I tell you, brothers and sisters, the time is running out [ . . . ] For the world in its present form is passing away. // 1 Corinthians 7:29; 31 Every October, I am stunned by the rapid transition from summer to autumn in Michigan. I shouldn’t be surprised—the familiar signs of impending changes are all around me. Sweaters, boots, and Christmas catalogs all make an appearance, and our beautiful array of blazing trees meet their destiny in leaf bags and bonfires. By the time you read this, I will be plunged into another season of dark days and icy winds, with the promise of spring buried deep beneath the frozen earth. I love the four seasons (although I wish winter was shorter). Each one is like the changing scenery on the stage of a play, and a tangible reminder that nothing in this world lasts forever. One day, sooner than we expect, the final curtain will signal not only the end of our individual lives, but also the glorious consummation of salvation history. In today’s Second Reading (see 1 Corinthians 7:29-31), Saint Paul encourages us to live with the awareness that life on this earth—the changing seasons, both in nature and in our own lives, are all temporary and fleeting. Remembering this truth shouldn’t generate apathy or ingratitude for the temporal gifts of God. It means, however, that I ought to hold everything loosely, not clinging to anything but Christ as the means to my salvation and ultimate happiness. Some days this eternal perspective is sharp and clear to me, but many days it remains in the background, an out-of-focus future reality. Sister, the Lord wants us to live with a sense of urgency that directs our decisions, orders our desires, and helps us live daily in joyful expectation of Christ’s return. If time is indeed running out, let’s use it wisely, investing in the things that will never pass away.

Open our hearts, O Lord, to listen to the words of your Son. // Gospel Acclamation (based on Acts 16:14b) Lately, I’ve begun each morning by asking our Lady to open my heart just a sliver.  Trials and traumas calloused parts of my heart that I can’t even detect, and I’m too weary to open my heart with my own parched strength. I need my heavenly Mother to do it. And I know the Holy Spirit can enter my heart through a mere sliver and move mightily. In today’s First Reading, David is wracked with grief over the loss of Israel’s king and his best friend (see 2 Samuel 1:1-4, 11-12, 19, 23-27). He is clearly shaken. In the Gospel, the people who knew Jesus while He was growing up were hardened against His preaching because they refused to or were unable to see Him as He was (see Mark 3:20-21).   How often do we find ourselves in these states? Broken and desperate, cold and unbelieving.  But the Gospel Acclamation reveals the proper response in these moments: “Open our hearts, O Lord, to listen to the words of your Son.” Particularly in these overwhelming moments, we need the truth of Christ’s words to penetrate our hardened hearts and heal what cannot be healed by human effort. Yet we cannot even open our hearts by ourselves. We need His grace to do so. We must simply desire to be open to God, to turn our gaze toward Him, and to invite Him to help us.  And He will. Every single time.  He will “rouse [His] power, and come to save us” (Psalm 80:3). Jesus longs to save, heal, and restore us. He begins that work here on earth, for most of us will complete it in purgatory, so that we will be completely healed when He leads us into Heaven. He is aware of our weaknesses. He is not deterred.  So today, ask Jesus to open your heart. Invite Mary to help you do so. Ask the Lord for the grace of healing and belief, direction and salvation. Be faithful in this request, and you will witness how much He can do with a sliver of supplication.

