Turn Back Time: Reflections on the Roads Not Taken

Some songs and movies don’t just entertain—they linger. They stir something profound inside, calling us to revisit the past and wonder what might have been. Cher’s If I Could Turn Back Time is more than a power ballad—it’s a longing for a second chance. Darius Rucker’s This reminds us that every twist and turn, even the painful ones, lead us to where we’re meant to be. Garth Brooks’ Unanswered Prayers gently teaches that sometimes, not getting what we want is the greatest gift of all. And in The Family Man, Nicolas Cage’s character wakes up in a life he could’ve had—if only he’d made one different choice.

Then there’s The Best of Times, a lesser-known gem starring Robin Williams and Kurt Russell. It’s about reliving a high school football game that went wrong—and the chance to rewrite history. It’s funny, heartfelt, and deeply human. Like many of us, the characters are haunted by a single moment they wish they could redo.

But not every alternate path leads to peace. The Butterfly Effect warns us that even the slightest change can have far-reaching consequences.

As I look back on my own life, I find myself asking:  If I could go back and change one thing, would I?  Would my life be better? Different? Or would I lose something precious in the process?

There’s a quote by Mitch Albom, author of The Five People You Meet in Heaven, that captures this perfectly: “Time is not something you can control. Time is a river, and we are all swept along by its current.”

This blog entry is a reflection on those moments—the ones that shaped me, haunted me, and ultimately taught me something.

Lately, I’ve found myself wondering: What if I hadn’t grown up in such a dysfunctional household? What if my parents had followed a more traditional path—gotten married before having children, built a stable home? I grew up with two half-sisters, each of us with a different father. And then, at age 63, I discovered I didn’t have just two siblings—I had seven.

What would it have been like to grow up in a household like The Waltons? What if I had been raised in Eastern Kentucky or Hays, Kansas, instead of Kansas City? Would I have had the same opportunities, like a private school education? Would I have been raised Catholic or Baptist? Would I still have become an educational administrator, or would I have followed my brothers into the coal mines or oil fields?

These questions don’t come with easy answers. But they do invite reflection.

If you could go back in time and change one thing, what would it be? And what might you risk losing in the process?

The Most Outrageous Thing Anyone Has Ever Said to Me—Professionally or Personally

After four decades in education, I’d like to think I’ve heard it all. Very little shocks me anymore—especially when it comes from the mouths of babes. But every now and then, someone drops a zinger that stops me in my tracks and leaves me with that classic deer-in-the-headlights look.

Let’s rewind to my high school and college years. I was gregarious, loved sports, was a good teammate, a loyal friend, and always up for a good time. But when it came to dating, I had zero confidence. Maybe it was poor body image. Perhaps I was waiting for a growth spurt that never came. I topped out at a towering 5’4¾”. I was often drawn to women much taller than me—let’s just say, not exactly matches made in heaven. Still, my personality kept me in the game.

In college, I fell head over heels for a beautiful young woman from Mission, Texas. She still holds a piece of my heart. The first time I saw her walk into a room, it was like a movie—everything else faded except her. This happened for weeks until one day, she walked right up to the table where I was sitting with my Kappa Sigma brothers and said, “Are you going to ask me out or just stare at me all day?”

That line hits me every time I hear the song As She’s Walking Away by Zac Brown Band and Alan Jackson. There’s a verse that goes, “When your heart won’t tell your mind what your mouth should say.” Truer words have never been spoken.  

Spoiler alert: I asked her out. She said yes.

But then came the line that stuck with me for life. After a few dates, she said, “If you were a few inches taller, we’d be raising babies together.” Oof. Not life-shattering, but definitely life-shaking. A beautiful woman had chosen to date me, start a relationship with me, and then ended our future because I wasn’t tall enough. That was a reality check I didn’t see coming.

Fast-forward to my first year as a principal in 2001, after 16 years in Catholic education. I had the privilege of working with a veteran group of women who had dedicated their lives to the ministry. Before I arrived, the school was run by a trio of self-described “domination women” in Lemay. I observed some practices I couldn’t fully support and said, “We can be better than this.”

That’s when I got hit with the first truly outrageous professional line that changed my course as a coach, mentor, and leader. The lead teacher looked me in the eye and said, “Honey, we’ve got this covered. We just need you in the office to be eye candy.”

