certainty that we understand everything, but quiet confidence in the One Who speaks. The man’s belief didn’t make the miracle happen, but it allowed him to walk in peace while it was unfolding. Sister, may we learn to take Jesus at His word, to walk forward before the proof appears, trusting that when He speaks life, life is already on its way. For even when we can’t see it yet, His word never goes unfulfilled. Relate to the Lord // Where is Jesus inviting you to believe? Make an act of trust today.

January 15, 2026 // Thursday of the First Week in Ordinary Time Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Mark 1:40-45 Reflect on the Word // I can still remember a season when I felt like I had to keep parts of myself hidden. I showed up to conversations smiling, doing fine on the outside, but inside I carried questions, grief, and doubts I wasn’t sure anyone could handle. What if I spoke honestly and people pulled away? What if my mess was too much? So I kept it in, and the silence grew heavier. I felt both present and absent at the same time—surrounded by people, but unsure if anyone really saw me. It wasn’t that others had rejected me; it was that I had already decided my struggles weren’t worth bringing into the light. In the Gospel of Mark today, a man with leprosy steps out of isolation and kneels before Jesus. With trembling honesty he says, “If you wish, you can make me clean” (Mark 1:40). He risks exposure, ridicule, even rejection—what he receives instead is compassion. Jesus doesn’t recoil or shame him. He reaches out His hand, touches the untouchable, and restores him to wholeness. That moment reveals something vital about God’s Heart. We don’t have to hide our wounds or pretend we’re cleaner than we are. The leper’s prayer is so simple—neither polished nor lengthy—and yet Jesus moves toward him. Healing begins not with perfection, but with honesty and trust. The God we meet in Christ is not repelled by our brokenness; He is moved with pity and eager to draw near. We may not carry leprosy, but we all carry burdens—questions, struggles, regrets—that tempt us to stay silent. This passage invites us to bring them into the open before God, believing that His willingness is greater than our fear. As a people, may we resist the urge to hide behind masks of strength. Instead, I pray this is an invitation to be a community where vulnerability is met with compassion, where no wound is too deep and no person too far gone to be touched by the healing mercy of Christ. Relate to the Lord // Are you tempted to hide parts of yourself from others or from the Lord? Tell Jesus about that tendency and consider sharing those parts with Him.

December 9, 2025 // Optional Memorial of Saint Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Matthew 18:12-14 Reflect on the Word //  It happened again. The very thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do, the habit I swore I had under control—I fell into it once more. Shame settled heavy in my chest almost immediately, a thought crept in: Maybe this is just who I am. Maybe I will never be free of this. I sat there, discouraged, wondering how many times was too many times for grace.  In today’s Gospel (see Matthew 18:12-14), Jesus tells a story about a shepherd who leaves ninety-nine sheep to search for the one that has wandered. I’ve read it before, but lately it hits differently. Jesus doesn’t say the sheep wandered once and learned its lesson. Sheep are prone to wander—that’s what they do. And still, the shepherd searches. Still, he carries the sheep back. Still, he rejoices at finding it. That image tells me something I struggle to believe too often: My failure does not disqualify me from God’s love. My repeated weakness doesn’t cause Him to turn away in disgust. My inability to “get it right” doesn’t exhaust His patience. Instead, it stirs His compassion. His pursuit, like that of the shepherd, is not based on my ability to stay perfectly close, but on His unwavering commitment to seek me when I drift. I haven’t mastered discipline. I haven’t conquered every sin pattern. But maybe the point isn’t boasting in mastery—it’s learning to trust my Good Shepherd’s mercy and the help of His grace. Maybe holiness looks less like a flawless record and more like being willing to be carried home, again and again. We often think of discipleship as steady progress upward, but Jesus frames it as a relationship: a Shepherd Who notices, pursues, and delights in each of us. So when we wander—and we will—may we remember that we are never lost beyond His reach. The Father’s will is that not one of His little ones should perish (see Matthew 18:14). That includes you, sister, and me, even here, still learning, still struggling, still being found. Relate to the Lord // What would being held and carried by the Shepherd look like for you today?

