All speech is labored; there is nothing one can say. The eye is not satisfied with seeing nor is the ear satisfied with hearing. // Ecclesiastes 1:8 Whenever I read today’s First Reading (see Ecclesiastes 1:2-11), I’m reminded of a time during my college years when I attended Mass in a different city and the lector had a penchant for drama. The proclamation of this reading from the Ecclesiates was so vividly given, with the melodic crescendos of Ian McCellan delivering a Shakespearean monologue, that my friends and I couldn’t help but giggle the whole way through.  But I can’t blame that lector for leaning into the fabulous poetry of these words. They contain the beauty of the written—and performed—word, but also the profundity of fundamental human experience. None of us have to be very old to understand that so much of the world around us, although repetitive and rhythmic, is also completely out of our control. We do not control the sun rising and setting, the direction and strength of the winds, nor the river’s flow. Nor does the created world, as marvelous and vast as it is, satisfy our hearts. And neither do the accomplishments of human history provide our souls with purpose and fulfillment.  We as human beings are not satisfied with our own achievement, our own beauty, the accomplishments and success of the civilization we live in, or the world around us. We are meant for more, and we all contain within that longing and questioning that is impossible to find an answer to in ourselves or the natural world. We can’t escape this existential pull, just as the writer of the book of Ecclesiastes could not.  We are unsatisfied by these things because we were created for a relationship with our Creator, Who wants us to know and communicate with Him intimately. We can keep distracting ourselves from that truth by looking elsewhere for happiness and answers, but it is really only God, Who made us for Himself, Who will give us the satisfaction our souls desire.  Ask the Lord to speak to your heart and strip away all desires that do not lead you to Him.

“If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault between you and him alone. If he listens to you, you have won over your brother.” // Matthew 18:15 A priest offers his life in place of a father of a family in a concentration camp run by the Nazis. Both are unjustly imprisoned, but only one survives to tell the story. In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells us how to deal with speaking the truth to those we are in conflict with or who have injured us. We are supposed to speak the truth first to the individual, then if need be, have witnesses to help us speak, then to have the truth known to the whole of our community and for the community to act together towards justice (see Matthew 18:15-20).  But what happens when our societies reject justice and truth and persecute people to the point of horrific genocide? How can we be a voice in the darkness when the time for words and civil discourse have been completely abandoned?  Saint Maximilian Kolbe, whose feast is today, provides an example for us. Saint Maximilian gave his own life to save the life of a Polish soldier from the starvation chambers in Auschwitz during the Second World War. In what must have felt like hell on earth, only the example of sacrificial love could rise above the evil that was taking place. It may have appeared as if Saint Maximilian only helped save the life of one man, but his example of holiness has reverberated through time and to a world broken by unfathomable evil.  If Saint Maximilian can offer his life for another in the face of evil with a courageous spirit, we too can speak words of truth with courage. We all have situations in our lives that need to have the truth spoken in love. It may even be within ourselves, to have the courage to listen to the voice of the Holy Spirit prompting our conscience to confess our sin. It may be approaching a sensitive issue with others in our lives with understanding and wisdom, but at the same time an unwavering commitment to the truth and charity.  Saint Maximilian Kolbe, intercede for us today; help us grow in love for Christ and His Church, and serve Him boldly in truth.

Your word, O Lord, is a lamp for my feet. // Psalm 119:105 I was experiencing an extremely long season of burnout (not that kind that ends with the changing of the weather, either). The things I normally looked forward to were of little consequence to me as I was being challenged in every facet of my life. In my mind I thought I was handling life as if I were on a unicycle while juggling whatever was thrown my way—be it bowling pins, balls, or glass milk jugs. I humbly watched these objects fall: some days one by one and sometimes all at once. There was no way I could catch them all.  I wasn’t defeated as much as I realized that everything I had ever done up until this point had worked out a certain way because I was in a different place.  Each day I resolved in prayer to begin anew even though my circumstances weren’t changing. It was a shift for my recovering type A+ personality, former perfectionist, and people pleaser. I didn’t feel the need to take things into my own hands and try to change the course. Instead I accepted what I couldn't control, which was everything.  I would love to say that this acceptance brought me a greater sense of calm, but it didn’t. Instead it offered me a greater desire to be rooted in God’s Word, in His promises, in who He says I am, and Who He says He is.  I would go to prayer and open my Blessed Is She journaling Bible and be immediately overcome by the peacefulness of the soft delicate pages against my fingers as I turned to the Book of Psalms, eager to receive the Word the Holy Spirit would illuminate for me.  Sister, spending time in God’s Word may not always help us make sense of what we are experiencing at a certain time, but it offers us strength to persevere in trusting God to guide our steps even when the next step is unknown to us.