Now, I’m no John Merrick (the Elephant Man), but I’m not exactly fashion model material either—unless you’re into the Danny DeVito type. My response? “The hell I am.” From that moment on, we had an understanding. I was the uncontested boss.

Over the years, I’ve been called every unkind word in the book—in multiple languages. I’ve weathered more “f-bombs” than I can count. My favorite comeback when someone calls me a “Son of a Beach”? “I didn’t know you knew my mother!”

So now I turn the question to you:
What’s the most outrageous thing someone has ever said to you—personally or professionally?

How did it affect you once it was in the rearview mirror? Did it change you, challenge you, or maybe even empower you?

I’d love to hear your stories. Let’s share the moments that made us pause, laugh, cry, or grow.

Where’s Buddha? A Story of Socks, Spirituality, and Standing Your Ground

I once worked for a young priest—let’s call him Father 33-Buttons. He was part of a group of clergy who longed for the “glory days” before Vatican II. These men had a few colorful nicknames, but out of respect for the many dedicated priests I’ve worked with, I’ll stick with my favorite: the 33-button guys. They wore cassocks with 33 buttons, each one symbolizing a year that Christ walked the earth. Their spiritual style leaned traditional, and their unofficial leader was none other than the Darth Vader of sorts himself—Cardinal Raymond Burke.

Father 33-Buttons made it clear from day one: he was the boss. Now, for those who don’t know me, I have a flair for the “funner” things in life. I wear novelty socks and cartoon characters, superhero ties, you name it. I carry a Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine lunchbox. I have a bobblehead collection nearing 100 pieces strong, and a shelf filled with religious artifacts, including a few playful ones, such as Pope bobbleheads and saint statues from every school I’ve served at.

And yes, I also have Buddhas.

Our family has an adopted cousin from Nepal—Cousin Ganesh—who introduced us to mindfulness and Eastern philosophy. Naturally, that included a few statues of Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha. Over time, two of my favorite bosses even developed a nickname for me: “Baby Buddha.” I always hoped it was a nod to my spiritual vibe, though I suspect it may have had something to do with my girth.

One day, Father 33-Buttons walked into my office and pointed to my bobblehead collection. “Do these define you?” he asked. Sheepishly, I said no. “Good,” he replied. “Take them home.”

A week later, he asked about my cartoon ties. “Do those define you?” Again, I said not necessarily. “Do you own adult ties?” he asked. I assured him I did—thanks to my cousin Mike Madalon, who generously rotates out his stylish business ties and sends me a dozen sweet ones each year. “Great,” Father said. “Start wearing them.”

Then came the final round. “Do the rest of these fun items define you?” he asked. This time, I stood firm. “Father, I believe they do.” He paused, then said, “I’m sorry, but I’d like you to box them up and take them home.”

I drew the line at the Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine lunchbox. “That stays,” I said. And thank goodness—I held my ground. That lunchbox had been with me in every office and classroom for nearly three decades. It was more than a container for sandwiches; it was a symbol of joy, consistency, and connection with students.

As I packed up my toys, bobbleheads, and non-traditional religious items, I came across a few small Buddha statues made by students during Genius Hour using a 3D printer. We were just past the Christmas season, and during Advent, students had enjoyed searching for the Elf on the Shelf in my office. Inspired by that, I created a new game for Father 33-Buttons: Where’s Buddha?

The Buddha was only 3.5 inches tall, made from turquoise filament, and he traveled all over the office. Father never could quite spot him. To this day, when I see that little Buddha on my shelf, I smile. He reminds me to strive for enlightenment, to remain humble, and to reach my full potential.

So here’s my question for you:
Have you ever had a moment when enough was enough—when you stood your ground and stayed true to yourself?

Do you have things in your life that define you—not just objects, but symbols of who you are and what you value?

I’d love to hear your stories. Drop a comment, share a memory, or tell me about your own “Scooby-Doo lunchbox” moment.

Namaste.

Mixtapes, Emojis, and the End of an Era

It started with a nudge from my son Cody: “Dad, Facebook isn’t your vibe anymore. Go back to blogging.” He’s not wrong. Social media has become a sea of silent scrolling—thumbs up, heart emojis, maybe a fire symbol if you’re lucky. But real conversation? Rare.

