Monthly Newspaper • DIOCESE OF BRIDGEPORT

Leading up to the Solemnity of Christ the King, I prayed a novena that said: “Christ, our Savior and our King, renew in me allegiance to your Kingship. I pray for the grace to place you above the powers of this world in all things. I pray for the grace to obey you before any civic authority. I pray for the grace to fervently bring about your Kingdom in my family and community. I pray that you will reign in my mind. I pray that you will reign in my heart. O Prince of Peace, may your reign be complete in my life and in the life of the world.”

It was a spiritual reminder about the need to place Christ before politics, which is not always easy to do in a secular society that is suspicious of religion. Now that the election is over, I hope it’s safe to talk about politics … but probably not, judging by the acrimony that infects conversations, TV talk shows, podcasts and family get-togethers.

I try to follow the advice of Bishop Robert Barron, who when asked what party he’s rooting for or whether he’s a Democrat or Republican, promptly responds, “I’m a Catholic.”

This year when my neighbors put political signs on their lawns, I put out statues of the Blessed Mother, St. Francis of Assisi and St. Joseph.

Passersby probably think we belong to the so-called “Christian nationalism” movement and want to make Pope Francis our president. (A fear throughout U.S. history was that “papists” took orders from Rome.)

So people wouldn’t get the wrong idea, I put American flags on either side of the Blessed Mother so no one would doubt my love of the land of the free and the home of the brave, and hopefully the land of religious liberty. As Catholics, we should always pray to Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, patroness of the United States, for the future of our country.

I confess that my wife thought I got a little carried away because I also put a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the living room window and a poster of the Divine Mercy Jesus in the dining room window.

Religious displays are frowned upon in a secular humanist society, and any mention of Jesus tends to make people uncomfortable, but it’s time to let our family and friends know where we stand.

A lot of us tout our faith but try to massage it so it adheres to the Democratic platform or the Republican platform. However, I’ve always believed our faith should inspire our politics, but our politics should not distort our faith.

In the 1940s, French theologian Jacques Ellul recognized the direction the world was taking and wrote a book titled The Presence of the Kingdom about the Kingdom of Christ and the kingdom of man.

“We need to remember that the Christian must not act in exactly the same way as everyone else,” he said. “He has a part to play in this world which no one else can possibly fulfill. He is not asked to look at the various movements which men have started, choose those which seem ‘good,’ and then support them. He is not asked to give his blessing to any particular human enterprise, not to support the decisions of man … If the Christian works with all his might at some human project, he is only a human being like others, and his effort is worth no more than that; but if he accepts his specific function as a Christian, this is decisive for human history.”

In 1925, Pope Pius XI established the Solemnity of Christ the King in response to growing secularism, and in his encyclical Quas Primas, he reminded the world that Christ is our real King, and to him we owe allegiance.

The pope said that “manifold evils in the world were due to the fact that the majority of men had thrust Jesus Christ and his holy law out of their lives; that these had no place either in private affairs or in politics … And as long as individuals and states refused to submit to the rule of our Savior, there would be no really hopeful prospect of lasting peace.”

Several days after Christmas, on the Feast of the Holy Family, I sat in church with my own family, still intact for a few more weeks before college and studies pulled our daughters away. We marveled once again at the beauty of the sanctuary, made even more so by an abundance of red and white poinsettias, two tall pine trees softly lit, and of course, the manger scene which now held the baby Jesus, as it was empty on Christmas Eve.

With the church a little less crowded today, the manger and the Holy Family were unobscured. Thoughts of gifts, parties and Santa Claus already seemed weeks ago.

Just before the opening hymn, another family slid into the pew behind us with a little boy about three and his baby sister. The toddler immediately started chattering in that adorable voice of childhood, asking questions, talking to his sister and pointing out the manger scene to his parents. As a plush Santa popped up on the back of the pew between my daughters, I heard the little boy ask his mother in that same adorable voice, “Does Jesus have any elves?” That prompted a giggle from the girls. Jesus? Elves? How cute. How silly.

His mother whispered something that I could not hear and handed him a box of raisins along with the plush Santa. He chattered a bit more but let that question rest. Touched with the innocence and curiosity of a child, it remained with me, however, throughout Mass and the remainder of the day, and I wondered what his mother had said. Magical elves at the North Pole prompt Santa in deciding who’s naughty and nice, whereas Jesus loves all of his disciples, offering eternal love and forgiveness. And of course, Jesus – the babe in the manger and the man on the cross – is God made flesh, not the fantasy of childhood or legend. No pointy-eared assistants ever accompanied him.

In some ways, I thought, we as followers of Jesus do function as his assistants by practicing compassion, serving others, and spreading the Gospel. While he cannot make a meal for a sick neighbor, deliver clothes to a homeless shelter or teach children of his sacrifice, we can, as we mirror his actions in our own lives. We are encouraged in Deuteronomy to “serve the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul.” The parish saw that in action as the tags of our Giving Tree were snatched away just hours after being hung, replaced a week later with piles of gifts. And, as fires rage in communities thousands of miles of way, those in areas of safety rush to provide for them. These are Jesus’ teachings at work, accomplished with love by those who assist him.

As one year ends and another begins, I wonder how we, as disciples of Christ, can serve others—through him—even more, not as elves per se, but as ones committed to his example.

I haven’t seen that young family again. Maybe they were visiting. Maybe they attend a different Mass. No matter. I just hope that little boy continues to ask questions and become curious about his faith until one day soon when he too can follow in the footsteps of that child in the manger.

You know how they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? Well, I’m that old dog, so don’t even try.