“Blessed are those who hear the word of God and observe it.” // Luke 11:28 I cringed and was filled with discomfort as I flipped through my childhood Bible; it was full of pink highlighting, some scribbled notes, and a few designs I probably copied from Pinterest. When flipping through, all I could focus on was how immature I was at the time that I received the Bible. I assumed that the verses that stood out to me as a child, didn’t apply to me as a young adult. It was easy to become dismissive of my younger self, and I assumed that I was being careless with the verses that stood out to me.  In today’s Gospel Acclamation, we hear, “Blessed are those who hear the word of God and observe it” (Luke 11:28).  Sister, maybe you’ve experienced a similar situation, where you were dismissive towards the younger version of yourself, reflecting on your past brokenness or immaturity. As you read those captivating verses when you were younger, the Lord wasn’t thinking of your brokenness or immaturity, but He was using His word to communicate to your heart. The Word is alive and active. The verses that stuck out to you as a child are not immature, but they are the very foundation of your relationship with Him. They entail all the pieces that add up to the story between you and Him.  The Catechism of the Catholic Church states, “In sacred books, the Father who is in heaven comes lovingly to meet his children, and talks with them” (source). Friend, I want to gently encourage you to reflect on a verse that captivated your heart when you were younger. Allow the Lord to pour out His love upon you through His living Word. May your heart be filled with the joy that you experienced when you first discovered Him. Allow Him to take you back to that place of intimacy.  Lord, I love You. Thank You for Your Word. Lord, take me back to that place of intimacy. Allow my heart to be filled with Your love for me, Your beloved daughter. Amen. 

“No one who lights a lamp conceals it with a vessel or sets it under a bed; rather, he places it on a lampstand so that those who enter may see the light.” // Luke 8:16 It is no surprise to me that the Gospel for today (see Luke 8:16-18) falls on the feast of my patron—Padre Pio, canonized as Saint Pius of Pietrelcina. It is also no surprise that I was unknowingly assigned this date. He just does things like that.  Once I had lost the little Saint Padre Pio medal I wore around my neck, only to find it face up on the floor of my bedroom weeks later as I was vacuuming. His happy face staring right up at me. And again, having lost the same medal at a friend's house, it was returned days later, clutched in the chubby fist of her toddler. Or the time I reluctantly threw out a piece of mail that was only vaguely associated with him, only to find it had blown out of my trash can overnight (the only thing to have flown out of the trash can) and landed on the ground beside it. I chose him as my patron, but I think—like most good patrons—he chose me too. Even when I lose him, both literally and metaphorically, he always finds me. I imagine all the Saints are doing this for us, reaching out, in all their own ways, to remind us they are here, rooting for us, pushing us, and cheering us on. This is exactly why the Gospel is so significant for today. The Saints are lights that shine—beyond human means, and even beyond earthly realities, they shine. This, too, is our call. To be inflamed by the burning love of Jesus, so much so that our lives become magnetic, drawing all things to Him. Inward and upward, we see how the ripple effect goes on. Even on to me, on the date of my Confirmation in 2006, realizing that Padre Pio was the one calling my name, and the one asking me to call myself the same. I know countless more have followed, and countless more will follow still—drawn into the light and consumed by it. Lord, help us, too, to shine.