So here I am, dusting off the old blog spirit (RIP An Examined Life, wherever you are) and diving back into long-form storytelling. Let’s see if we can still spark some dialogue, some reflection—and maybe even a few playlists.

Here’s the context: I recently went cold turkey after 13+ years of online gaming with the same group of guys—Sheriff, Worms, Mopar, and me, the Insane G0@T. I chose my best friend (my wife) over Call of Duty. She was starting to feel like a gaming widow. Now, we sit next to each other, talk (yes, talk!), and binge-watch streaming series. So far, we’ve enjoyed The Blacklist, Ted Lasso, Person of Interest, The 100, Lucifer, and Lost. We gave Severance a shot… OMG, we just couldn’t keep watching; our eyes were bleeding!

Recently, during a Guardians of the Galaxy marathon, I had a thought: Star-Lord had three mixtapes—his only music for life. What if you had to make one mixtape, just 20 songs, that you’d listen to every day for the rest of your life?

I’ve asked around. Some people thought it was easy. Others said, “Oh my gosh, I can’t do it!” When I made my own list, I noticed something interesting: the songs weren’t necessarily by my favorite artists, and they weren’t always my favorite songs. But each one left a mark—imprinted on me at different stages of life.

Here’s my 20, in no particular order:

• There’s A Place in the World for a Gambler — Dan Fogelberg
• John Cougar, John Deere, John 3:16 — Keith Urban
• When I See This Bar — Kenny Chesney
• High Enough — Damn Yankees
• Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) — Green Day
• Losing My Religion — R.E.M.
• If You Could Read My Mind — Gordon Lightfoot
• Alright — Darius Rucker
• Time — Hootie & the Blowfish
• Crystal Ball — Styx
• I’m Your Captain (Closer to Home) — Grand Funk Railroad
• Oh Baby I Love Your Way — Mig Ayesa (cover of Peter Frampton)
• Vincent — Don McLean
• Hey Jude — The Beatles
• Landslide — Stevie Nicks
• Three Little Birds — Bob Marley & the Wailers
• The Sound of Silence — Disturbed (cover of Simon & Garfunkel)
• Cherish — The Association
• You Are So Beautiful — Joe Cocker
• Year of the Cat — Al Stewart

Honorable Mention: More Than Words — Extreme

So now it’s your turn. What songs would make your forever mixtape? Think about the ones that shaped you, comforted you, or just made you feel alive. Share your list—or even just a few tracks—in the comments. Let’s bring back the conversation.

Your Time Has Arrived

 

Each fall, I remind our school leaders, teachers, and especially our 8th graders that we hold them to high expectations. For our soon-to-be graduates, the sand in the hourglass is slipping quickly. Their time with us is short—what will they do with it before they leave for high school?

I began my remarks this year with the phrase: “Your time has arrived.”

The Greeks had two words for time: Chronos and Kairos.

• Chronos is measured time—minutes, hours, days, months, years.
• Kairos is “God’s time”—the right time, sacred time, a moment of opportunity.

As leaders in our school, our students live in both. The question is: will they seize the opportunities before them, or will they let them pass by? This moment will never come again. Will they seize the day—or sleepwalk through the year?

Time, of course, has always captured our imagination. Jim Croce wished he could save it in a bottle. Cyndi Lauper sang about “Time After Time.” The Rolling Stones insisted that “Time Is on My Side.” Hootie & the Blowfish named a song “Time,” while Darius Rucker admitted, “Time ain’t no friend of mine.”

And then there’s the Byrds, who took their hit Turn, Turn, Turn straight from the book of Ecclesiastes:

• A time to be born, and a time to die
• A time to plant, and a time to reap
• A time to kill, and a time to heal
• A time to laugh, and a time to weep

That same scripture also reminds us that for God, there is a time to judge every deed. For those of us further along in life, Judgment Day can feel daunting, especially when we recall the words of Matthew 25:

• When I was hungry, did you give me to eat?
• When I was thirsty, did you give me to drink?
• When I was naked, did you clothe me?
• When I was sick, did you look after me?
  