However, when it comes to marriage, I still don’t know what I’m doing. Every day there’s a new surprise or a new challenge. As they say, “The hits just keep on coming…” My wife Sandy agrees. (At least I hope she does.)

Nevertheless, I had a chance to learn some new “tricks” recently when I attended the Wedding Jubilarian Mass that Bishop Frank Caggiano celebrated for 60 couples, who had 25 to 69 years of marriage. He told them they were powers of example “in a society that considers marriage a contract rather than a covenant.”

Whenever I ask people what their secret is to a long marriage, I take it. That day I talked to 12 couples, who said you need patience, understanding, love, prayer and a commitment to God, not to mention the willingness to forgive and “give in.” I should add that you have to take it a day at a time—to borrow wisdom from 12 Step programs.

These couples knew what they were talking about. They understood marriage is a sacred sacrament and not just a Vegas impulse.

I still remember when our third daughter and her fiancée told us they were planning a wedding on the beach in the Hamptons in Hawaiian outfits. I gulped. My wife was less sympathetic. She told them: “That’s such a creative idea, Sweetheart … but if we’re paying, you’re getting married in church with a priest.” End of discussion.

When my cousin got “hitched” a few years ago, there was no priest, no minister, no rabbi … and not one mention of God. After the New Age readings, my wife looked at me, but I didn’t look back because I knew what she was thinking since we were both thinking the same thing: “What the (words omitted) is going on here?”

Let me share the best marriage advice you’ll ever get. Infinitely better than anything from Dr. Phil, Dr. Ruth or Dr. Oz. It’s something that was read at weddings pre-Vatican II and should be used today. It’s called the Exhortation Before Marriage, which the priest read at our wedding. It says, in part:

“You are about to enter upon a union which is most sacred and most serious. It is most sacred because it was established by God himself … This union is most serious, because it will bind you together for life in a relationship so close and so intimate, that it will profoundly influence your whole future. That future, with its hopes and disappointments, its successes and its failures, its pleasures and its pains, its joys and its sorrows, is hidden from your eyes. You know that these elements are mingled in every life and are to be expected in your own. And so not knowing what is before you, you take each other for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death,

“And because these words involve such solemn obligations, it is most fitting that you rest the security of your wedded life upon the great principle of self-sacrifice. And so you begin your married life by the voluntary and complete surrender of your individual lives in the interest of that deeper and wider life, which you are to have in common. Henceforth you will belong entirely to each other. You will be one in mind, one in heart, and one in affections. And whatever sacrifices you may hereafter be required to make to preserve this mutual life, always make them generously.

“Sacrifice is usually difficult and irksome. Only love can make it easy, and perfect love can make it a joy. We are willing to give in proportion as we love. And when love is perfect, the sacrifice is complete. God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, and the Son so loved us that he gave himself for our salvation.

“No greater blessing can come to your married life than pure conjugal love, loyal and true to the end. May, then, this love with which you join your hands and hearts today never fail, but grow deeper and stronger as the years go on. And if true love and the unselfish spirit of perfect sacrifice guide your every action, you can expect the greatest measure of earthly happiness that may be allotted to man in this vale of tears. The rest is in the hands of God.” You’ll never get better advice than that.

We started unpacking the Christmas ornaments last night, gently lifting these carefully wrapped items from the plastic bins where we tucked them away 11 months ago. Some lay well-preserved in their original Hallmark boxes, while others sat packed in crinkled paper, yellowed with years. With each one came a memory, a compilation of our lives and of Christmases past that the four of us relived with stories and reminiscences.

As we laughed together about the girls’ finger-painted preschool ornaments, Elizabeth lifted a small package labeled “Lilly’s angel” and handed it to me. At once, nostalgia carried me back to the weeks before Christmas the year I was 10.

My grandmother, who we all called “Lilly,” had come for dinner one evening just before Thanksgiving. A widow, she often drove up to visit us for a day or two. Walking past the kitchen, I overheard her tell my mother that no, she did not want to wait until Christmas. She wanted to give them to us now. Childhood excitement piqued, and I ran to find my brothers. I was sure she was talking about us! What did she have? A Christmas present? Already?

When Lilly appeared, she was carrying three little packages wrapped in plain tissue paper, my mother standing beside her, slightly shaking her head. They didn’t look like Christmas gifts, I thought, but Lilly said she had made them especially for us at a ceramics class and to open them—carefully.

David, at four, went first, unwrapping a smiling Santa ornament with a thin string dangling from the top. Michael followed, revealing a toy soldier standing at attention in a blue and red uniform. Then it was my turn. Unfolding the paper, I removed a graceful angel with a dress of pale pink, flowing golden hair, and bronze wings. In her outstretched arms, she held a tiny trumpet, ready to proclaim the good news.

In the palm of my hand, I held her gently, this Christmas gift that had come so early for reasons I did not understand. My mother said she’d hold them all until Lilly came back next month to decorate with us. But Lilly never came back. She died in her sleep that night, having just given her grandchildren a final, most precious gift, handmade with love in honor of our savior’s birth.

In the days and weeks that followed, the family wondered why Lilly insisted on giving us her gifts that day. Did she have a sense the Lord would be calling her? Did she know she would not be here to open presents on December 25? Like my ornament, she became our guardian angel, filling us with her presence even after she was gone. Just as I could not understand receiving a Christmas gift in mid-November, it was not for us to understand the Lord’s choice to take her when he did. All I could do was gaze at Lilly’s angel and feel my grandmother with me.

