As a Franciscan priest for 65 years, I have been blessed with the opportunity to preside at close to 700 funerals. Early on in my priesthood, I realized that the funeral homily is the most important one that I preach. It is more important than homilies for major feast days such as Christmas. I’ve never seen anyone in the congregation drift off to sleep during a funeral homily for one simple reason: those gathered are reliving in their minds and hearts the deaths of their own loved ones and “filling in the blanks.” They come with many questions and even fears.

Death is far more than a theological topic for discussion. It is perhaps the deepest human experience we will have, whether the death of a loved one or our own inevitable passing. Lent is the perfect time to take stock in our lives: where they have been, where they are going, and how it will end.

The Moment of Death

The reality of death may make us uncomfortable, even in our society where images of death are put before us so bluntly on TV newscasts. In fact, some people struggle to write their last will and testament for the simple reason that they have to imagine they are dead. That’s too much for them to handle. Yet the penalty for not facing up to that task gives the civil state and the court the right to determine our rightful survivors and what they should receive.

For most of us, death is a mystery. But I have found mystery is not “that about which we know nothing.” Rather, mystery is best defined as “that about which we just don’t know everything.” Death, mysterious though it may be, is such an important event in our lives and those of our loved ones that it is essential to understand as much as we can about what happens at the moment of death. A lack of understanding can only cause fear and unnecessary worry.

One common misperception is that death is something dreadful that takes life away. Death is neither something nor someone that acts upon us. It is, rather, the moment when we transition from our life in earth time into timeless eternity. When we die, we gather all of our life’s moments as we give ourselves to our Creator. It may sound poetic, but in reality it is we who embrace the transitional moment of death—rather than it taking us.

Jesus shows us that death is not something that just happens to us, but the last choice we make in our life’s journey. We remember Jesus’ final words as he breathed his last on the cross: “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit” (Lk 23:46).

God’s revealed word in Scripture helps us so much in understanding this last moment of our lives. Our understanding goes deeper than scientific or academic knowledge, for we see through the lens of faith.

You may recall the advice the fox gave to the little prince in Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s marvelous fairy tale. The fox tells the prince, “And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” People with faith can see and grasp some of life’s deepest mysteries; we see and understand with our hearts.

Scientifically speaking, death can be defined as “the cessation of one’s heartbeat together with the end of any brain activity.” Of course, that doesn’t touch the most important fact—we are body and spirit. Death touches only the physical body. The soul, being spiritual, cannot die. In other words, once God gives life, it never ends.

Even as people of faith, it is natural to have questions about what our last moments will be like.

For many years, I had the privilege of serving as pastoral care director for a large midwestern retirement center that included a nursing-care facility for 150 residents. I had the opportunity to pray with many elderly who were in the process of dying. I would often tell family members with tear-filled eyes that they were privileged to be there at the moment their loved one saw the face of God.

We know that God is with us, his children, at that moment. And Jesus assures us that death is also a time of God’s great grace. He reminded us of that with his words to Dismas, the thief on the cross, who murmured those beautiful words, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” And Jesus’ beautiful response: “Today you will be with me in Paradise” (Lk 23:42-43). These scenes and words of Scripture are God’s way of revealing to us humans the deepest mysteries of our existence. They convey God’s revelation not only to help us live our lives but also to help us understand those last moments of earthly life.

What If We Can’t Be There?

Many people are not able to be with their loved ones at the time of death. Some feel a deep sense of guilt for not being there. I wasn’t with my dad when, at the end of a round of golf on a beautiful Saturday in May, he suffered a massive heart attack and fell dead. Neither was I with my mom when, at around 2 a.m. in February 1985, sitting on her couch, she died from heart failure.

But I know that my dad nor mom died alone. No one dies alone. That’s not just my opinion. In one of the most dramatic moments at the Last Supper, Jesus told the disciples: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You have faith in God; have faith also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If there were not, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back again and take you to myself, so that where I am you also may be. . . . You know the way” (Jn 14:1-4).

Thomas said, “Master, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?” And Jesus replied, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” (Jn 14:5-6).

Did you catch the words Jesus spoke? “I will take you to myself, so that where I am you also may be.” What a marvelous image! One of the most common human expressions of closeness is a simple hug—our arms are wrapped around another and that person’s arms around us. A hug expresses a closeness whether we are sharing a moment of happiness or sadness, saying, “I’m with you in a special way this moment.” Jesus uses this image to assure his fearful disciples and all of us. At the moment of death, Jesus comes, puts his arms around us, and says, “Time to come home.”