  

On that day, God may not dwell on why we failed in certain moments. Instead, He may ask: Did you use your time to care for the least of your brothers and sisters?

But here’s the Good News: we still have time. Each morning brings new opportunities to live differently, love better, and serve more generously. Some say life is not a video game—that there are no do-overs. I would argue that, while life isn’t like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, where you relive the same day until you get it right, God still grants us fresh chances every single day.

Every sunrise is a new beginning. Every encounter is a choice:

• To affirm someone’s gifts, or to pass them by unnoticed.
• To see each person as a beloved child of God, or to “walk on by,” as Dionne Warwick once sang.

 So the question remains: What will you do with your time?

 

Welcoming the Lost, Honoring the Found

In today’s Gospel, Jesus is criticized by the scribes and Pharisees: "This man welcomes sinners and eats with them."

My father, a Baptist preacher, used to say, “The Good Lord didn’t come down to spend time with the salt of the earth—He came to be with us sinners so we could be saved.” That message rings true in today’s reading.

Jesus responds to the criticism with three parables about lost things—a sheep, a coin, and a son. Each story teaches us something powerful about repentance and the joy of returning to God.

In the first two parables, the lost sheep and coin are actively searched for. The shepherd leaves 99 sheep to find the missing one. The woman turns her house upside down to recover a single coin. But in the third parable—the story of the prodigal son—the father doesn’t go searching. He lets his son go, giving him the freedom to choose. And when the son returns, the father runs to him, embraces him, and celebrates his return.

The older brother, much like the Pharisees, struggles to understand this grace. But the father gently reminds him: "We must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found."

This story reminds us that God doesn’t force us to return—but when we do, He welcomes us with open arms.

And yet, reading about celebration and rejoicing can feel difficult on a day marked by tragedy.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was in my first month as a new principal in the Archdiocese of St. Louis. That day, 2,976 people from 93 nations lost their lives in New York, at the Pentagon, and aboard Flight 93. Since then, Patriot Day has become a time of remembrance and reflection.

We learned that day—and in the days that followed—that we are still a nation of community. We saw ordinary people become heroes. We witnessed unity, compassion, and resilience. We became more aware of our differences and more committed to understanding one another. We saw random acts of kindness and a renewed sense of patriotism.

But for many, Patriot Day remains a day of grief. And grief should never be rushed.

So today, as we reflect on Jesus’ parables and the events of 9/11, let us remember:
God’s mercy is always available. His compassion is always waiting. And when we’re ready, He welcomes us home.

Call to Action: 
Take time today to honor those we lost, support those who grieve, and reflect on your own journey. Is there something in your life that needs to be found again? A relationship, a purpose, a sense of peace? Know that God is waiting—not with judgment, but with love. And when you’re ready, He’ll be there to welcome you back.

Stay Salty and Shine Bright

Today’s Gospel reading from Matthew 5:13–16 might sound familiar: “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world.”

These words always bring a smile to my face. They remind me of the musical Godspell, based on the Gospel of Matthew. In one scene, the cast sings joyfully while cleaning up a barge, performing acts of kindness.
Two lines stick with me:
“If the salt has lost its flavor, then it ain’t got much to savor!”
“If you put your light under a bushel, then you’ve lost something that’s crucial!”

Salt and light—two simple things with powerful meaning.

In biblical times, salt was incredibly valuable. It preserved food and was even used as currency. Roman soldiers were sometimes paid in salt, and poor performance might earn the phrase, “You’re not worth your salt.” Today, salt still enhances flavor—and so can we. We’re called to bring the flavor of God’s love into the lives of others. As Paul McCartney sang, “Take a sad song and make it better.” That’s what salt does. That’s what we can do.

And light? It’s about visibility, warmth, and guidance. I’m reminded of Tom Bodett’s famous line from Motel 6:  “We’ll leave the light on for you.”
As Christians, we’re called to do the same—shine our light so others can see the goodness of God through our actions. Jesus said, “Let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

The Beatitudes, which begin this chapter of Matthew, spell out what those good deeds look like: mercy, humility, peacemaking, and righteousness. We can be that light in our homes, schools, workplaces, and communities.

Being both salt and light is a tall order—but I believe we’re up to the task. After all, our God is an awesome God!