Saul then said to David: "You are in the right rather than I; you have treated me generously, while I have done you harm. Great is the generosity you showed me today, when the LORD delivered me into your grasp and you did not kill me. For if a man meets his enemy, does he send him away unharmed? May the LORD reward you generously for what you have done this day. // 1 Samuel 24:18-20 I felt a little manipulated (and more than a little miffed). I had agreed to offer support for a foster parent who needed a break from the intensity of caring for a child with difficult needs. As the weekend progressed my multiple messages to this foster mom went unanswered. When I finally reached her she blithely assumed that I would, at a moment's notice, care for her little one for an additional day despite the plan to which we had agreed. No apology, no kind request, just an assumption.  Sometimes manipulations are so slight that we don’t even take note until the wrong is long over. The burning Now, wait just one minute! feeling comes too late, and we are left feeling the sting of injustice in our hearts, powerless to undo what wronged us in the first place. I love today’s reading from the First Book of Samuel (see 1 Samuel 4:3-21) because at its heart, it is a story of justice. Our dear David did the right thing, the just thing. He could have slain King Saul, right then and there. He knew, though, that God’s timing is sublimely perfect. He trusted that God would see His plan of justice through. Like David, you and I can’t force the hand of justice either. We can’t make our coworkers, family, or friends do the right thing. Nor can we force an outcome just because we are too impatient to wait. Like the roster of Apostles introduced in today’s Gospel passage (see Mark 3:13-19), you and I and everyone else can act sinfully through being greedy, dishonest, cowardly, entitled, and so on. Our relationships are so very imperfect. If you are feeling the pain of an injustice in one of your relationships today, know that the Lord sees you. We need not force the hand of anyone. Let’s pray with Psalm 57 for today that He might shower His mercy on all of our relationships, and that we might live and love with a just heart.

Jesus withdrew toward the sea with his disciples. A large number of people followed from Galilee and from Judea. // Mark 3:7 There’s a joke among mothers that moms of toddlers cannot even use the bathroom in peace and quiet. Little fingers show up under the door, reaching for Mom. The pursuit doesn’t end in toddler-hood, either. My tweens and teens have frequently walked past Dad to ask me a question—one which he could easily have answered. I once answered a call while on retreat, thinking an emergency happened at home, only to have my son ask a rather unimportant question, “because Dad is working on the car." Talk about a relentless pursuit. Kids don’t seem to care or notice if it’s inconvenient for Mom. They just know it’s her they want. Imagine being even more persistent in seeking the Lord.  Imagine being so intent on Him, that you would walk miles to follow Him, to seek His healing, to hear His voice—like the people in today’s Gospel—relentless and determined to be near the only person who can fulfill our hearts’ desires. They weren’t deterred by distance or convenience, or Jesus’ apparent unavailability when He withdrew to the lake. In fact, they seem even more determined as they “were pressing upon him to touch him” and be cured (Mark 3:10). Perhaps the persistence of children is what Mark had in mind when he wrote this passage, especially as later in his Gospel he records Jesus saying, “[W]hoever does not accept the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it” (Mark 10:15). ​​I can see a parallel between my young children constantly following me and the people following after Jesus. My children haven’t been deterred by my apparent unavailability, just as the people were not deterred by Jesus’ retreat to the lake. There’s a childlike quality in this kind of pursuit of the Lord, and in pressing in until we’re near enough to touch Him and be healed by His love.  Sister, I encourage you today to press in, to keep pursuing the Lord in prayer. If you have a chance, stop by your local church and pray before His Real Presence in the tabernacle, drawing near the Lord’s loving presence.

Then [Jesus] said to them, "Is it lawful to do good on the sabbath rather than to do evil, to save life rather than to destroy it?" But they remained silent. // Mark 3:4 My announcement of upcoming changes planned by the new pastor to our parish retreat ministry was met by the team members with an uncomfortable silence; the kind of silence that clamors inside hearts and minds resistant to change. In today’s Gospel (see Mark 3:1-6), Jesus is angered and grieved at the hard hearts of religious leaders resistant to change even when it brings life and health. The Pharisees are not prepared for Jesus to exercise a higher authority than their own.  Yet, how do we respond to the changes Jesus allows in our own lives? Do we prioritize divinely given or man-made rules without charity for those they serve? When we close our hearts to His invitation to grow, He ought to be grieved. His ways are always life-giving, healing, and restorative.  Obedience to legitimate authority always bears good fruit. Team members open to their pastor’s revisions were rewarded with life-giving fruits in an abundance they’d not previously experienced. That’s the way it works in God’s kingdom.   In today’s Gospel, we are challenged to let go of our own way of doing things and open our hearts and minds to the healing power of Jesus.  Is there a hard place in your heart? Our Lord wants to soften it. Come to Him, just as you are, and tell Him that you’re ready to receive His love and healing. Is your mind set on an idea or perceived injustice of which you can’t seem to let go? Pray for the grace to have your thoughts shaped by the humility and love of Christ. Let’s pray:  Oh God, nothing in my life is hidden from you.  You know me better than I know myself. Remove any walls of fear or pride. I’m sorry for listening to doubt. Doubt whispers lies that I’m alone and unworthy.  I am not alone. I am Yours. Help me to surrender everything to You. Help me to trust You to fulfill my dreams and desires. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, shelter me in Your Communion of Love. Help me to remain with You now and always. Amen.