This is not based on wishful thinking. These are Jesus’ own words.

On one occasion, I witnessed a perfect example of that. As chaplain at the nursing home where I served, I was with an elderly lady named Florence who was in the last stages of dying from congestive heart failure. Members of her family were also present. I stood next to her bed praying the Church’s beautiful prayers for those nearing death. As I prayed, the director of nursing, Carolyn, came into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

With a face filled with compassion, she bent down and softly slipped her arms around Florence, lifting her a bit off the bed. As she did that, she said quietly, “Florence, I’m here for you.” It was the gentlest of hugs. And as I witnessed this, I thought to myself, That’s exactly what Jesus was talking about. In the person of Carolyn, Jesus was putting his arms around Florence, just as he said he would do, and telling this frail lady, “Florence, time for you to come and join all your loved ones who are eagerly waiting to receive you.”

In the next moment, Florence spoke her last words: “My Jesus, mercy.” It was not a plea for God’s mercy on Florence’s part; rather it was her profound act of faith. And then a second image came to mind: that of the dying Jesus, in the person of Florence, being embraced by Carolyn. I will never forget those two images.

No one dies alone, whether a soldier on the battlefield or a poor, abandoned person in an alleyway. God would never abandon one of his children at this last moment in his or her life. Would any father forget his child?

God Holds Us Tightly

We can rest assured that we are never truly alone in the final moments of life. As I stood by Florence’s bed, the entire Church and I were praying for her and all those dying. These prayers are continuous around the globe, just as the Mass is offered without interruption. No one dies without being prayed for by the Church.

The Prayer of Commendation sounds like a send-off to a whole new wonderful life experience with God: “Go forth, faithful Christian, from this world to the next in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. May your home be with God in heaven, and may you live in peace with Mary, the Virgin Mother of God, with Joseph and all the saints. I commend you, dear sister [brother], to almighty God.”

At any one time, faithful around the world are joining in this prayer. Imagine the Church is, in effect, writing a letter of recommendation for each dying person. In a way, it is like the Church telling God to be kind and merciful to their brother or sister—as if God needs to be reminded.

Our Church gives us these special words of prayer for the dying, “We entrust you, dear brother and sister, to almighty God who formed you from the dust of the earth.” The word entrust carries with it the image of a loving family handing their loved one over to God. It is as if the Church is saying, “Lord, here is our loved one. Are you sure you have him held tightly in your arms?” As if God could ever drop anyone! And so, even when we cannot be with our dying loved ones, the entire Church around the world is praying for them as only God’s Church can pray. Jesus assures us, “I’m there.”

As a people of faith, we are wonderfully blessed to know that Jesus experienced death. We can never complain, “If only you, Lord, could understand what life and death are like.” We would hear the Lord’s reply: “I know exactly what it is like. That’s why in both life and death I never leave your side.”

Like us, Jesus could be besieged by his emotions. But his example shows us that God is there to comfort and support us.

Lately, as I’ve been praying the rosary, I’ve been reflecting specifically on Jesus’ agony in the Garden of Gethsemane the night before he died. It struck me that he must have been feeling weighed down by three strong emotions that all of us experience at various times in our lives: fear, loneliness, and a sense of failure.

So powerful were those feelings that, as the Gospel of Luke tells us, “his sweat became like drops of blood falling on the ground” (Lk 22:44). This is not hyperbole but a medical phenomenon: Under severe emotional stress, the small capillaries can become so engorged with blood that they burst, allowing blood to seep through the sweat glands. Knowing what was ahead of him, it is understandable that Jesus would be overwhelmed by his emotions. Luke’s description of this dramatic scene invites us to engage in deeper reflection and consider times when we, too, have succumbed to our feelings.

Following Christ’s Example

When Matthew describes this scene, he says that Jesus “began to feel sorrow and distress” (26:37). But I believe that his primary emotion would have been fear. Like all Jews at that time, Jesus would have been familiar with the Roman manner of execution: death by crucifixion.

It was an incredibly cruel and brutal manner of putting someone to death. First, there was the scourging of the body with whips that tore the flesh, then forcing the criminal to carry his own cross through the streets of the city, despite being weakened from the loss of blood. Finally, the criminal was fastened to a cross and forced to hang there until his legs could no longer support him. Unable to breathe, he would die of asphyxiation. The soul of Jesus must have been shrinking with fear as he thought of facing those terrible physical tortures.