Call to Action: This week, ask yourself: Where can I add flavor? Where can I shine light? Whether it’s a kind word, a helping hand, or simply being present, your actions matter.
Stay salty, my friends. And yes, we’ll leave the light on for you. 

Dropping the Nets: A Call to Follow

In today’s Gospel, we hear a familiar story:

"As Jesus walked by the Sea of Galilee, He saw two brothers—Simon (called Peter) and Andrew—casting a net into the sea, for they were fishermen. He said to them, 'Come, follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.' And they left their nets at once and followed Him."

As a parent, this moment fills me with awe. Peter, Andrew, James, and John didn’t hesitate. They didn’t say, “Just a minute,” or “Let me finish this first.” They simply dropped everything and followed Jesus. That kind of immediate trust and surrender is inspiring—but also challenging.

Honestly, if Jesus asked me today to leave my school, my wife, my children, and my grandchildren to follow Him, I’m not sure I’d have the strength to say yes. But maybe this story isn’t just about physically walking away. Perhaps it’s symbolic?

So let’s simplify the “ask.”  What are the nets I need to drop to follow Jesus more fully?
What attachments, habits, or distractions keep me from deepening my relationship with Him? What stands in your way?

Today, I ask Jesus to show me what I need to leave behind to be a better disciple. I trust that He will give me the strength, grace, and courage to follow Him—if I’m willing to let go.

Now, flip the script.  Can you recall a moment that changed everything?
Maybe it was falling in love, being challenged by a mentor, experiencing loss, or facing a brutal truth. Life is full of turning points. How we respond to them shapes the rest of our journey.

It’s comforting to know we’re not alone. We have a friend in Jesus—one who gave up everything to walk with us, guide us, and lead us to the Kingdom.

Call to Action:
Take a moment today to reflect: What nets are you holding onto? What might Jesus be asking you to release so you can follow Him more freely? Whether it’s fear, pride, comfort, or control—ask for the grace to let go. And when the moment comes, may you have the courage to say, “Yes, Lord. I will follow.”

Namaste: Recognizing the Divine in One Another

One of my dear friends, Mary Regan, often closes her emails with this beautiful greeting. It’s a word many of us recognize, but only a few truly understand. Namaste is more than a salutation—it’s a gesture of reverence. With hands placed near the heart, fingers pointing outward and thumbs inward, we bow and say namaste, acknowledging the presence of the Creator in both the one we greet and in ourselves.

This greeting resonates deeply with today’s Gospel reading—the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple. Mary and Joseph, faithful to the Law of Moses, brought their newborn son to the temple to be consecrated to the Lord, offering a humble sacrifice of two doves or pigeons.

While in the temple, a righteous man named Simeon took the infant Jesus into his arms and immediately recognized Him as the long-awaited Messiah. He praised God, saying he could now die in peace, having seen salvation with his own eyes. Also present was Anna, an 84-year-old widow who had devoted her life to prayer and fasting. Upon seeing Jesus, she too recognized the redemption of Jerusalem in this tiny child.

These moments remind us of the power of spiritual recognition—of seeing God in our midst.

How many people do we encounter each day, each week, each month? How often do we pause to honestly acknowledge the gifts, talents, and divine spark within them? Do we see the Creator in the stranger, the colleague, the student, the neighbor? Or do we, like Dionne Warwick once sang, simply “walk on by”?

When was the last time we told someone, “Thank you for being you” or “I appreciate you”?

It is my hope that we begin to see one another as Simeon and Anna saw Jesus—not just as people passing through our lives, but as reflections of God’s love and purpose. Let us recognize the sacred in the ordinary, the divine in each encounter.

Namaste. The Creator in me honors the Creator in you.

Servant Leadership: A Reflection on John 13

"Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them... I am not speaking of all of you; I know whom I have chosen... Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me; and whoever receives me receives him who sent me."  —  John 13:16, 18, 20

This week’s Gospel readings have carried a consistent theme: Jesus reminding His followers—again and again—that to know Him is to know the Father. Yesterday, He was firm with Philip, who pleaded, “Just show us the Father.” Jesus responded with clarity and conviction: “If you know me, you know the Father.”