After holding her gently in the palm of my hand, just as I did when I was ten, I take a hook and place my angel among the pine branches, near an “our first Christmas” ornament and the girls’ long ago preschool creations. I straighten it so the trumpet faces outward and imagine it proclaiming, as the heavenly angels do: “Christ is born in Bethlehem!”

All her friends say Carolyn Killian gives the best birthday gift ever. The best, and that’s no overstatement.

Not an Amazon gift card. Nothing from Saks. Not even Nordstrom.

She prays the Rosary for their intentions, and that’s a birthday gift money can’t buy. A birthday gift with rewards you’ll never fully appreciate until the next life.

And when they tell her it’s a great gift, Carolyn responds, “Yes, it’s the best gift that you didn’t even know you needed.” Plus, it opens their eyes to what is truly important in life.

The Blessed Virgin, herself, urged us to recite the Rosary during her apparitions at Lourdes and Fatima, where she told thousands of people, who gathered on October 13, 1917: “I am the Lady of the Rosary. I have come to warn the faithful to amend their lives and ask for pardon for their sins. They must not offend Our Lord anymore, for he is already too grievously offended by the sins of men. People must say the Rosary. Let them continue saying it every day.”

The Memorial of Our Lady of the Rosary is October 7, and during this month, Catholics should make an extra effort to say the Rosary faithfully because the Blessed Mother never hesitates in answering our prayers, and there’s historical proof.

On October 7, 1571, a Catholic alliance of warships confronted the Islamic empire off the western coast of Greece in the Battle of Lepanto.

The night before the naval battle that would determine the future of Christian Europe, sailors knelt in prayer to the Blessed Mother, in union with the faithful throughout Christendom.

Dominican Pope Pius V believed Our Lady’s spiritual assistance was their only hope in a fight where the fleet of the Holy League, from Christian maritime kingdoms, was gravely outnumbered. A loss would let the Ottoman Turks take over European territories, including Rome.

After four hours of battle, involving 400 warships, the much smaller fleet of the Holy League was victorious. Pope St. Pius V saw the Blessed Mother in a vision, announcing the victory, and in appreciation, he instituted the Feast of Our Lady of Victory, which eventually became the Memorial of Our Lady of the Rosary.

We need the Rosary now more than ever. I recently saw a bumper sticker that said, “Save America. Pray the Rosary.” It’s pretty clear America needs saving. Politicians can’t do it, even though most of us spend our lives intoxicated by that fantasy. So instead of putting our faith in a system that’s flawed, why not put our faith in someone who is flawless and keeps her promises: Our Lady of the Rosary.

Venerable Lucia dos Santos, one of the three seers at Fatima, once said, “There is no problem, I tell you, no matter how difficult it is, that we cannot solve by the prayer of the Holy Rosary.”

St. Padre Pio famously proclaimed, “The Rosary is the weapon for these times.” And Blessed Pope Pius IX was so confident of its power he said, “Give me an army saying the Rosary, and I will conquer the world.” If you’re not praying the Rosary, it’s time to start. I’m convinced that when we get to the heavenly banquet, the people sitting at the head of the table won’t be world leaders or the powerful or the rich and famous or the celebrities with millions of followers. It will be ordinary people, among whom are those who recited the Rosary and urged Our Lady to open the infinite reservoirs of grace for this troubled world.

Father Jim Sullivan, rector of the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception in Waterbury, Conn. often recounts stories from many years ago of his family in Ireland, when in the evening you could walk through the village, and look through open windows to see every family praying the Rosary by candlelight. It’s time for the ways of our fathers to become the ways of our future.

How often do we watch the evening news and come away despairing because of another scandal, another conflict that threatens to turn into World War III, or another instance of good being called evil and evil being called good?

Our only hope for true change is prayer, and one of the most powerful prayers, preferred by the Blessed Mother, is the Rosary.

So start praying it every day and become a person committed to changing the world for the better. Pray for your family, pray for your friends, pray for your enemies, pray and don’t stop praying.

There’s a tree in our neighborhood, one that I pass by each afternoon on my daily two miles. It’s nothing extraordinary: just a small but sturdy maple in amongst the oaks, tulips, and occasional pine. This summer, though, it seemed to produce the most glorious leaves, deep green and striking, so soft to the touch.

Most would attribute such vividness to the perfect combination of sunlight and rain. I like to think God’s hand played a part as well.

Once late September arrived, the transformation of those glorious leaves began on my favorite, ordinary maple. The conversion from vibrant green to the warm color code of autumn seemed slower, more intentional than usual as the weeks passed and I observed this tree each afternoon. A reddish orange, reminiscent of my childhood crayons, inched upward on each separate leaf, transforming them gradually, individually. One day, a branch held a majority of green, while the next, it flushed with leaves boasting a hint of crimson. Some changed, others were hesitant—a phenomenon of nature, again touched by God’s hand.

During the week when these leaves approached what meteorologists consider the “peak” of autumnal color, I began praying a Novena to St. Faustina in preparation for a women’s retreat the following weekend. Fifteen of us planned to gather one Saturday for a day of prayer and reflection. Some I knew, many I did not, but we were united in our desire to increase our faith and be inspired by the message of divine mercy.

Each afternoon, in the days leading up to the retreat, I witnessed the transformation of our maple leaves, and each evening, I prayed, asking for a transformation of my own: “Merciful Lord, with the words of St. Faustina and together with her, I ask you to transform my life into mercy. I want to be completely transformed into your mercy and to be your living reflection, O Lord.”