We have all experienced fear and anxiety: taking a wrong road at night and losing our way; worrying when we or our loved ones have a serious illness or accident; feeling anxious about losing our job; fearing not being accepted by our peers. Yet the word of God constantly urges us to put aside fear and anxiety. I once heard a Scripture scholar say that the words fear not or do not be afraid appear in the Bible 365 times—one for each day of the year!

A word of caution: Because of our human fragility and the many dangers in the world around us, it is impossible to be free of all fear and anxiety. Both are normal physiological responses to threats or danger.

Instead, I understand do not be afraid to mean “do not let fear determine your choices.” Many sins, I believe, are driven more by fear than by evil intent. For example, people often tell lies because of the fear of looking bad or being criticized rather than with the intent to harm others. Or they insult or ridicule other people out of fear of not being accepted by their peers. Even sexual sins are often driven by the fear of not being loved rather than by lust.

Returning to Jesus’ agony in the garden, the Gospels describe a man overcome with fear to the extent that it manifests in a bloody sweat. Yet, despite that, Jesus did not allow his fears to turn him away from his passion and death. Instead, he made the decision with seven simple words: “Not my will, but yours be done!”

Turning to God to Deal with Loneliness

The second strong emotion Jesus experienced in his agony was a profound loneliness. All three synoptic Gospels state that Jesus asked Peter, James, and John to accompany him into the garden and to keep watch and pray with him. But each time he rose from his prayer and went to them, he found them sleeping. His disappointment was evident in his gentle rebuke: “So you could not keep watch with me for one hour?” Then, in a note of compassion, he added, “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak” (Mt 26:40‚ 41).

But the realization was unmistakable: Jesus could not count on the emotional and spiritual support of even his best friends. He would have to face his sufferings alone.

Social-science surveys have revealed the large numbers of people in our nation who experience strong feelings of loneliness—this at a time when communication via social media, opportunities for travel, or connecting with people on the Internet are more abundant than ever. I once heard someone put it like this: “We have an abundance of connections, but a scarcity of relationships.”

Adult children leave their birthplace to find jobs in places far from home. Friendships formed in high school or college often do not survive the many geographic moves. Romantic relationships can be strained or broken when new jobs require cross-country transfers. And hearts are broken when those dreaded words are spoken: “I just don’t think we are a good fit.”

Add to this the huge numbers of people whose marriages have been broken by separation or divorce.

So it can be spiritually helpful to reflect on the loneliness of Jesus, especially during his agony in the garden, and how he dealt with feelings. As he became aware that he could not rely on human support, he turned to his Father in heaven. Undoubtedly, he recalled those two powerful moments in his life—his baptism and his transfiguration on the mountain—when he heard the voice of his Father: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased” (Mt 3:17). He was strengthened by the comforting message: “I love you. I am with you. I will never abandon you.”

The Church teaches us that God has spoken the same words and made the same promise to each of us at our own Baptism: You are my beloved son/daughter. In you I take delight. “I will never forsake you or abandon you” (Heb 13:5). Loneliness is not a disease or a disorder. It is a painful situation that simply has to be endured. Sometimes it can be ended by our efforts to reach out and make connections with others. In the meantime, we find comfort in the fact that Jesus, our savior, has shared—and understands—our pain.

Finding Comfort in Jesus

The third source of suffering for Jesus in his agony, I believe, was a sense of failure. With a few exceptions, he had been unable to convince the Jewish religious leaders that he was the long-awaited Messiah in whom God’s promises were being fulfilled. Moreover, he knew that even the ordinary people who welcomed his teachings and were thrilled at his healings and other miracles would soon join the crowd calling for his death. And perhaps worst of all, even his chosen apostles and friends would abandon him in the end.

Again, is this not often our own experience? We work so hard and put our best efforts into some worthwhile project, only to see it fail or be rejected. Or we aspire to reach a certain goal or dream in our lives, only to see ourselves fall short. Parents may feel a deep sense of failure when one or more of their children get into trouble with the law, become addicted to drugs or alcohol, or get divorced. Most of the time, parents have no reason to blame themselves for these problems, yet they may feel responsible—along with a deep sadness and a sense of helplessness. So it can be helpful for any of us who experience failure to recall that Jesus, our savior, truly understands what we are going through.