But they did not understand the saying, and they were afraid to question him. // Mark 9:32  What does that mean, Lord? my bewildered heart implored as I wrestled with the words that had blossomed from my customary time of silent prayer after Holy Communion. Was my Eucharistic Spouse really telling me it was time to uproot myself from the parish I called home and allow Him to nurture my charisms and gifts elsewhere?  I echoed this possibility in my daily conversations with the Lord and in subsequent meetings with my spiritual director, who gently bid me not to be troubled as I awaited clarity. And so, I kept asking for it, pondering the words I had received and questioning what Christ wanted me to know.   The answers I sought did come in time, but they were different than what I expected and, honestly, a tad harder to swallow.   In today’s Gospel, the disciples, too, find it difficult to digest the information our Lord reveals to them when speaking about the brutality and future glory that awaits Him (see Mark 9:30-32). They are afraid to ask Jesus what it all means, not because they fear Jesus Himself, but because they are afraid of the answers He might give in response, answers that could radically upend everything.   How often do we do the same? We hold back from asking the very questions that weigh heavy on our minds and hearts, afraid that the answers will take shape in the form of rejection, disappointment, or a call to deeper conversion. But, friend, when we hide behind masks of silence and fear, we create obstacles to experiencing the Lord’s divine plan in our lives and in the depths of our hearts. As today’s Second Reading reminds us, we cannot possess if we do not ask (see James 4:2).      Whenever you pray, let the questions flow. And don’t be afraid of what Jesus wants to tell you. The answers He holds in His Heart are just for you, dear sister, conceived from His perfect plan to lead you into deeper trust and surrender. So, ask Him anything, and then be still as He lifts every cloud of confusion with His loving truth.  

As Jesus passed by, he saw a man named Matthew sitting at the customs post.He said to him, "Follow me." And he got up and followed him. // Matthew 9:9 Years ago on a pilgrimage in Israel, we visited the Mount of Beatitudes, the traditional site of the Sermon on the Mount. Our group was invited to an outdoor Mass in the garden overlooking a field of wildflowers, and beyond it the Sea of Galilee. In this land, often termed the “fifth Gospel,” it wasn’t difficult to envision Jesus performing miracles and proclaiming the Kingdom of God. But this day wasn’t just an imaginative exercise—something different happened. As I approached the priest to receive the Eucharist, I saw Jesus passing by the rows of pilgrims—some kneeling and others in line waiting to receive Him in the Eucharist. It was as if God was opening the eyes of my heart to witness a spiritual reality. As I returned to my seat and knelt down to pray, I heard a clear voice behind me whisper, “You saw Him too, didn’t you?” Stunned, I turned to meet the shining eyes of an older woman, and we shared a knowing smile. Today’s Gospel for the Feast of Saint Matthew (see Matthew 9:9-13) describes a time when Jesus is passing by and His glance falls upon a rich and despised tax collector. Jesus does not see a man concerned only with money, but a man who is ready to exchange the riches of this world for Heavenly treasure.  For some time, Matthew might have observed Jesus’ miracles and overheard His teaching as he sat at his booth. But this day, before he even knows what he needs or how to ask, the gaze of God penetrates him. And amid the noisy, crowded street Matthew hears: “Follow me.” And then: “He got up and followed him.” This man, once despised, is raised up to become a disciple, and a great Apostle, Martyr, and Evangelist. Jesus is still passing by! He sees you long before you see Him, and He finds you wherever you are—not just on the mountain top, but also in the dark valleys of your pain, suffering, and shame. Lift up your eyes and see your Savior passing by, and do not delay as He calls you to follow Him.