Throughout that week, I contemplated how, through the intercession of St. Faustina, I could offer more words of comfort to others, be of more service to my neighbor, and better recognize ways to soothe one’s pain and suffering. Such transformation, I knew, would not happen in a single weekend, a single retreat. But it was a start. Through discussion, reflection, and guided meditation, I saw that, like the maple tree and its leaves, we were not extraordinary women, only ones looking to God to be transformed into something more, maybe something better, than who we were. And that takes time.

St. Faustina, I came to realize, believed that mercy should be a fundamental part of how people treat others, defined, in part, by the beauty of patience. While we see that in so many facets of our lives, we see it also in the beauty that emerges each autumn through the transformation of the leaves surrounding us. That, too, cannot be rushed as it takes on a beauty of its own, radiating a brilliance masked during summer months, one that only God could create.

Sitting on the grounds of the retreat center, beside a maple tree not unlike the one I’ve admired, I prayed the words of St. Faustina: “O Lord, transform me into yourself, for you can do all things.”

Sue’s son Ben had just graduated from Fordham University and was looking forward to a career in journalism. At 22, he had a bright future ahead of him and was taking writing courses to pursue his dream of someday working at The New York Times. Over the summer, he was writing for Yachting magazine.

But sometimes life takes a tragic turn. On July 29, 2006, while he was with two friends, crossing 57th Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues in New York City, he was hit by a drunk driver and killed.

Looking back, Sue still vividly recalls the trauma she and her family endured and is convinced she could not have survived if she hadn’t been surrounded by her husband Bob, her children, beloved friends, Ben’s friends and the Jesuit communities of clergy and teachers at Fairfield Prep and Fordham University.

“We all were devastated,” she said. “Ben was a beautiful young man at the top of his game. He had so much promise, brought so much joy and then … he was gone.”

Years later, she still recounts all the traits that made Ben the personable and compassionate person he was.

“There were so many different people that he touched,” she says. “His friendships were longtime and loyal… he was a connector. He was a good listener. He was handsome and funny. He was just so many wonderful things. He loved music and thought someday he might be a music critic.”

Afterward, she and her son Jack, then 13, sprinkled holy water at the place where Ben died, which she has always considered “holy ground.”

Now, Jack is 30 and engaged to a beautiful young woman. Several months ago, when they were looking for an apartment in the city, he called Sue and told her, “Mom, I think we found this great apartment, and I’m going to send you a video of where it is.”

“He told me it was on 57th Street between Eighth and Ninth,” Sue recalls. “I didn’t react. I didn’t want to say, ‘Jack, are you crazy? Of all the buildings in the whole city, you chose there?’ Instead, I tried to absorb it, and when he sent the video, I just sat with it … seeking God’s grace to understand his invitation. Later I explained to Jack where he actually was … to help him remember. I didn’t want him to live with heaviness in his heart, but I told him, ‘There’s more to your coming here than you realize. There’s a good reason God is putting you here, and I’m not quite sure of the reason.’”

“My realization of what God was doing was evolving, and I needed to let it unfold,” she said. “But I knew God was doing something, and I needed to pause to understand what he was telling me… what the lesson was.”

Almost 20 years after Ben’s death, his name always brings happiness to their home, and the family’s shared grief has helped them on their healing journey. “It has been a communal healing process with Ben’s friends and our family and friends.”

Sue said: “When Jack told me he was going to move into this building, which is full of young people, I said to God, ‘Are you kidding me?’ Then, I sat there with this and asked him, ‘What are you trying to teach me?’”

The lesson is still unfolding for her, but she knows the space where her son died is “holy, healing ground.”

And there’s more: “God let me know that Jack and Casey will be very happy there,” she said. “That he is taking this place of great pain and suffering and bringing joy to it …. This is a story of redemption. A story of resurrection.”

“I have both my boys there now,” she says confidently. “There’s pain and there’s joy. It’s remarkable. God brought me to my knees with more and more healing and more and more grace… my heart is filled with gratitude. It overwhelms me that the message God handed us was not meant to be more pain, but healing and joy. We have to pause and take notice of what God is doing, so we can encounter and recognize his grace. I don’t want to miss the grace He continues to offer … and I know that Ben and Jack are on this holy ground together.”

My brother got married last weekend. My youngest, supposedly confirmed-bachelor brother had chosen a wonderful woman with whom to share his life.

Before God and family, Dave and Christie took their vows and professed their love and commitment to each other on a glorious, late summer afternoon. In the days since, I have returned to the wedding’s most memorable moments many times: the joyful tears, the family reunions, the heartfelt toasts and humorous speeches. Those most clearly embedded, however, are not of the newly married couple but of a long-married couple: my parents, who no doubt recalled moments of their own summer wedding over 56 years ago.

Though my dad is in a wheelchair and my mom has trouble walking, they remained an integral part of the ceremony and photographs. Once dinner was served and dancing began, however, they lingered at their table, watching the festivities from a short distance with a few other relatives. The day had been joyous, albeit exhausting, for my dad, and he was content to chat with a distant cousin and smile with my mother as their own wedding song played. Then, when the DJ invited all married couples up to share a special dance, his strength suddenly returned. He was not going to sit this one out.

Slowly, deliberately, and with a little help from his cousin, my dad stood and, using his cane, walked a few feet from the table. Aged and bent, he couldn’t make it to the dance floor but took my mother’s hand in his. Gently, they swayed to the music, supporting each other and enjoying a quiet, loving moment. My parents danced not the dance of their youth, but the one of a couple who has together shared the joys and endured the struggles that constitute a strong marriage of 56 years.

Teary-eyed, my aunt snapped a quick photo. “Your dad was not going to miss dancing with his bride,” she said to me. “That is true love.”