Today’s reading takes us back to the Last Supper. Interestingly, there’s no mention of the breaking of bread or sharing of the cup. Instead, we witness Jesus washing the feet of His disciples—a powerful act of humility and service. Here, Jesus institutes the concept of Servant Leadership.

I first encountered this idea nearly 25 years ago through a dear friend, Fr. Tom Santen. His
example and teachings planted a seed in me that continues to grow. Every day, I strive to refine my commitment to humility and service—especially in my role as a school leader.

That commitment is tested daily. On my commute, I pass individuals sleeping in parks, under overpasses, or walking the streets with all their belongings. I’m flooded with emotions—compassion, guilt, discomfort. I ask myself: Do I judge them? Do I feel superior? Why don’t I stop and help? Jesus reminds us: The master is not greater than the servant. Even He, the Son of God, humbled Himself to wash the feet of flawed men.

Saint Ignatius once said, “Love is shown more in deeds than in words.” Words without action are just noise. There’s something deeply symbolic in washing another’s feet—it’s a gesture of vulnerability, humility, and love. Today’s “foot washing” might look like lending a hand, listening without judgment, or simply being present for someone in need.

We are called to be the hands and feet of Jesus in the world. To serve, not to be served. To love, not just in word, but in action.

Call to Action:
This week, look for opportunities to practice servant leadership. Whether it’s offering a kind word, helping someone in need, or simply choosing humility over pride—let your actions reflect the love of Christ. Ask yourself: Whose feet can I wash today? And remember, in serving others, we receive Christ Himself.

Let It Be!

 We may all be familiar with today’s Gospel reading from Luke.  The angel Gabriel greets a young girl with the familiar phrase, Hail Mary, full of Grace.  In the following few exchanges, Gabriel explains God’s plan to change the world through her as the conduit.  After some back and forth, Mary said, "Here I am, the servant of the Lord; let it be done to me according to your word."

As familiar as this reading may be, have you ever tried to put yourself in Mary’s place?  Could this encounter be duplicated in today’s world?  Would we surrender ourselves unconditionally to God’s will as Mary did?  I have had numerous conversations with myself on this very point.  It is safe to say, it would take some kind of miracle for me to have been the mother of our Lord and Savior! 

I also reflect on the shock value that must have been presented to Mary.  She was not older than one of our junior high students at the time of the Annunciation. What kind of expectations are being asked of our student leaders today?  If approached, like Mary, would they say, “Let It Be”?

If you’ve read my reflections over these past three years, I have always slipped in a token music lyric. This one was too easy, and of course, there is a reason I have been a lifelong (Sir) Paul McCartney fan with inspiration like this: “When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be! And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be!”

When do we, the average Joe, get our chance to “let it be”?  To my knowledge, I have never been approached by an archangel. Unlike Mary, this simple guy is not in a perpetual state of grace. Have I ever been asked to do something that would significantly impact the world? If so, did I say, “let it be”?  If I were asked, did I hear that call?

By now, we have probably grasped that God is a great long-range planner. Like Mary, we all came into this world with a purpose. Sometimes we need to be still and listen. Listen for God in our lives. Listen for Him working his miracles through us. We may not be asked to be the parent or surrogate parent of the savior of the world. Perhaps we will be called to serve as a pastor to a flock. Maybe we will be asked to lead an educational community. Will we be asked to bring children into this world, to be loving parents and grandparents?

  Perhaps that answer will be, “Let It Be” done to me according to your will.  

Pay It Forward: A Reflection on Matthew 5:20–26

"For I tell you, if your uprightness does not surpass that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never get into the kingdom of Heaven." —Matthew 5:20

This Gospel reading challenges us to go beyond surface-level righteousness. Jesus often confronted the self-proclaimed holiness of the scribes and Pharisees—those who were more concerned with following rules than with loving God and sharing His love with others. The righteousness Jesus calls us to is deeper. It’s about loving God with all our heart, mind, spirit, and strength—and loving our neighbor as ourselves.

I often ask myself: Do I love others with that same spirit? Would my friends and family say I do? What about the students, parents, and staff at St. Stephen Protomartyr School and Parish? Do I see Christ in the strangers I meet throughout the day? In those asking for help at intersections and on city streets?