“Not as man sees does God see, because he sees the appearance but the LORD looks into the heart.” // 1 Samuel 16:7  I had an image come to me in prayer of an empty cell. An austere place with cold stone walls and not a single window to let in the sunlight. Amid the silence of this lonely cell, I called out to Jesus: Lord, can You be with me here?  With these words came a flicker of light, and soon the room was filled with the warm flames of candlelight. Jesus was present, adorning the cell, and transforming it into a beautiful room. A place where I would find rest. A place where I would find peace. A place where I would find Him.  In prayer I asked the Lord what this place was. And He answered: Your heart, daughter. This is your heart.  This all happened after a particularly dry season in prayer. I was feeling overwhelmed, distracted, and alone. Restlessness crept in and prayer became a daily struggle. The Lord felt far away. But of course, as the lover of my soul, He was never far away. Jesus was so very close. He was in the darkest depths of my heart.  He is in the places that I am afraid to go. The places that I hide from. Places that have grown cold and lonely. Places surrounded by thick stone walls. Places that I would rather pretend do not exist. Yet, my Savior was waiting for me there. Waiting for me to welcome Him, and allow Him to bring warmth. Allow Him to bring beauty. Allow Him to bring love.  For a long time I ran and hid, and He continued to wait with such tenderness. Then into the darkest depths, He brought the light of grace.  “Not as man sees does God see, because he sees the appearance but the Lord looks into the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). Maybe your heart feels lonely and abandoned, devoid of beauty and light. But the Lord is with you. Welcome Him in. He sees a place to abide and adorn. You are not alone. You are not forgotten. From the depths of your soul, you are loved.

Obedience is better than sacrifice. // 1 Samuel 15:22 It is too easy for me to leap to conclusions in regards to what our Lord is asking of me. Oftentimes, self-imposed sacrifice seems the clear-cut path to holiness. I’ll give up this, I’ll do that . . . and on and on. Now, I don't mean to disparage sacrifice. What I do want to consider is this: What is the Lord asking of me in this moment? A few years back, I had an experience that has been burned into my heart with my then eight-year-old daughter. I had planned to spend my afternoon car ride to school totally alone so that I could pray. I don’t often find silence unless I’m in the car and I had said to Jesus and to myself, This is the moment! I had arranged my schedule accordingly, and I was sure this devoted time of silence was exactly what Jesus was asking of me. As I got ready to leave, I was followed outside by my daughter, who asked if she could come along with me. I quickly shut her down.  “This is my time to pray,” I told her. And I drove away. The situation didn’t settle well with me and I later brought it up to my confessor. After recalling the scene, the response was simple and to the point: “Maybe our Lord was asking you to make that your prayer—time alone with your daughter.” Thank God for those words. You see, I had contrived a very human plan for how God wanted me to spend my time, and I had become attached to it. Too attached to see our Lord offer me a new plan, and a better one. One that would have served my humility, and my flexibility, my cheerfulness, and my relationship with one of the little ones He had entrusted to me.  “Obedience is better than sacrifice” (1 Samuel 15:22). Lord, help me to see when my sacrifice only serves myself and to respond in obedience when You call. Amen.