November 14, 2025 // Friday of the Thirty-second Week in Ordinary Time Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s First Reading: Wisdom 13:1-9 Reflect on the Word //  For months now, I’ve felt . . . hidden. Not in a self-protective way, and not from a lack of trying. I’ve shown up, been open, stayed prayerful—and yet, when it comes to dating, it’s as if God has placed a kind of covering over me. I’m not unseen because I’m avoiding love or withholding parts of myself. It’s deeper than that. I feel as if God Himself has hidden me, not to punish me, but to preserve me. I don’t fully understand it—but I can’t shake the sense that this hiddenness is His doing. It’s easy to see what’s missing and assume God is absent. But what if hiddenness is not a punishment, but a form of protection? What if God sometimes hides us so we can better see Him? In today’s First Reading it says, “From the greatness and the beauty of created things, their original author [. . .] is seen” (Wisdom 13:5). It’s a reminder that God is not withholding Himself. He is revealing Himself—just not always in the ways we expect. We search for clarity in outcomes, for God’s presence in answered prayers, for proof of being loved in being chosen. But sometimes, God removes those familiar lights so we learn to see Him as the source. In my own waiting, I’ve realized that what feels like hiddenness might actually be an invitation. I am being invited to look more closely, to notice how God is present in beauty, in longing, and even in delay. So I wait—not unseen, but seen first by God. And maybe that is the deeper preparation: to be grounded in the eyes of the One Who formed me, before being revealed to someone else. As we live in seasons that feel quiet, slow, or hidden, may we remember: God is not far. He’s not playing games with our desires. He is near, and He is revealing Himself—through beauty, through mystery, and yes, even through the ache of waiting. Relate to the Lord // What are you waiting for? How is God revealing Himself to you in the waiting?

October 2, 2025 // Memorial of the Holy Guardian Angels Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Matthew 18:1-5, 10 Reflect on the Word // I thought I had made progress. I’d brought it up in therapy countless times, I’d journaled,  labeled the emotions, identified the root cause. I even prayed about it—more than once. But one quiet afternoon, a friend said something small, and suddenly I was fighting back tears. Where did that come from?  I had already “dealt with” this. Right? But the reaction didn’t lie. There was still something raw underneath, something unresolved that analysis hadn’t touched. I realized I had been trying to manage my healing more than receive it. Somewhere along the way, healing had become another thing to control—another task to complete.  Jesus' call to “turn and become like children” strikes me in a tender place (Matthew 18:3). I don’t like feeling small. I want to understand, manage, and master my own healing. I want to know why I feel what I feel and exactly how to fix it. But children don’t approach their needs that way. They don’t have all the language or answers. They simply feel—and they bring those feelings to someone they trust. That’s the invitation in today’s Gospel. Jesus isn’t infantilizing us or asking us to become childish, but rather asking us to have a childlike surrender of our illusion of control. A child doesn't pretend to be okay when they aren’t. They don’t try to analyze their way out of pain. They just come. That’s what humility looks like—trusting God enough to bring the messy, unedited truth of ourselves into His presence, even when we don’t fully understand it. And Jesus receives us there. In fact, He sees that part of us—the raw, needy, tender parts we often try to hide or fix on our own. He warns us not to despise “these little ones” (Matthew 18:10)—and that includes the little, hurting parts of ourselves. What if true healing begins when we stop trying to be strong and start trusting like children? As we learn to let go of control, may we also learn to rest in God’s kindness, knowing He meets us exactly where we are—not where we think we should be. Relate to the Lord // Have you been trying to manage your healing? Ask Jesus to help you to simply receive instead. 