Especially in these challenging times, we are called to uphold peace, love, and justice in all we do. Even small acts of kindness can ripple outward and inspire others. Just last Friday, I stopped at the local QT on my way to school. When I reached the counter, I realized I had forgotten my wallet. I told the clerk I’d be back in five minutes. A kind woman nearby said, “I got this.” I tried to decline, but she insisted, saying, “Just pay it forward.” She didn’t know me, yet she treated me the way she’d want to be treated—a simple, powerful act of grace.

Later in today’s Gospel, Jesus urges us to reconcile with our brothers and sisters, warning of serious consequences if we don’t. Whenever I read about being handed over to a judge, my mind drifts to Judgment Day—standing before Jesus, the final judge, reviewing my life. I used to struggle with judging others, until I had an epiphany while reading Matthew 7: “Do not judge, or you too will be judged.” That hit home.

Today’s reading reminds us that we are all human, prone to mistakes, but worthy of forgiveness. If God forgives our sins—no matter how severe—through the sacrament of reconciliation, shouldn’t we offer that same grace to others?

A few years ago, I heard a phrase that changed how I approach relationships:
“You love Jesus Christ as much as the person you love the least.”
That’s a powerful truth. Loving others means forgiving them. And if God can forgive and love this flawed individual, then I can do my part to “pay it forward”—to forgive and love others with all my heart, mind, spirit, and strength.

Call to Action:
This week, I invite you to reflect on your own relationships. Is there someone you need to forgive? Someone you’ve judged too harshly? Take a moment to reach out, reconcile, or simply show kindness. And if you’re on the receiving end of grace, don’t forget to pay it forward. Let your love be the kind that transforms hearts and brings glory to God’s holy name.

The Hidden Treasure

"The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up. Then in his joy, he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field." —Matthew 13:44

At first glance, I’ll admit—I found the man’s actions a bit questionable. It seemed sneaky to discover someone else’s treasure, hide it, and then buy the field to claim it for himself. But context matters. In biblical times, there were no banks, ATMs, or safe deposit boxes. People often buried their valuables on their property for safekeeping. So, I’ll give the man a “kitchen pass” on this one!

The deeper question is: What kind of treasure is so valuable that someone would sell everything they own to obtain it? I have two interpretations that speak to me most deeply:

1. Everlasting Life
Jesus often told the wealthy that to inherit eternal life, they must give up everything and follow Him. This parable echoes that same message. The kingdom of heaven is worth more than all our earthly possessions, comforts, and desires. It’s a treasure so great that abandoning everything else becomes a joyful decision.

2. Us—Humanity
This may sound bold, but the treasure could be us. Humanity was so precious to God that He sent His Son to redeem us. Jesus gave up everything—His divine glory, His life—to purchase the field where His treasure lay buried. Through His incarnation, death, and resurrection, He uncovered that treasure and claimed it with love.

That’s deep. And humbling.

It makes me ask: Am I living in a way that honors that sacrifice? Am I willing to let go of what doesn’t matter to pursue what does? I pray for the grace to release my earthly attachments and keep my eyes fixed on the prize—eternal life with God.

May we never forget that we are the treasure He sought, the joy for which He gave everything.

From a Distance

Today’s reading reached deep into my heart and stirred something profound.

Moses used to take a tent and pitch it outside the camp some distance away, calling it the “tent of meeting.” Whenever Moses went out to the tent, all the people rose and stood at the entrances to their tents, watching Moses until he entered the tent. As Moses went into the tent, the pillar of cloud would come down and stay at the entrance, while the LORD spoke with Moses. Whenever the people saw the pillar of cloud standing at the entrance to the tent, they all stood and worshiped, each at the entrance to their tent - Exodus 33:7–10

This passage resonated deeply with me because I recently experienced a moment that felt strikingly similar. Exactly one month ago, our 1½- and 3½-year-old grandchildren were baptized at St. Stephen Protomartyr by Fr. Ron. It was a moment my wife and I had prayed for since the day they were born. But it wasn’t something we could force or guilt our son and daughter-in-law into—it had to happen when they were ready.

Like Moses, we could pitch the tent, but it was up to them to enter it and begin the dialogue with God.