John was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by, he said, “Behold, the Lamb of God.” // John 1:35-36 I sat on the floor next to a precocious four-year-old boy in the Atrium, a specially-prepared prayer space particularly for children. We had just finished reading Jesus’ words: “I am the good shepherd, and I know mine and mine know me” (John 10:14). As he moved the wooden figures of the sheep around the sheepfold to follow the Good Shepherd, I asked, “I wonder who these sheep could really be?” He looked at me, his face lit up, and he said, with utter joy and amazement, “It’s all of us!” He started pointing to each sheep and giving them his friends’ names. As a catechist, as a mother, even in my most basic vocational life as a member of Christ’s body, I am called to recognize Jesus and teach others to do the same. Sometimes this looks like Saint John the Baptist, pointing and saying in no uncertain terms, “There He is!” How often have you seen a mother at Mass with a squirmy toddler? At the moment of consecration, she whispers, “Look! There’s Jesus!” Sometimes it is slowing down enough to savor Scripture with a small child, asking questions that help them to deeply ponder the mysteries of faith rather than assume we have the answers. It’s helping a frustrated pre-teen daughter gain empathy, hearing her out and helping her to see a situation from another point of view. It’s teaching her to recognize the face of God in every person she meets, and reminding her that she never knows the full story. It’s listening to a friend pour out her feelings of inadequacy, guilt, or shame, praying for her and with her, and reminding her that she is truly a daughter of the Most High—that her identity is inextricably linked to her Creator. There are daily, even hourly opportunities in our lives to recognize Christ and show His face to others. Who needs you to point to Him today? Someone in your life needs your outstretched hand, your voice to say, “Behold, the Lamb of God."

“Why does he eat with tax collectors and sinners?” Jesus heard this and said to them, “Those who are well do not need a physician, but the sick do. I did not come to call the righteous but sinners.” // Mark 2:16-17 “Get your shoes and socks on now, we are going to be late!” I lamented one Monday morning. I had slept terribly, the kids were dragging their feet, and I was out of coffee.  UGH.  It was a quintessential Monday-ish Monday. I was snappy, impatient, irritated, and a general mean mommy. Yes, I was tired. Yes, I was frazzled. And yes, I took it out on everyone. More often than I prefer, mornings in our home can be hectic. And this Monday I was particularly grumpy with exasperated sighs and impatient grunts. During dinner that evening, my family and I sat around the table eating together. The kids summarized their days, laughed at bathroom humor, made silly faces, and spilled food on the floor. Another typical Monday—an ordinary Monday. What started as a stressful and frazzled day, ended with giggles and joy. We had an ordinary dinner, yet it was extraordinary in its ability to remind me of my own shortcomings. My family isn’t responsible for my mood, nor are they responsible for my reactions. Yes, it would be nice if the children put their shoes on the first time they’re asked, but it doesn’t excuse my impatience and exasperation. Looking around the dinner table and their smiling faces, I asked for their forgiveness for being snappy in the morning. They had forgotten about it, but granted their forgiveness all the same. It is hard to admit when I’ve faltered, especially to those I hold dearest. But I was reminded during that extraordinarily ordinary dinner, that I’ve been called by the Redeemer. Jesus has welcomed me, even invited me, to His table. Me, a sinner, a grumpy sinner, an impatient sinner. But loved all the same.  Sister, from whom at your table should you ask for forgiveness? 

For to the Lord belongs our shield, and to the Holy One of Israel, our King. // Psalm 89:18 Reaching over, I guide my two-year-old’s hand in making the Sign of the Cross after he exuberantly dunked his hand into the holy water font. At this age, teaching is primarily hands-on as I show him what we do when in church and attending Holy Mass. Folding hands, listening for the sanctus bells, genuflecting. However, it’s not only physically what our bodies are doing, but the significance behind each gesture. This is the fifth child I’m walking through these motions, and I’ve found myself whispering to him alongside each action things like, “This helps us remember our Baptism,” and “When we kneel, we show Jesus reverence.” And as he carefully attempts to balance upon one shaky knee, “Genuflecting reminds us Who our King is and how we owe Him our allegiance and honor.” Big words for a little man, but ones full of meaning. In today’s First Reading (see 1 Samuel 8:4-7, 10-22a), the people of Israel are begging for an earthly king to rule over them, and God has His prophet Samuel lay down a lengthy warning of what will follow: their sons being assigned to run in front of the king’s chariot, their daughters being taken for his cooks, livestock taken as tithe.  In modern times our “kings” take on a different form: our jobs, our demanding schedules, our goals and desires, and even our callings have the temptation to take an overarching position in our lives. God allows us the freedom in choosing our king but with the consequence of being subject to it. When we instead place these “kings” in their rightful place under the True King, offering Him our allegiance first and foremost, all else falls in line.   When you next go through the motions at Mass, take a moment to orient your mind and heart to who your King is and what you owe Him. Make your actions reflect your heart’s allegiance.

