When I was ten, my dad gathered our family around the table in small-town Vermont and told us we were moving to the big desert city of Phoenix, Arizona. We were leaving behind family, friends, and everything familiar. None of us knew what to expect.

But something beautiful happened. As we made the move together, our family grew closer. In retrospect, I'm amazed at my parents' courage to go on that adventure. Even as a kid I realized our family found, in that challenge, a deeper unity and mutual love.

A priest friend recently told me a remarkable story. One of his cousins reported having a vivid dream in which an angel told him the family needed to exhume their grandmother's body from a cemetery in New York and return it to her birthplace in Romania. She had been dead nearly ten years. As you might expect, the family thought it was, well, crazy. But astonishingly they exhumed her body. It was incorrupt, showing no signs of decomposition. That experience sparked healing, faith, and reconciliation throughout the family.

When I was 11, I was riding my bike on a Friday night in Scottsdale, Arizona. I saw giant spotlights swirling in the sky. Something amazing had to be happening. I pedaled after them with excitement. Sweaty and tired, I arrived, only to find a used car lot. Bright lights, flapping banners, inflatable balloon men swaying wildly in the wind. I stood there, heart sinking. All that spectacle, and all my effort … for this?

This week we hear that John the Baptist is out in the wilderness eating "locusts and wild honey" (Mark 1:6). It's not just a strange historical detail. It's a symbolic expression of a healthy spiritual diet. The path to Christ includes both the hard and the beautiful, the gritty and the sweet. We have to learn to gulp the locusts and savor the honey.

I remember working with a young couple preparing for marriage. They were sincere, but raw - barely beginning to discover faith. Part of me wanted to rush them ahead, to fill in all the gaps, to bombard them with scripture and church documents. I swallowed that instinct. It was like eating locusts.

A few years ago, my house was broken into on Super Bowl Sunday. Turns out, it's a great day for burglars. If the TV isn't on, people are probably watching the game somewhere else, so ... easy pickins'. I'll never forget walking into my bedroom and realizing someone had been there. My stuff was thrown all over the floor. The closet was torn apart. It was disorienting and disturbing - someone had invaded the space I thought was secure. After that, I bought an alarm system. And every Super Bowl Sunday since, I'm extra careful to lock the doors and keep the lights on. That experience made me more alert. Not scared. Just attentive.

Not long ago, I was called to a hospital to anoint a woman in her early 80s. She was dying, and visibly in pain. But what struck me most wasn’t her suffering — it was the atmosphere in the room. She had eight children and 30 foster kids, and many of them were gathered around her. You’d expect sorrow, fear, maybe even despair. But the room was filled with something else entirely — a quiet strength, a kind of sweetness. It was as if she was suffering not just with them, but for them. And they, in love, were suffering for her. The pain was real. But so was the peace. I didn’t want to run. I felt as if I was in a little paradise, beeping machines and all.

When I was a kid growing up in New England, I'd occasionally go on a whale watch. Once we went out with calm waters and clear skies. But on the way back in, the sea got rough. I was just a kid, and I remember thinking we should turn left or right toward the shoreline I could see. But the pilot of the boat kept going straight - right into the waves - focused on a small, discouragingly distant lighthouse. Even when it flickered in and out of sight, he stayed the course. He knew where he was going.

When I was 22, I entered St. Peter’s Basilica for the first time. It floored me. I could hardly take it in, its grandeur, majestic arches, vibrant colors, and the light that danced through its high windows. Somehow, amidst such splendor, I felt an overwhelming sense of belonging, as if I had finally come home.

Jesus reorients how we Catholics see sacred buildings. In today’s Gospel he says, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (John 2:13-22). His riddle implies, shockingly, that his own body is now the fundamental dwelling place of God and humanity. The temple in Jerusalem has been superseded.

I lost my wallet this year. It was such an annoyance to replace everything in it. A friend, moved by sympathy, gave me a beautiful new one. One month later I lost that one, too, with all my newly replaced cards. No matter what I did, I couldn't find what I had lost. I resigned myself to never seeing either of my wallets again.

I lost my wallet this year. It was such an annoyance to replace everything in it. A friend, moved by sympathy, gave me a beautiful new one. One month later I lost that one, too, with all my newly replaced cards. No matter what I did, I couldn't find what I had lost. I resigned myself to never seeing either of my wallets again.

A woman in my parish has an adult son who has rejected his faith. She prays for him every day. She lights candles, says rosaries, and asks God again and again to bring him back. But nothing changes. Is God listening? Is He delaying? She told me once that she feels like the widow in Jesus' strange parable - crying out for justice, but hearing only silence. And yet, she said, she is at peace. I asked why. She responded, "God is already answering. I just can't see it yet."

Dorothy Day, the great Catholic activist, doubted God's existence. At least in her early adult years. But something changed when after giving birth to her daughter, she experienced an overwhelming gratitude. She later described how, as she held her daughter, the only appropriate response was a kind of unlimited gratitude. She had done nothing to deserve such a gift - this tiny, miraculous life - but there she was, flooded with gratitude, completely undone by the love of such a Giver.

A priest friend of mine received a call from a family whose elderly mother was dying. Within thirty minutes, he was at her bedside, offering the consolation of the sacraments, anointing her with the oil of the sick, and commending her soul to God. She passed not long after, and for months, her family spoke of their deep gratitude for his presence. When I phoned him to commend his faithful ministry, he simply said, "I was just doing my job."