When the LORD brought back the captives of Zion, we were like men dreaming. Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with rejoicing. // Psalm 126:1-2 (from Responsorial Psalm for Memorial of Saints Andrew Kim Tae-gŏn, Priest, and Paul Chŏng Ha-sang, and Companions, Martyrs Years ago, at a routine ear appointment with my toddler, I asked if the doctor would look in my ear. The office had a camera to display the eardrum on a screen in the room, and I thought it would be interesting to see why my ear always bothered me. The doctor discovered (to his intrigue and my dismay) something called a cholesteatoma, a cyst on my eardrum from years of infections as a girl. Removing the cyst would be easy, he said, just local anesthesia and some cutting and flipping the ear forward and . . . from there the room got a little wavy. I was pregnant with our fourth baby, and I would have to be awake for it all. I began begging for Mother Teresa’s intercession (as well as the prayers for a miracle from all my family and friends). A few weeks later, I went in for my pre-op. To my doctor's amazement there was no cyst. It was gone. I had been healed. He told me it was a miracle—that he had never seen one go away on its own. I immediately drove to my husband’s office where I burst into the room to share the news. I was healed! After that, I told everyone in my path. God had healed me! He had made me whole. Those of us who have had an encounter with the living God can appreciate this healing—we were one way and now we are another. And the thing in the middle was Jesus. We were in tears and now rejoice—and we can’t help but share it with the world! Yet, we eventually slip back into regular life. For a while, all I could talk about was this miracle—until it drifted off my radar.  We are reminded by the Responsorial Psalm for today’s martyrs that all of us should stay aware of what God has done for us—we were captives, like men dreaming. And now we are filled with laughter; now we are rejoicing (see Psalm 126:1-6). May we never forget to share it with a world that is so hungry for this truth.

“Simon, I have something to say to you.” “Tell me, teacher,” he said. // Luke 7:40 “Gina! Wait. I forgot to give you the homework . . .” The final school bell had rung and I was already down the steps nearing the sidewalk, arm in arm with one of my best friends. Dread and aggravation rose inside. I wanted to ignore that voice, avoiding the teacher of one of my least favorite high school classes. If I remember correctly, my friend and I kept walking, pretending not to hear.  Simon, the Pharisee in today’s Gospel, responded to his teacher much differently than I did as a teen. “Tell me, teacher” (Luke 7:40). Maybe Jesus broke the silence as they watched the woman anoint and kiss His feet (see Luke 7:38), or maybe Jesus’ voice carried over the sounds of servants serving food or other guests chatting. Either way, Simon heard the Lord, and responded. I wonder how Simon felt when Jesus directly addressed him during the meal. Perhaps a twinge of anxiety tightened in his chest, or perhaps Simon eagerly awaited words to affirm his judgy inner monologue about the woman. Did Simon respond out of politeness while continuing his interior criticisms, or was he filled with anticipation, ready to receive what Jesus had to say to him? As much as I’d love to know the ending of Simon’s story, the Gospel reveals little about whether his heart softened or whether he dug in his heels with a bitter heart when Jesus forgave the woman’s sins. My curiosity about Simon in this story turns a mirror on myself. In place of Simon’s name, today I hear my own.  Gina, I have something to tell you. Every day the Lord has something to tell me—and you. He speaks through His Word in Scripture, through people around me, even through nature. I try to listen, but I sometimes still avoid Jesus’ words, just as I avoided my Physics teacher. Some days, I tune Him out; some days I neglect my prayer time and don’t even hear His voice. Today, I’ll start over. When Jesus calls me, I’ll listen. Tell me, Teacher. Soften my heart to Your words.

Love never fails. // 1 Corinthians 13:8 I instinctively drew my hand across my body in the Sign of the Cross as I drove past my parish, acknowledging Christ’s Eucharistic presence.  Just as instinctively, my eyes darted to the cars around me and I wondered, What will they think? The usual guilt followed: They’re probably not even paying attention. I should love Jesus enough to not care! Directing my frustration to God, I prayed for the thousandth time, Lord, how can I be free of this wound of vanity? These automatic thoughts are so ingrained! In a moment, a new thought came to mind: What if this gesture when you see Me is less about proving your love for Me, and more about remembering My love for you?  My heart melted instantly.  As the days passed, I realized that this response wasn’t limited to a singular moment or habit. The Lord was inviting me to an entire paradigm shift. He wanted me to start translating everything in my life so I could see it through the lens of His relentless love.  The Sign of the Cross before meals? A reminder of His intentional provision even when I don’t notice. That ministry project or prayer request from a friend? A reminder of His loving desire to invite me into His work, even with my human weakness. My faults, failings, and weaknesses? A reminder of His abundant patience, redemption, and strength.  My suffering and unanswered prayers? A reminder His desire for my growth, and the Love Who willingly surrendered His life in the hope of spending forever with me. You’re invited into this paradigm shift, too: to view each moment not as something that happens to you, but as a divine orchestration of God’s personal love for you. In every success or failure, every uncertainty and wound of identity, every difficulty and tragedy, the Lord wants to redeem all things out of ravishing love for you. His burning desire for you is written into every detail. It always has been, and it always will be.  Today, accept His eager invitation to receive that love—now and into eternity.