A leper came to him [ . . . ] begged him and said, “If you wish, you can make me clean.” Moved with pity, [Jesus] stretched out his hand, touched the leper, and said to him, “I do will it. Be made clean.” // Mark 1:40-41 “The Blood of Christ.” The priest solemnly raised the chalice in front of me. “Amen,” I whispered, gratefully taking it in my hands.  A deep longing surged through my heart, met by a wave of profound fulfillment as I felt His Most Precious Blood slip down my throat and I slipped back into the pew. I savored every sensation of His touch, wishing I could stay there forever.  For health reasons, I can only receive the Eucharist on occasion—and only in the form of the Precious Blood. Even though I long to receive our Eucharistic Lord more often, I’ve discovered that this ache is also a great gift. It has awakened an understanding of the unsurpassed value of Christ’s touch. I’m learning that this gift of His physical presence is one I’ve largely taken for granted. The leper in today’s Gospel was continually deprived of human touch. His disease not only robbed him of physical health, but of a deeper need for human contact and community. His humble begging came from a place of longing far deeper than his physical infirmity.  It was here in this deep longing that Jesus met the leper, and purposely touched him to heal him.  We constantly come into contact with things that can lead to our contamination: not only physical contagion, but deeper destruction that can lead us into sin.  When our incarnate Savior touches what is contaminated, however, His purification can spread to it. It was for this reason that Jesus took on human flesh—for the leper and for us. Only His touch can bring life, healing, purity, and hope.   We’re in desperate need of His physical presence—healing contact and encounter with Him every day, meeting grace so powerful it can purify us of sin. What leprosy of body, mind, and soul plagues you? Today, seek out His physical presence. Be cleansed in Confession and receive Him at daily Mass. Visit an adoration chapel or sit in the presence of the tabernacle, and don’t be too proud to beg.  His healing is more than skin-deep. He alone knows your deepest infirmity, and He wills to heal it—gently and slowly—with Himself.

Samuel grew up, and the LORD was with him, not permitting any word of his to be without effect. // 1 Samuel 3:19 Several years ago, I ran full force into being a spiritual director for a retreat for college students at a Newman Center in Texas. Life was so full that I regretted adding this week-long retreat to my schedule but I offered my exhaustion to the Lord. I will never forget my first directee bounding into the little choir room where I was meeting people. She was a junior and had an exuberant personality. We prayed, and she promptly started sharing. I caught my breath as she shared. I could feel the Lord so vividly present to her and sensed her desire to know and love Him. All of my exhaustion dissipated like clouds that the wind had deftly whisked away. I was awakened. I was like the priest Eli in the First Reading (see 1 Samuel 3:1-10, 19-20). He sounds tired and grumpy. You can almost hear him saying, “I’m tired. Stop waking me up, you youngster.” But the Lord blesses precisely this kind of youthful love of God. He yearns for it. He yearns for hearts that seek Him and have the audacity to respond, to ask questions, to ask for big things, and to say, “Here I am.” That’s why God blessed Samuel so much that his every word was blessed. I felt this desire for the young woman before me during that retreat and for other students I have met over the years. I want them to be so blessed. I desire that the abundance of God’s gifts overflows in them, so much so that their every word gives fruitful glory to God. That’s probably a tiny sliver of what you mothers must feel when you think of your children and grandchildren. May it be so. May all of our children and spiritual children be so blessed as to flourish and to become Saints. And that is what I want for you, dear sister: to have a renewed passionate, youthful love of the Lord and a greater willingness to jump up and serve Him. May all of our words spoken in His service be blessed! Amen!