August 28, 2025 // Memorial of Saint Augustine, Bishop and Doctor of the Church Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s First Reading: 1 Thessalonians 3:7-13 Reflect on the Word // I was feeling worn out—heart tired in a way that even sleep couldn’t fix. I had been showing up, doing the next thing, but inside I felt spiritually dry and disconnected. I hadn’t had the energy to pray, and I honestly wasn’t sure if God saw me in it. Then a simple message popped up on my phone: “Thinking of you. God put you on my heart.” It came from a friend I hadn’t spoken to in weeks. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until tears welled up. That one act of faithfulness—listening to the Holy Spirit’s nudge—lifted the weight I’d been carrying. Her faith reminded me that I’m never forgotten, never walking alone. Even when I’m not feeling strong, someone else’s faith can steady me. In his letter to the Thessalonians, Saint Paul writes with Silvanus, and Timothy, “We have been reassured about you [. . .] through your faith. For we now live, if you stand firm in the Lord” (1 Thessalonians 3:7–8). Paul was going through distress and affliction, yet hearing about the steadfast faith of others brought him renewed life. That phrase—“we now live”—strikes a deep truth. It’s easy to believe our faith is just about us and God. But this passage reminds us how deeply communal faith is. When I couldn’t find words to pray, my friend’s simple obedience gave me the strength I didn’t know I needed. Paul doesn’t pray for control or even for outcomes—he prays that the Thessalonians' love would increase and abound, and that their hearts would be strengthened in holiness. Love is what holds us. Not polished perfection, but love rooted in Christ, overflowing into the lives of others. This is the kind of love that sustains us when we’re weary, the kind that revives us when we feel alone. We’re not meant to journey alone. Our faith—imperfect and ordinary as it may seem—can be the very thing that steadies someone else. When we respond to God’s nudge, when we love faithfully, we help others stand firm. And in doing so, we find that we ourselves are made more alive. Relate to the Lord // Whose friendship has reassured you? Thank the Lord for that person and let them know how much they mean to you.

July 10, 2025 // Thursday of the Fourteenth Week in Ordinary Time Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Matthew 10:7-15 Reflect on the Word //  I remember the sinking feeling in my stomach when I was given a responsibility I felt completely unprepared for. I wanted to say yes—I knew it was important—but deep down, I felt inadequate. What if I fail? What if I don’t have what it takes? Doubt crept in, convincing me that someone else would be better suited. I wasn’t qualified. I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t ready. In today’s Gospel, Jesus sends His disciples out to proclaim the Kingdom of Heaven. But He doesn’t send them empty handed. He gives them authority to heal the sick, cleanse lepers, and cast out demons. He equips them for the work ahead, even though they probably felt unqualified. Yet, He also warns them: “Whoever will not receive you or listen to your words—go outside that home or town and shake the dust off your feet” (Matthew 10:14). Jesus knows rejection is inevitable—but so is His provision. That verse used to sound harsh to me—wasn’t Jesus all about mercy and patience? But now, I hear it differently. Jesus isn’t telling us to be cold or dismissive; He’s telling us to trust that He has already given us everything we need. We don’t have to strive, prove ourselves, or make things work in our own strength. The power to heal, to proclaim, to endure—it comes from Him. Maybe you feel unqualified for what God is calling you to. Maybe you’re doubting whether you have what it takes. But Jesus sees you. And He reminds you that your mission isn’t about what you bring—it’s about what He has already given. So, if you’ve been holding back out of fear, maybe it’s time to step forward. Trust that God has already equipped you for what’s next. Relate to the Lord // What lies have been hindering your growth? What truth does Jesus want you to declare instead?

June 4, 2025 // Wednesday of the Seventh Week of Easter Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: John 17:11b-19 Reflect on the Word //  I could feel the tension in the room before they even spoke. Arms crossed, voice cold, they finally said the words I’d been dreading: "That’s just the way you must have perceived it, but that was not what I was doing." The sentence landed like a punch. I opened my mouth to respond, but what was the point? The wall between us had been there for years, built with misunderstandings, unspoken pain, and unresolved conversations. All I wanted was to be heard, to have my pain acknowledged. An attempt to heal what’s been broken somehow made things worse. Have you ever been there—standing in the wreckage of a relationship you thought would last, unsure if it can ever be repaired? I wanted unity. I wanted peace. But I wrestled with a familiar ache—longing for closeness, yet feeling the distance grow. Was I expecting too much? Was I holding on to this wound too tightly? A part of me wanted to let it go, but another part feared that if I did, it would mean my pain didn’t matter. In John 17, Jesus prays for unity—not just for the Church, but for all relationships that reflect His love. He knows the pain of division, having been betrayed and abandoned by those He loved. Yet, instead of closing His Heart, He turns to the Father, entrusting the brokenness to Him. I used to think unity meant restoring what was lost, but maybe it begins in the heart of just one person—the one willing to surrender the hurt to God. Maybe this person will never apologize. Maybe the relationship won’t be what I hoped for. But Jesus’ prayer reminds me that unity is ultimately His work. My role is to remain open to healing, even if it means forgiving without receiving an apology. He desires healing even more than we do. Relate to the Lord // Pray for unity in your family and friendships today.