Earlier that day during the ceremony, the priest blessed Dave and Christie as they took their vows, saying, “We pray in the name of the One Most Holy that they become a source of hope and strength for each other as they unite today in God’s presence.” My brother and his wife, both in their 40s, had already experienced joys and struggles apart and then, with those vows, began their married life together. They were surely not thinking about what the next decades would bring, but I hoped, years from now, that they would share a dance similar to my parents’, having supported each other with grace and love.

As Catholics, we look to God for strength and hope, praying for his continued blessings. And here on Earth, we are inspired by those who have remained faithful to him, be it in a long, enduring marriage or in any other aspect of this beautiful life he has given us.

For my brothers and me, our spouses and our children, that inspiration comes from my parents, and no visible sign shows it more clearly than that quiet dance they shared.

Did you ever get the feeling that God puts people in your path for a reason, even if you don’t know why? A forgotten friend calls up. A long lost relative returns. A stranger in need crosses your path. Or you’re in need, and a stranger crosses your path.

I’ve had occasions when someone I offended years ago pops up out of nowhere … and I know what that means. As much as I want to run and hide, it’s time for a long-overdue apology and reconciliation. It all happens in God’s perfect timing.

Then, there was that phone call recently from my old college roommate Lenny, whom I hadn’t seen in decades. When you get calls like that, there are two possibilities—someone needs some thing or God is at work. Often times it’s both.

We were college students in New York City during the Vietnam era. A bona fide odd couple. He was from the Congo, and I was from a place called Pine Rock Park in Shelton.

As diverse as our backgrounds were, we did have a few similarities. We both smoked, we both drank and we both liked to party and pretend we were intellectuals by carrying around books by Fredrich Nietzsche, Albert Camus and any fashionable nihilist.

I’ve discovered that in these reunions, you generally talk about the past and you talk about the present. Then you conclude the only things you still have in common are lower back pain, thinning hair and the high cost of prescription drugs … and perhaps, hopefully, Jesus.

In the intervening years, Lenny became a new man, not in the way Nietzsche described them, but in the way St. Paul did, as someone who has put on Christ.

After a few Google searches, I discovered he taught at two Christian universities for 40 years, gave a talk at University of Notre Dame on the Rwandan genocide because he is a Tutsi, the minority ethnic group that had one million people killed during the genocide in 1994. He also had a Bible study podcast.

Our reunion on the phone —he on the West Coast and I on the East—didn’t focus on the usual litany of ailments or a recitation of our resumes, fortunately. Instead, it focused on our faith journeys. During those decades apart, each of us at different times and in different ways, had Christ come into our lives. And that made all the difference. Wouldn’t you rather talk about Jesus than someone’s latest promotion or the presidential election?

Listening to his story gave me hope because I have many friends and family members who haven’t found Christ yet. Some are still looking. Others never started because they’re chasing the false gods of success, possessions, pleasure and prestige, which, the older you get, the more you realize how little they ultimately matter.

Lenny didn’t return to the Congo. He studied economics and had a promising career in a major corporation, until he reached the point many people never reach and began asking himself, “Is this all there is?” So he prayed for an answer. The wonderful thing is that when you pray for answers, you get answers. God never disappoints.

One day, while he was walking alone on the beach in Florida, three missionaries approached him and started talking about Jesus. He always enjoyed philosophical discussions, so he engaged them. A day later, they brought him to a church service and prayed over him, and things were never the same again. God kept putting people in his path, who led him where he was meant to go, in his career and in his spiritual life.

He got a doctorate in philosophy and taught at two Christian universities, raised a family, lectured and now is semi-retired. But our discussion didn’t end there. The discussion never ends when you have Christ in common because there’s always a future, and it’s a glorious future filled with hope. Besides, no matter how old you are, Jesus won’t let you retire while there’s still work to be done.

Yes, old friendships are made new because Christ makes all things new. We both agreed that after so many years apart, we’d rather talk about Christ than talk about inflation, climate change, the Yankees, the Mets—you name it—because Jesus can resurrect old friendships in a new and meaningful ways.

Hiking, check. Historic sites, check. Winery, check. Another hike, check. Tacos, chips and salsa, check, check and check.

We’d been planning our trip to Arizona for months, excited to experience a part of the country unknown to us. Though the itinerary was set, soon after we arrived, those other attractions seemed secondary as we found ourselves embarking on a pilgrimage in the cactus-covered southwest.

We had read of a tiny Catholic chapel, sitting high atop a formation of red rocks in the central part of the state, with exceptional architecture and an enormous cross. On our second day, we ventured out to see it, but no guidebook could prepare us for the grandeur.

After parking at the base of the rocks, we began the ascent, accompanied by so many others drawn to this place of unique beauty and peace. Around the rocks, a path wound long and curving, and we climbed slowly in the 92-degree early morning heat, reminiscent of pilgrims journeying to a holy place. Reaching the top, we paused, awed by magnificent views of giant rocks and a broad blue sky. Walking inside the church, however, literally took my breath away. I had come face to face with an image of Christ, crucified upon a massive Tree of Life.

The chatter that accompanied our walk up the hill was silenced as we entered the cool interior of the chapel, scented with the aroma of flickering candles. Immediately, a feeling of serenity enveloped us. Genuflecting, I took a seat beside my husband in one of the backless pews and bowed in prayer, along with our daughters and the others who had journeyed with us. Though considered a must-see area attraction, it is foremost a Catholic church with the Blessed Sacrament reserved in the tabernacle, its presence felt throughout this tiny building. Rising, I was drawn to the altar and the wall behind it made entirely of windows. A complete view of the desert landscape appeared, but I was taken again by that massive crucifix in front.