The Lord remembered her. // 1 Samuel 1:19 My heart sank as I brought my eyes to the light of Jesus’ gaze in prayer. In my heart, I carried what I assumed was another broken promise. At this point in my faith journey, the only experience I’d had with Jesus doing the miraculous was that He wasn’t. Whenever I asked for something impossible, the exact opposite happened. I held a grudge from those painful experiences. They always seemed to seep into my ever-growing relationship with the Lord.  In today’s First Reading, we read the story of Hannah and how she vulnerably brought her pain to the Lord. Her waiting season was difficult, but as we read, “The Lord remembered her” (1 Samuel 1:19).  Friend, I don’t know what promise you're waiting for the Lord to fulfill, but I want you to know that He will do it even if He does it in a way you don’t expect. Waiting can be painful, but it’s never a waste. In my time of waiting, I've had moments of agony and confusion, but it’s a pathway to knowing the Lord more intimately and an opportunity to grow in holiness. It’s exciting to think about the gifts that He desires to pour out; however, it’s also beautiful to be exactly where you are.  If you’re struggling to be right where you are, then, like Hannah, allow yourself to be vulnerable with the Lord. Let your guard down. He desires to make all things new. That includes you, your heart, your faith, and your relationship with Him. You don’t have to do this alone; He’s here and wants to walk alongside you during this journey.  Sister, can I gently encourage you to vulnerably bring whatever you're carrying in your heart, and entrust it to Him? Whether it’s a promise He’s made to you, an unhealed wound, or a desire. Whatever it is, bring it to Him. He will move. He will do the impossible. It’s what He does best. Lord, we love You. Help us to be vulnerable in our desires so that we may build a more intimate relationship with You, that we may know and love You deeper than we have before. Amen.

“I am not worthy to stoop and loosen the thongs of his sandals.” // Mark 1:7 I was sitting there attentively listening when it hit me: I had lost sight of the dignity of those around me. While we were gathered together for a meal, one of my friends began talking about the subject of accompaniment. The way he spoke was beautiful and was beginning to unthaw the frozen places in my heart. Quoting our Holy Father Pope Francis, my friend said to me, “Accompaniment 'teaches us to remove our sandals before the sacred ground of the other’” (Evangelii Gaudium § 169). At that moment I remembered the words of Saint John the Baptist about the sandals of his cousin Jesus in today’s Gospel (see Mark 1:7) and saw how much I needed to ask for the grace to step into the humility of this blessed Saint.  After that conversation I took an honest look at why I had lost the reverence for the other in front of me. In my prayer the Lord showed me how I had quietly begun to grow bitter and harsh at how others may not be removing their own sandals before me. I had turned inward and was focusing on what people owed me and not what I could give. I found that I was calculating love rather than creating it, and forgetting that all who I encountered were beloved sons and daughters in whom the Father was “well pleased” (Mark 1:11). I knew it was time to take a deep breath, reassess, and, with His mercy and grace, try again.  Sister, on this blessed Feast of the Baptism of the Lord may we remember that Christ became a Man to draw us all into sonship and daughterhood with Father. May we, like John the Baptist, have the grace to continue to love others out of our love for the Beloved Son, humbling ourselves before the sacred ground of the other, and always choose first to reverence and love. Be not afraid!

They were overjoyed at seeing the star, and on entering the house they saw the child with Mary his mother. // Matthew 2:10-11 I recently had some unfamiliar bouts of anxiety. My body took on the weight of a certain circumstance in a way that I didn’t recognize, for no obvious reason and far beyond my control.  As I rambled off my racing thoughts, a friend texted me, “What is the Lord saying?”  Before typing something back, my own heart responded honestly to itself.I don’t know. I couldn’t hear Him in the ways I usually do. I was too tired to journal, process out loud, or drive to the chapel. With a headache and a weary spirit, I knew I had to take a smaller step.  I ate what I had in my pantry, shuffled a random playlist, and stepped outside on my porch. I sat really still and let messy prayers enter the mix of all the other things in my head. In tiny increments, like on tiptoes, my soul was redirected toward the closeness that God and I both desired.   In the Gospel for today’s feast of Epiphany, the Magi were “overjoyed at seeing the star” (Matthew 2:10). They knew that by following it, they were closer to something better. Sure enough, when they reached the end of the star’s path, they found what they were really looking for.  Our own “stars” are great gifts to us—the daily, sweet things (like music or fresh air) that help us smile and walk one more step. They are “epiphanies” that signify the presence of Jesus, little instruments of His very practical hope.  That day, when my “stars” had helped as much as they could, I found what I actually needed. It was the newborn Jesus, Who wasn’t speaking or thinking clearly either. Like babies do, He just cried with me, and we sat helpless in the arms of Mary together. I still sit wordless like this in His presence a lot. The circumstances keep changing and the anxiety still ebbs and flows. Yet, at the very sight of Him, my joy just continues to multiply.  I imagine myself kneeling with the Magi, just saying to each other, “The star was beautiful, but He is extraordinary.”