April 30, 2025 // Wednesday of the Second Week of Easter // Optional Memorial of Saint Pius V, Pope, religious Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: John 3:16-21 Reflect on the Word //  I suddenly hit a roadblock in my journey of healing and forgiveness when I had to choose to forgive someone who was not asking for forgiveness. What felt like years of intentional and difficult work—spiritually, mentally, and emotionally—suddenly felt meaningless. I closed that door and sealed it shut. That was not a step I was ready to take, nor did I want to.  I knew the right thing to do was to forgive anyway, but as we all know too well, the distance from our heads to our hearts is often too big. I knew in my head what I needed to do, but there was so much resistance in my heart.  It was so much easier to stay in the darkness of unforgiveness. I needed to turn toward the Light to expose the lies in my heart. I needed to recognize that the darkness of my resentment comes from believing in myself instead of the true God Who came not to condemn but that we be saved through Him (see John 3:16-21). It was in Him that I found grace, courage, and patience to forgive, even when it hurt. To forgive over and over again.  I had to prefer light, the Light, to be able to forgive. I hear His invitation again and again: Step into the light, beloved. Say yes to the freedom I offer you in forgiveness. His desire is that we come towards the Light, Him. He so loved us that He became a Man and died for us. The Lord desires that we live in the truth so that all we do is in and through Him. He wants nothing to hold us back from Him, so that our “works may be clearly seen as done in God” (John 3:21). He wants to shed His Light on where we need healing and freedom today. Relate to the Lord // Ask Jesus what darkened door He wants to illuminate in your soul?  

March 7, 2025 // Friday after Ash Wednesday // Optional Memorial of Saints Perpetua and Felicity, Martyrs Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Matthew 9:14-15  Reflect on the Word // I will be the first to admit that fasting is not my favorite thing to do. I have complained and whined my way through many seasons of Lent and other fasting days throughout the liturgical year. My internal disposition is one of misery and pain rather than one of desire for growth in virtue. I have simply just avoided the concept of fasting.  In today’s Gospel, the disciples of John come to Jesus and ask why His disciples don't fast, so it seems evident that Jesus' disciples were not fasting while He was with them. Considering the importance of this tradition, it seems a bit peculiar. Jesus answers with a word picture. He says, "The attendants of the bridegroom cannot mourn as long as the bridegroom is with them, can they?" (Matthew 9:15)  What was Jesus emphasizing? And what does He mean? He teaches us two things: one is that fasting was associated with mourning in that day. Most of all, it was meant to be an expression of an inner hunger for God. This is the second thing He teaches: The Messiah has come and His coming is like the coming of a bridegroom to a wedding feast. God has sent His Son, the Messiah, and He has come as the Bridegroom. They just can’t fast in this situation. The absence of fasting in the band of disciples was a witness to the presence of God in their midst. As Jesus foretold, the days then came in which the Bridegroom was taken from them, and then they did fast and suffer—and many became martyrs.  We live in a time of both knowing the Bridegroom is with us and waiting to be with Him fully in Heaven. There is great joy and grace that comes from seasons of fasting, because we know He has the victory. But we cannot forget why we’re fasting. May our prayer and fasting reveal a sorrow for our sins and an inner hunger for Him. And in the times where we don’t fast, may that, too, be a witness of the presence of God to those around you.  Relate to the Lord // What fast has the Lord invited you into this Lent? How is it revealing your hunger for Him?