As I stood at the foot of the cross looking up, Jesus gazed down upon me, an experience that was utterly mesmerizing.

We stayed for some time, praying, lighting candles, and walking through the Stations of the Cross, each Roman numeral sculpted to resemble iron nails. But the hiking trails were calling, and the day was growing warmer, so we retraced our steps, descending the road that wound long and curving.

I have been inside so many churches, seen dozens of likenesses of Our Lord, and prayed before the Blessed Sacrament countless times. Why did this place have such an impact? Was it the journey, though short, and the strangers who accompanied us? Was it the location, itself a place of spiritual contemplation? Or was it simply the respite we needed during our active vacation? I read later that the architect built this “as a monument to faith so charged with God, that it spurs man’s spirit God-ward.”

That was why, of course: God’s manifest presence, complimented perhaps by the journey and location. Though I may never return to this place, I pray that our faith and our spirit continue to be spurred God-ward.

When Jesus passes by, lives change. Even people who don’t realize who he is will change because Jesus can do all things. Some people who spotted him during the Eucharistic procession last month probably thought, “There go those crazy Catholics again,” but in some way they’ll be changed by the encounter, too.

At the end of the Mass of Thanksgiving for the Eucharistic Renewal, Bishop Frank Caggiano carried the Eucharistic King down the aisles of the arena at Fairfield University, filled with several thousand faithful.

As Jesus passed them in a magnificent monstrance, old men fell to their knees, women wept, children waved, people made the Sign of the Cross and raised their hands in praise or pointed their cellphones to capture a photo. Some blew kisses, others bowed their heads or held their hands over their heart.

With the eyes of faith they saw a king. The King. Imagine for a moment, how happy Jesus must have been to see so many people giving him their hearts and homage.

I’ve watched a video of that procession dozens of times, and each time I’m moved because I see something new in the many faces looking at Jesus with adoration. I sent the video to my friends and family members, some of whom aren’t Catholic. Many didn’t respond, some opened it and others seemed to say, “That’s nice, so?”

It must have been the same when Jesus walked the Earth. Some recognized him immediately for who he is. Do you remember that annoying Canaanite woman, who kept wailing “Have pity on me, Lord, Son of David!” because her daughter was possessed. Jesus ignored her and then rebuffed her and then gave her what she wanted—which he’d always intended to do—and told her she had great faith.

The Mass was a reminder that we’ve been given a gift of immeasurable value, that pearl of great price Jesus talked about. It’s a gift the rest of the world doesn’t understand, so it’s our job to help them.

At the Mass, many people shared stories of their faith journeys with me. God touched their lives in a profound way, and they had a personal encounter with Christ, which is where faith begins—in the heart. From there, it spreads and becomes such a powerful force it can’t be stopped. It has to be shared, or you’ll burst because of the joy it generates.

People told me about their love of the Eucharist, their love of the Church, their love for the priests, deacons and religious who made a difference in their lives.

Barbara Scioscia Reed, who belongs to St. Margaret Shrine in Bridgeport, shared memories of her mother, Betty, whom she drove to Mass at Holy Rosary Church with her friends in their 90s. When that parish closed, Barbara took the group of seniors to St. Margaret Shrine because Deacon Don Foust was so welcoming.

“I felt empty after my mother passed,” Barbara said, but her new faith community sustained her.

Gina Fleming of St. Francis of Assisi Parish in Weston recalled her mother, Maria Grazia, who planted the seed of faith in her but tragically died when her daughter was six.

“Today I am very devoted to the Sacred Heart,” she said. “I am here because Jesus is my brother, my friend, my everything, and I want everyone to know about him.”

Tuck Colangelo, who has been a parishioner at Our Lady of Peace Parish in Stratford for 42 years, praised the many priests who kept him on the straight and narrow, especially Father Nick Pavia and the current pastor, Father Peter Towsley.

“Every priest has taught me something,” he said. “I need all the help I can get… and I’m getting it.”

Michael Shea said he was leaving the celebration a different person. “I walked in with doubt but I’m leaving with hope and connectedness.”

Think about this. That same Jesus who went up and down the aisles, knew the stories, the sorrows and the hopes of every person in that arena. They looked at him with longing, and he looked back at them with love.

One last note: A special person in my video is a little boy in a red shirt no more than six years old, who fell to his knees as soon as Bishop Caggiano brought Jesus out to the crowd. And at the end of the procession, the boy was still on his knees when Jesus finally reached him. Jesus saw that, too.

Commencement (n.): a start; a beginning; the act or instance of commencing; the day for conferring degrees or diplomas. I love the power of words, but I grapple with this one each June, intrigued that a student’s graduation—the culmination of their years of hard work—is also called commencement. One cannot enjoy the beginning of one thing, however, without an end to another, the contemplative caveat of our cyclical lives. It’s one I’ve been preparing for over these last few weeks as my daughter Elizabeth, our youngest child, prepared for her commencement.

Early that afternoon, she zipped the gown, adjusted the cords, and straightened the cap, decorated with sparkling letters and tiny photos of longtime friends. As she gave a final glance in the mirror, I peeked in beside her. My mind filled with images of that timid toddler with soft ringlets as the smiling face of my confident graduate reflected back at me. “Ready to go?” she asked, interrupting my momentary flashbacks and heading for the front door. Not sure that I was, still I returned her smile, and we stepped outside together.