When Jesus began his ministry he was about thirty years of age. // Luke 3:23 I’ll be honest, chemotherapy terrified me. I knew I needed to prepare for it. So, I went out, bought a new notebook, labeled it my “chemo notebook,” and then sent out an email to my friends and relatives asking for intentions. I posted on social media, too, that I would be offering my chemo for any intentions that were sent to me. And how they poured in! Suddenly, I wasn’t alone. I had a mission. I wasn’t going to be isolated in my bathroom feeling sick and sorry for myself. Suddenly, I was surrounded by the legitimate suffering and need of friends, family, and even strangers. I scribbled every intention furiously in my notebook and began praying for them every day. In return, so many offered to pray for me too. This whole exercise strengthened me in ways I cannot fully express. And though chemo was brutal—some days all I could do was hold my notebook to my heart and ask the Holy Spirit to groan for me—it was also one of the most meaningful, most powerful experiences of my life. It’s impossible to miss the importance of preparation in today’s Gospel. Luke wrote that “When Jesus began his ministry he was about thirty years of age” (Luke 3:23). We can be confident that in those long thirty years, Jesus wasn’t playing video games in Mary and Joseph’s basement. He was praying, preparing, and gathering His strength for the final test of Calvary. When Jesus gives us a tough assignment, whatever it might be, let’s remember two things: One, if we can prepare, we should. And two, we can offer our suffering for the needs of others and, through it, achieve more good than we can imagine. Do you have something to suffer coming up? How might you prepare for it? Can you invite the suffering of others into your own and join it all to the Cross? Try the Lord and see—when we offer our suffering to the Lord on behalf of others, Jesus won’t waste an ounce of it. He will use it all—for good.

Jesus decided to go to Galilee, and he found Philip. And Jesus said to him, “Follow me.” // John 1:43 Just imagine Jesus traveling to Galilee. He walks miles with one pressing intention: to find Philip. As He approaches the region, His attention remains on one person alone: Philip. His eyes scan various groups of people looking for Philip in particular. His steps, though, continue forward one by one—it is Philip He longs to find. Jesus turns a corner and there Philip stands, chatting with a group of people that surround him. As if he knew, Philip's gaze turns and focuses on Jesus. Their eyes meet. "Follow me," Jesus says as He gently extends His arms. We know that Philip becomes an Apostle of Jesus. We know that after this encounter with Jesus, Philip finds Nathaniel and shares that Jesus has come. But what, in your mind's eye, is Philip's immediate response as Jesus calls him? Does he hesitate and look around for approval? Does he run directly into Jesus' open arms? Is he excited? Nervous? Had he been eagerly waiting to be found? Imagine Jesus comes to find you. Reread the paragraphs above, but put your name in place of Philip’s. Do you sense His presence but avoid it at all costs? Do you run into His open arms without a second thought? Do you hear those words echo within your own heart?  "Follow Me." What is your response? It's easy to read stories like Philip's and forget that Jesus speaks the same words to us today too.  Perhaps Jesus is calling you to frequent Mass more regularly—to be found in His presence and welcomed into His intimacy. Perhaps Jesus is calling you to start the Bible study you've been praying to find, but haven't yet. Perhaps Jesus is calling you to be still enough to see Him amidst the hustle and bustle of your day. Perhaps Jesus is calling you to follow Him more sincerely at work or at school, without hesitation. Where do you sense Him calling you? How will you respond to His invitation today?