February 17, 2025 // Optional Memorial of the Seven Founders of the Order of Servites, religious Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Mark 8:11-13 Reflect on the Word // It had been several months of wrestling interiorly about how I was ever going to bring my capstone project to completion, let alone actually dream of fully implementing it. For years, I had dreamt about developing a Catholic adoption consulting agency so that I could support families throughout the journey of adoption. I wanted this to be my mission field. As I neared the end of my studies, I just kept asking God for a sign that this really was the direction He wanted me to go. I had convinced myself that a sign from Jesus would be the only thing I needed to launch me into this mission—my sign. And like Jesus did with the Pharisees in today’s Gospel, He seemed to sigh “from the depth of his spirit and said, ‘Why does this generation seek a sign? Amen, I say to you, no sign will be given to this generation’” (Mark 8:12). Too often, we don’t see Jesus for Who He is, the One Who brings us into a life that makes sense, a life that is grounded in the love of God for all people. When we let Him work in us, then we become signs of Who Jesus was and is and will be forever.  The Gospel ends with Jesus getting into a boat and heading across the water. He walks away. He doesn’t argue and wrestle to convince anyone to trust Him, believe in Him, or follow Him. The door is wide open. The welcome is warm. But Jesus doesn’t force us to follow Him. He doesn’t force us to see what we are blind to, or hear what we refuse to listen to. Jesus’ love is not, and will never be, coercive.  When we are tempted to seek only for a sign from the Lord, let us pray for clarity of heart to see Him as the sign. He is the answer to every next step, every discernment, every question. There is great joy in the comfort He brings.   Relate to the Lord // How might Jesus be the sign for what you’ve been looking or waiting for?

December 11, 2024 // Optional Memorial of Saint Damasus I, Pope Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Matthew 11:28-30 Reflect on the Word//  I took a deep breath in and exhaled a long sigh of exhaustion as I heard these words again: “Mary’s got it. She’ll take care of it in no time.” I was so worn down and tired, I was just ready to stop giving. I felt like I had no more capacity to do one more thing, to help one more person, to “take care of” one more thing.  I could feel my anxiety rising and it felt like I was on the verge of tears every moment. I just wanted to rest. I just wanted to not be needed—even for a little while. My cup was empty. I brought this to the Lord, hoping maybe He would justify these feelings of frustration or this selfish feeling of not being recognized. I threw myself a little pity party—that is, until Jesus so gently interrupted it with these words: I will always give you the grace and strength to give of yourself again. I will fill your cup.  For so long, I had convinced myself that the only way I could give more of myself and feel filled up was if I took time to physically rest. Sure, that is absolutely necessary, but I forget too often to go to the One Who truly fills me.  When Jesus is speaking to the crowds at the end of Matthew 11, He offers them one gentle  invitation—“Come to me” (Matthew 11:28). Within that invitation, Jesus offers such a beautiful gift that is to rest in Him. He becomes the place in which we find rest. He wants to help us carry what is heavy (even make it light!) and find rest.  As we continue to go to Him, we will find that He offers all the grace, patience, and joy we need to give again. He fills our cup. He fills us through the Sacraments, in life-giving conversations, physical rest, and through His Word.  Relate to the Lord // Spend time resting in Jesus’ presence today. If possible, stop by a Church or adoration chapel to rest in His Real Presence. 

But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we also await a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. // Philippians 3:20 Two years ago, I went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and participated in a leadership course for two weeks. To say this was one of the best trips I’ve ever been on would be an understatement.  It was such a gift to be in the place where our Lord actually walked, grew up, and taught. And even more, it was a privilege to be with the group of young women I was with. Over thirty of us came together from nine different countries as strangers and left as sisters. We shared such deep encounters of the Lord and lived those two weeks with so much joy. I still look back at all my memories with delight. But after I left, I felt so sad, and I longed to be back there with them.  It wasn’t my home, yet I felt so homesick. How was that possible? All I wanted was to go back. I felt like I belonged there, like it was a foreshadowing of heavenly joy.  Sister, do you ever feel that way about Heaven? Longing to be home with our Creator?  Although our time on earth has its joys and beauties, it can often be filled with sin, suffering, and darkness. It is uncomfortable, dirty, and temporary. This is not our home.  Our ultimate home is with God in Heaven.  In today’s First Reading, Saint Paul reminds us that our citizenship is in Heaven (see Philippians 3:17-4:1). Our citizenship as believers is in Heaven. Our eternal home is in Heaven with the Lord.  Is your heart longing for home?  It is easy to be discouraged in the waiting, but stand firm in the Lord. Don’t let the temporary pain of life on earth pull you away from the joy of what’s coming. Stay close to and rely on the Lord, and He will sustain you in this life. Live in His joy here and remember your destination.