As a high school teacher, I’ve attended countless commencements, telling students and often their parents (who feel as bittersweet and nostalgic as I did last Monday afternoon) that this really is a commencing as the word implies, for the cliché is true about the future being theirs. But with my own child? My youngest? It was not so easy. I reminded myself to heed those same words as I climbed the bleachers with my family and settled in beside our friends on that partly sunny day. Though the bittersweet emotions and nostalgia could not be ignored, I felt something stronger as I watched these graduates process in: hope.

Their childhood was defined the struggles of a worldwide pandemic and tragedy in communities nearby and around the world, but on this day, their faces shone with joy and brilliance no late afternoon sun could ever match. I have seen kindness, hope, and empathy in the character of Elizabeth’s friends and classmates, our neighbors’ children and the ones I taught in religious ed. Though occasionally wistful, they are more than prepared to allow this time to end and another to begin, and it is our time to let them show us what they can do, as hard it is might be to let them go.

As each name was called and each graduate sent forth, I remembered the words our deacon spoke at Mass that Sunday: “For all students who are completing their academic year, that they may use the knowledge and skills they attain to serve God’s people in truth and justice. We pray to the Lord.” Though they are not all Catholic, I see in them a desire to do just that. Graduation is the moment when they begin—they commence—to live what they have learned, and hopefully, with God as their guide, to do so with infinite love and eternal hope.

Elizabeth accepted her diploma, crossed the stage, and later, with synchronized precision, joined her classmates in turning the tassels and tossing the caps. Graduation has ended, but their future has commenced.

Miracles happen when we sit before Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. We get answers we need, we receive the comfort we desire, we have a friend who listens to us … and we’re healed. Yes, miraculous things happen.

Before she entered the Missionary Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament and Mary Immaculate, Anna Rodriguez had a personal encounter with the Eucharistic Lord that inspired her to leave her job, and her boyfriend, for the religious life.

“I was before the Blessed Sacrament, and I wondered, ‘What am I feeling?’” she said. So she asked, “Dear Lord, what am I going to do?”

A lover of horses, she immediately thought of the blinders they wear in the mountains, so they can stay focused and not be distracted by the cliffs.

A voice told her, “Put the frame on just like you put on your horse. Look forward and not to the side, and I will be there.’”

“That’s when I said, ‘the Lord wants me to be a sister.’” Forty-two years later, she is still focused on the Eucharistic Lord, serving as the mother of her convent in Bridgeport.

***

Marie Moura would take her grandson Johnathan to Eucharistic Adoration at St. Joseph’s chapel in Shelton.

At two, he developed a special friendship with Jesus. They talked to each other, they prayed together, and sometimes they just stared at each other lovingly.

“He loves to be close to Jesus on the altar and look up at him,” Marie said. “He would get Rosary beads and kneel where Jesus was on the altar. He’d look up and show him the Rosary and said, ‘Jesus, I’m praying the Rosary!’”

When he walked into the chapel, he’d spread his arms and say, “I love you this much, Jesus!”

“You could tell he’s in the presence of the Lord, and it’s amazing to watch. I learned so much from this little boy who has so much love for Jesus, just watching him praying and blowing kisses to Jesus.”

***

Brianna Farens was convinced she’d pursue a career in medicine like her father, Dr. John Farens.

Today, she is Sister Maria Antonia of the Holy Wounds of Jesus, a member of the cloistered religious order at Poor Clare Monastery of Our Lady of Guadalupe in New Mexico.

“All the while, my prayer life was deepening and intensifying,” she recalled. “I was spending more and more time before our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament, and I just couldn’t get enough. Being before the Lord and gazing at him, caught up in his love, it felt like my heart could just leap out of my chest and go out to him. He was drawing me into this divine intimacy, and the only response I could make was that of totality, anything less would not satisfy.”

One evening during Adoration, “I heard Jesus calling me so clearly in the utmost depths of my heart to the cloister. In hearing this, it was like my innermost being was illumined, and it felt like I was on fire with peace, consumed by love.”

“It seemed like from the very place within me Our Lord drew out this call, there also came all my love and therefore my response,” she said. “This profound moment of realizing my vocation was simply an encounter of love: his love meeting mine.”

***

This account is from “Real People, Real Presence” compiled by Cardinal William Keeler.

“Where do I begin to tell about the most powerful experience I have had before the Eucharist? My story starts in the late 1970s, when as an unmarried teenager, I became pregnant. In a time of doubt, fear and confusion, I committed a sin that I will regret as long as I live—I aborted my unborn child.

“Years later, I stopped at a 100-year-old church in downtown Baltimore for Eucharistic Adoration … I had prayed to the Lord about my aborted child many times before. As I prayed for God’s forgiveness again, I suddenly had the feeling I was not alone. I called God’s name and asked, ‘Is that you?’ His answer was ‘Yes.’ At that moment, a shimmering, white being came down and sat beside me. For the next 15 minutes, he and I sat in each other’s presence. From him I sensed no anger or condemnation, simply warm, unconditional love and joy.

“Then, he left my side and went away. When I told a devout friend about what had happened, she believed (as I did) that I had received a great gift from God. He allowed me to feel his complete and total forgiveness for my sin so long ago. Do I love the Eucharist? Absolutely! I have no words to truly express the peace and joy it has brought into my life.”

The skeins of yarn. The piles of fabric. The boxes of buttons.