Now you are Christ’s Body, and individually parts of it. // 1 Corinthians 12:27 The sunset limned the trees in my path with a gentle glow while birds chanted symphonies from the boughs. Roses in neighboring gardens wrapped me in their sweet perfume as children played hopscotch and learned to ride bicycles, their laughter a welcome sound amid the solitude of coronavirus lockdowns.  I kicked another pebble out of my way, pressed the phone a bit closer to my ear, and confessed to the friend I had just met the trepidation I felt about moving: about leaving these neighborhood trails I knew by heart for an expansive new city of unknowns, and the difficulties of forging community when people were still isolating inside their homes.  Two weeks earlier, this new friend,  fellow graduate student at my new university, responded to my post on the “D.C. Area Catholics Looking for Roommates” Facebook page with a simple invitation to chat, even if we didn’t end up living together. I was startled by the warmth of her request but deeply appreciative of it—even if I was also, as an avowed introvert, baffled by such initiative. “Well, I for one can’t wait to welcome you to town!” she said, instantly calming my current squall of anxiety.  Fast-forward six months and not only had we met in person, but she had introduced me to all of the other women who would also, in time, become my best friends here. Hospitality, as it became clear to me on that first phone call, is a charism this friend possesses, and her welcoming heart knows no bounds—always eager to connect people, to welcome strangers, to build up the Body of Christ. She is, for me, a luminous witness of how we are called to use the gifts God has designated to each of us (see 1 Corinthians 12:28) for the good of others and the Church.  Sister, can you recall a time when you felt buoyed and blessed by the expression of another person’s gifts? Thank God for that individual, and then ask Him how He might be desiring you to share your gifts today. 

I hear that when you meet as a church there are divisions among you.  // 1 Corinthians 11:17 Let’s talk about what I like to call the “good old days heresy.”* We see strife in the world, and scandal and infighting within the Church and between the faithful, and we might think: Oh, things are so terrible now. If only I had lived in the good old days when there was unity and harmony in the Church. But really, there has always been scandal and infighting in the Church. Things have always been terrible.   In today’s First Reading, Saint Paul admonishes the Corinthians: “I do not praise the fact that your meetings are doing more harm than good. First of all, I hear that when you meet as a church there are divisions among you” (1 Corinthians 11:17-18). He also mentions “factions among you” (1 Corinthians 11:19).  Saint Paul could have made the same criticisms during the lifetimes of Saints Cornelius and Cyprian, the Saints we honor today. The fierce persecutions of the third century created many holy martyrs, but also many apostates. Some thought the lapsi or “fallen” had committed an unpardonable sin and could never be received back into the Church, even if they repented. There were divisions. There were factions. Pope Cornelius and Bishop Cyprian convened a synod and won support for a plan which allowed for a return to Holy Communion for repentant lapsi after a period of public penance, which would address the scandal of their public apostasy. Saint Paul would certainly have plenty about which to admonish us today. I find the sameness of it all over the centuries to be strangely comforting.  First, because it’s just not true that there was some idyllic former time that I missed out on. There have been great blessings and tragic hardships in every age. God thinks the present ones are the right ones for me to navigate. Second, because the fact that there have always been factions has meant there have always been Christians like Saint Paul and Saint Cornelius and Saint Cyprian working to understand and educate and heal divisions. That’s what God is asking of us in our time. Third, because we know how this story ends. The Church survives its failings, and ours. * The “good old days heresy” is not, of course, an actual heresy. The Catechism of the Catholic Church defines, "Heresy is the obstinate post-baptismal denial of some truth which must be believed with divine and catholic faith, or it is likewise an obstinate doubt concerning the same” (source).  