As grandparents, we stood at the entrance—just as the Israelites did—watching, worshiping, and witnessing something sacred. We saw God speak to each child individually, calling them by name, welcoming them into His family, and beginning a lifelong relationship with them. It was a moment of pure grace.

Unlike when we baptized our own children 24 and 33 years ago, we weren’t consumed by the logistics—what they’d wear, who the godparents would be, or the details of the celebration afterward. This time, we were simply present. And being present was enough. It was everything.

I thank God daily for the gifts He showers upon this humble servant. Who would have thought that a simple ceremony, delayed but not denied, would leave such a lasting spiritual imprint on our hearts?

From a distance, we watched. But in spirit, we were right there in the tent—witnessing the beginning of something eternal.

The Toughest Job You'll Ever Love: Being a Good Father

 

Becoming a father is easy. Being a good father? That’s the real challenge.

Beyond being a provider, protector, and playmate, a father’s role is a delicate balance: strong yet gentle, decisive yet fair, a friend—but still the one in charge.

In the “old days,” fathers paid the bills and handed out punishment. Today, fatherhood is a blend of discipline and love. The best dads lead by example, showing their children how to live through the choices they make every day. Modern fatherhood means tagging along on adventures, joining in the fun, and being present. And really, that’s not so hard—hidden inside every dad is a child waiting to play. It’s practically a rule that kids end up with every toy their dad ever wanted!

To their children, fathers are a mix of Superman and Santa Claus. Dad can climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest sea, fly the fastest plane, and defeat the strongest monster. He can build a castle and be the king—though Mom, the queen, still makes him take out the garbage.

Teenage years bring a shift. It’s rare for kids to approve of their dad during this time. But eventually, you realize your father was right all along—usually around the time your own kids start thinking you’re wrong.

A good father learns to dress appropriately to meet his children’s friends and asks questions with tact: “What time will you be home?” or “How long have you had your driver’s license?”—all with a gentle touch.

Every generation rebels against its fathers but bonds with its grandfathers. And let’s not forget—grandfathers are dads too! They know riddles, teach you how to fish, whistle, and share stories that stick with you for life.

Fathers help children grow up. They give roots, wings, and giant steps to follow. A dad will always praise you—even if he has to stretch the truth a little. He’s someone who listens, someone who’s always there, someone who truly cares.

I’m proud to be the father of two beautiful young people and the “Pa” to four amazing grandkids. I salute all the dads and granddads who live out their vocation as fathers with love, strength, and grace.

And to every father reading this—know that your presence matters. Your love shapes lives. Your example echoes through generations. You are doing holy work, and even on the hardest days, you are deeply appreciated.

Do You Love Me?

In the Gospel of John, Jesus asks Simon Peter a deeply personal question:

"Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?"
Peter replies, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you."
Jesus responds, "Feed my lambs."

This exchange repeats three times, echoing the three times Peter denied Jesus after His arrest. At first glance, Jesus is gently guiding Peter toward reconciliation, offering him a chance to reaffirm his love and loyalty. Peter’s final response—"Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you"—is raw and honest. And Jesus, in turn, says, "Feed my sheep."

In that moment, Peter must have realized something profound: Jesus had forgiven him. Not only that—He was entrusting Peter with a mission. Despite Peter’s failings, Jesus was elevating him, reaffirming his role as the rock upon which the Church would be built. It’s a powerful testament to the transformative power of love and grace in our relationships.

Whenever I hear the phrase “Do you love me?”, my mind drifts to Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof. In a tender scene, Tevye asks his wife, Golde, if she loves him. Her response—"I suppose I do"—is understated but deeply meaningful. Tevye replies, "After 25 years, it’s nice to know!" Sometimes, love needs to be spoken aloud, even when it’s already known.

In my own life, I’m blessed. My wife and I don’t need to ask, “Do you love me?”—we already know the answer. That unspoken assurance has been a steady foundation since we met in 1983. Still, hearing it aloud, as Jesus asked of Peter, brings comfort and strength. It reminds us that love, when expressed, can help us navigate life’s challenges with grace.

While I may not be feeding sheep, we are feeding grandbabies—nurturing them, loving them, and helping guide them into a relationship with our Lord. And that, too, is a sacred calling.