For years, my mother’s favorite pastime had been her handiwork. In addition to all the other roles she played, she had such finesse with her hands, knitting sweaters for my brothers and sewing dresses for me throughout our childhood. An original Halloween costume? She would sew it in days. A new baby in the family? She would knit a nursery blanket. Booties for the church fair? Done again, and again. Doll clothes, pillowcases, hats and scarves. My mother’s handiwork was her trademark, and everyone she knew benefitted from those careful stitches.

As a child, I would sit beside her, watching the swiftness of her fingers as she twirled the yarn or threaded the bobbin of her Singer sewing machine. She offered to teach me her craft many times, but I was not interested, preferring books and pencils to yarns and needles. That was her domain, and I was content to simply enjoy it. How the sweaters and dresses would appear from something so simple seemed like magic to me back then. Of course, it required talent, but even more so, patterns and patience, as her fingers moved, repetitively, one stitch at a time. Designs took shape, rows took form. Nothing could be rushed.

Frustrated, she might suddenly catch a dropped stitch. Though barely noticeable to someone else, my mother knew that mistake could change the whole pattern, the symmetry she desired. Even if it meant tearing out minutes—maybe hours—of otherwise careful work, she did, wanting that special piece to be deserving of the person for whom it was intended, especially if it was a child.

When each of her grandchildren came along, she had a quilt ready as their Christening gift. Though each pattern was unique, they all included crosses embedded in the design. Everything made with her hands was a reflection of herself, she knew, and thus, a reflection of God. Though she felt accomplished with a completed piece, her greatest enjoyment came in the process itself. It was mediative, she’d say, a spiritual discipline offering her the perfect time to pray.

Today, the hands that could knit and sew with such precision have been stilled by arthritis and a lack of focus, inevitable with an aging body and mind. It is harder and harder for her to hold a knitting needle and the old Singer has long been idle. Still, I sit beside her, no longer seeing the swiftness of yesteryear in her fingers but the wrinkles, blue veins, and scars from the stabs of a needle. Whereas the skeins of yarn and piles of fabric once helped define my mother’s life, now it is the creases in the palms of her hands that do, telling a lifetime of stories.

Just as her handiwork resulted in the tapestry of her creations, “we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works.”

The remnants of her craft continue to hang in our closets and lay folded at the foot of her grandchildren’s beds, their patterns—and her legacy—a reminder of the patience and skill that come one stitch at a time.

Every time I read the New York Times ethics column, there seems to be a sticky situation about something or other, usually inheritances—or disinheritances, which are never a pleasant topic.

The ethical possibilities are endless. Someone got an inheritance and didn’t deserve it. Someone was denied an inheritance who deserved it. A father cut his daughter out of the will because she married a scoundrel. A daughter who cared for her parents got everything, while a son who did nothing got nada and filed a lawsuit. A generous son didn’t want his parents to know he was going to eventually share his inheritance with his brother, who was cut out of the will.

When it comes to wills, things get ugly fast, especially if they’re used for retribution.

I’ve always been fascinated by the Parable of the Prodigal Son. (I wonder what the Times ethicist would say about that story.) Over the years, I’ve encountered a few cases that were so similar to the parable it was uncanny: One guy asked for his inheritance, got it early and squandered it. As fate or fortune would have it, he got another inheritance and did the same thing. I also know people who deserved a generous inheritance but came away empty-handed from the lawyer’s office. When I said, “Give me my inheritance” to my father, he promptly responded, “What inheritance?” (It’s always wise to have low expectations.)

For some parents, a will is their last chance to get even with children who did them wrong or didn’t turn out the way Mom and Dad wanted. We’ve all heard the common threat, “I’m taking you out of the will!” In fact, I may have said it myself once or 200 times.

Then, there are the self-made parents who leave their kids nothing and give it all to the Sierra Club or the ACLU, just so their offspring don’t become slackers living off their parents’ money.

The father in Jesus’ parable had an entirely different approach and behaves so contrary to our standards of fairness. Jesus always seems to upset our sense of right and wrong by inserting mercy into the equation. The parable exemplifies God’s unconditional love for us. Even when we aren’t faithful, he will always forgive us and welcome us back.

However, to my thinking, the older brother in the parable presents a compelling case. What has always troubled me is his complaint to Dad: “Look, all these years I served you, and not once did I disobey your orders; yet you never gave me even a young goat to feast on with my friends.”

If the father was so generous, why didn’t he give his faithful son a goat? (This sounds like another quandary for the Times’ ethicist.) I don’t begrudge the prodigal son getting the fatted calf, the ring and the robe—not to mention all the money he spent on prostitutes and riotous living—but how about throwing the faithful son a bone?

Maybe the old man was so anxious about his lost son that he overlooked his loyal son. Or maybe he figured the son and his friends had been taking a goat now and then anyway. Or maybe the answer lies in his words of assurance: “My son, you are here with me always; everything I have is yours.” A father who could be so generous to a son who squandered everything would surely not take the loyal son for granted.

But life is seldom like that. Everyone has a horror story when it comes to an inheritance, and an unfair or vindictive will can cause the kind of resentment that tears apart a family forever.

I’ve seen it, and I’ve known siblings who’ve gone to the grave without talking, all because of a will.

No one seems to get what they believe they deserve, although some get more than they actually deserve—and just keep laying waste to the family fortune.

I better keep reading that parable for guidance because more than once I’ve said to my wife, “I’m leaving everything to the dog!” I’ll follow the example of the late hotel magnate Leona Helmsley, who died and left $12 million to her Maltese poodle Trouble. Not to mention an estimated $8 billion for the care and welfare of other canines, who are still barking her praises at dog shelters.

When I tell my wife that’s my plan, she usually sputters, “Don’t worry. There won’t be much left, not even for the dog.”