I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living. // Psalm 116:9 What are the chances that copious tears won’t destroy my careful application of mascara? Nope, not worth it. I scanned my image in the mirror and breathed deeply in an attempt to summon the emotional strength to attend a public Mass and reception in honor of the bishop who had become a trusted spiritual father to us. Only weeks before he had celebrated the funeral Mass for our son. “I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living.” The familiar words from Psalm 116 rang in my head off and on as I noted the joy and love on the faces of our friends who, like us, were grateful for the life, witness, and fatherhood of our beloved shepherd. The whole crowd was alive with love for Jesus and one another. It was good to be there, even as sorrow for my son ached inside me. What does it mean to walk before the Lord in the land of the living? Here on earth we get glimpses of what it means, but our lives are sometimes shadowed by sin and death. In Heaven, where the Saints and angels are fully alive in the presence of the Holy Trinity, by God’s grace, we will be at last free from all pain and sorrow and walking before Jesus, receiving His gaze of love for us, never turning away.  In the meantime, because the Holy Mass draws us from the realm of time into that of eternity, when we get up from our knees and walk toward the altar to receive Jesus in the Eucharist, we walk before the Lord amongst the Saints and Angels who are in Heaven there, worshiping God with us. Sister, next time you rise from the kneeler to walk toward the altar to receive Jesus, I challenge you to remember these words: I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living. Ask our Lord to make you faithful all the way to Heaven, the eternal land of the living.

I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living. // Psalm 116:9 What are the chances that copious tears won’t destroy my careful application of mascara? Nope, not worth it. I scanned my image in the mirror and breathed deeply in an attempt to summon the emotional strength to attend a public Mass and reception in honor of the bishop who had become a trusted spiritual father to us. Only weeks before he had celebrated the funeral Mass for our son. “I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living.” The familiar words from Psalm 116 rang in my head off and on as I noted the joy and love on the faces of our friends who, like us, were grateful for the life, witness, and fatherhood of our beloved shepherd. The whole crowd was alive with love for Jesus and one another. It was good to be there, even as sorrow for my son ached inside me. What does it mean to walk before the Lord in the land of the living? Here on earth we get glimpses of what it means, but our lives are sometimes shadowed by sin and death. In Heaven, where the Saints and angels are fully alive in the presence of the Holy Trinity, by God’s grace, we will be at last free from all pain and sorrow and walking before Jesus, receiving His gaze of love for us, never turning away.  In the meantime, because the Holy Mass draws us from the realm of time into that of eternity, when we get up from our knees and walk toward the altar to receive Jesus in the Eucharist, we walk before the Lord amongst the Saints and Angels who are in Heaven there, worshiping God with us. Sister, next time you rise from the kneeler to walk toward the altar to receive Jesus, I challenge you to remember these words: I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living. Ask our Lord to make you faithful all the way to Heaven, the eternal land of the living.

For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him. // John 3:17 We hustled silently through dark city streets. Three friends who’d spent too many late nights sipping sparkling water and pouring out our hearts in our small group now wordlessly weaved our way across cobblestone streets and past closed storefronts in the heart of Jerusalem.  It was 4:30 in the morning, and we were on our way to Calvary.  Surrounded by a sleeping city, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre never closes and the priest who was with us, who had kept vigil there throughout the night, stood waiting for us. We climbed steep stairs beside mosaics marking the final Stations of the Cross: here is where Jesus was stripped of His garments; here is where He lay on the Cross to be crucified.  Kneeling beneath the shadow of the altar, only feet away from where our beloved Savior laid down His life, we made the Sign of the Cross.  It was both a beautiful and an utterly ordinary Mass. I don’t remember the readings. (I do remember being scolded for chanting.) And although Father has an unusual gift for preaching, I couldn’t tell you about his homily. There were no flashes of lightning or fits of holy tears. Just the same magnificently humble Jesus offering His Body and Blood in the one holy sacrifice of the Mass. Just like at home.God the Father sent His only begotten Son to save the world, and He saves me with every reception of Holy Communion. Whether in the Holy Land or at my home parish, Jesus comes. Jesus saves.  While His saving act on the Cross conquered sin and death once and for all, His saving action in our lives unfolds day by day, bit by bit, Mass after holy Mass. So don’t be discouraged if you are not as free as you want to be, if you’re not as healed as you think you should be. Just keep coming to Jesus. Keep receiving Him in the Eucharist. Keep loving Him and letting Him love you, little by little.  And just as it did two thousand years ago, His Holy Cross will triumph in you.

Run so as to win. Every athlete exercises discipline in every way. // 1 Corinthians 9:24-25 I will never be an Olympic athlete. That is a fact. I just turned fifty last month, and I'm excited that as a woman with multiple sclerosis, I can walk every day, see clearly, and live an active life. Every step and breath is a blessing. Conversely, during my time as a campus minister at a Division I University, I was blessed to serve amazing athletes who will be and are Olympians. Their discipline inspired me daily. When you see someone who wakes up at 5 a.m. for workouts, conditioning, and practice; goes to classes; graduates Summa Cum Laude; travels for games; participates in weekly athlete Bible Studies; and also shows up for 5 p.m. daily Mass, you know their eyes are set on the ultimate finish line: Heaven. I might not go to the Olympics, but one thing is clear: I don't always have my eyes fixed on the finish line, and further, I lack the discipline to grow in my faith. I spent an hour praying every morning, meditating on God's Word, when I did an Ignatian Retreat incorporated into my daily life called the 19th Annotation. Yet, just like when I did my first half-marathon, I relaxed my discipline once the thirty days were over. One hour became ten minutes, and my vision of the finish line blurred.  I have to ask myself—and maybe you do, too—what discipline I need to run the race before me.  Is it daily prayer? Is it being in a Bible Study that will hold you accountable? Is it reading Scripture and journaling what the Lord is speaking to you through His Word? Is it going on a retreat to encounter Christ? Is it just scheduling in the time for God and not scrolling on your phone (calling myself out for sure here)? Whatever the discipline, over time, you will see results in your relationship with God, and you will soon "[r]un so as to win" (1 Corinthians 9:24).

The Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name. // Luke 1:49  (from the Gospel for the Memorial of the Most Holy Name of Mary) Our Lady, Blessed Mother, New Eve, Star of the Sea, Queen of Heaven, Cause of our Joy, Mother of Mercy, Immaculate Conception, Full of Grace, Queen of Heaven, Seat of Wisdom, Mystical Rose, Refuge of Sinners, Gate of Heaven, Queen of Peace, Mary. Today the Church invites us to honor the Most Holy Name of Mary. No matter where we might find ourselves, Mary will encounter us right where we are. Ten years ago, I attended the canonization of Pope Saint John Paul II with nearly one million Catholics. As I waited overnight with thousands in Saint Peter’s Square, my eyes kept gazing at the beautiful mosaic of Mary Mater Ecclesiae, Mother of the Church. John Paul II commissioned this mosaic following the assassination attempt on his life. He attributed his survival to Mary’s protection.  John Paul II’s devotion to our Lady started at a young age. After his mother died, shortly before his ninth birthday, Karol Wojtyła experienced Mary’s spiritual motherhood in a deeper way. Wojtyła was consoled again by Our Lady of Sorrows at the age of twelve when his older brother died and at the age of twenty-one when his father died.  During World War II, Wojtyła studied as a clandestine seminarian in Poland. After the war, Wojtyła was ordained to the priesthood in the hidden chapel of the bishop’s residence. The only relative present at his priestly ordination was Maria, his godmother and aunt.  Father Wojtyła wrote part of Mary’s Magnificat on his homemade ordination holy cards: “Fecit mihi Magna.” How could this orphan, who experienced the devastating loss of his entire immediate family, echo Mary’s Magnificat on his ordination day with the words “The Almighty One has done great things for me”?  He could because he had consecrated his life completely to Mary, saying to her, “Totus Tuus!” All Yours!  As we honor the Most Holy Name of Mary today, consider praying with Henryk Gorecki’s Totus Tuus. The sweet melody with Mary’s name transports me to the memory of Saint John Paul II’s canonization. May the Most Holy Name of Mary always be our protection.