In the midst of his feelings of self-doubt and failure, Jesus is given consolation: “To strengthen [Jesus], an angel from heaven appeared to him” (Lk 22:43). What comfort did this envoy from heaven provide? I would like to think the angel revealed to Jesus the millions of people who would come to believe in him, receive Baptism and the other sacraments, and live faithful lives of love and service, often to the point of sharing in his sufferings through their own martyrdom.

Drawing Strength from Our Lord’s Sufferings

During this Lenten season, we can draw spiritual strength and inspiration from our meditation on Jesus’ agony in the garden. Perhaps we can learn to embrace our own times of agony in union with him, so that those times can be sources of spiritual growth for ourselves and for the people the Lord brings into our lives. Moreover, our prayerful meditation on this mystery will inspire us to act as comforting angels to people around us who are hurting or bearing heavy burdens in their own lives.

In July 1973, Abigail “Gail” Getty (Michelle Williams), the divorced mother of 16- year-old John Paul “Paul” Getty III (Charlie Plummer), receives a call that her son has been kidnapped in Rome. The ransom is $17 million. She thinks it’s a joke because it’s the kind of thing her son would talk about doing. This is no stunt, however.

Gail asks Paul’s grandfather, oil tycoon J.P. Getty (Christopher Plummer) to pay the ransom to a group of Italian criminals. Their leader, Cinquanta (Romain Duris), tells Gail that the grandfather should pay because he has “all the money in the world.” Although he professes to love his eldest grandchild, Getty refuses to pay the ransom for fear that his other grandchildren would be kidnapped too. In reality, he is a mean, crafty miser. He even does his own laundry by hand so he doesn’t have to pay to have it done.

The thugs eventually “sell” Paul to the Mafia. Cinquanta is enlisted to renegotiate the ransom with the help of Getty’s head of security, ex-CIA officer Fletcher Chase (Mark Wahlberg). Getty fi nally agrees to pay the ransom, but only after the kidnappers cut off the teen’s ear and send it to a newspaper. Further, he does it as a loan to his son, Paul’s father, so it will be tax deductible.

For those of us who remember this saga that lasted six months, the retelling is harrowing, though screenwriter David Scarpa made character and event sequencing changes to speed up the pace. He based the script on John Pearson’s 1995 book, Painfully Rich: The Outrageous Fortune and Misfortunes of the Heirs of J. Paul Getty.

Ridley Scott directs this crime thriller to nail-biting effect. When actor Kevin Spacey, originally cast as the elder Getty, was accused of sexual abuse, Scott reshot Spacey’s scenes, replacing him with the very convincing Plummer. The fi lm deserves awards for editing. Wahlberg is credible as the negotiator, while Williams is superb and a worthy foil to her former father-in-law.

All the Money in the World is a cautionary tale that great wealth will not necessarily make you happy.

A-3, R‚ Graphic violence, greed, language, peril.

Phantom Thread

Writer-director Paul Thomas Anderson’s original script tells the story of Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis, in reportedly his final film role), a London fashion designer in the 1950s. With his sister, Cyril (Lesley Manville), they dress the rich and famous. Young women pass through Reynolds’ life and shop as models and muses, but he is a confirmed bachelor who uses them until he tells them to leave. He learned his trade from his mother, who haunts his weirdly obsessed memory. The designer embroiders names on labels that he sews in hidden places of the garments he makes—just as his mother did.

While eating at a hotel in the country, he meets an awkward, beautiful young waitress, Alma (Vicky Krieps). Reynolds is much older than Alma, but asks her out to dinner and she follows him to London. Though unsure of her status at the shop, she learns from and falls in love with Reynolds, and becomes a model for his designs. Cyril is suspicious until Reynolds becomes ill and Alma connives to assert her claim by caring for him. In gratitude, he admits his love for her and they marry. But this is no ordinary love story.

Phantom Thread is either about two people with serious mental health problems whose lives elegantly collide or about the externalization of interior love so profound that they are willing to go to unfathomable lengths to finally admit it. It’s a unique film with strong performances and one that deserves further reflection.

L, R, Adult themes

I Can Only Imagine

When Bart Millard (J. Michael Finley) wrote this title song in 1999, he had no way of knowing it would become the most played Christian song of all time when his group MercyMe released it as a lead single of their Almost There album in 2001. Bart grew up with his abusive, alcoholic dad, Arthur (Dennis Quaid), in Greenville, Texas. His mother left one day, leaving Bart alone to suffer from his father’s incessant negativity and beatings. After injuring his ankle playing football in high school, Bart takes choir where he discovers his musical talent.

When he leaves home for college, he turns his back on his dad, though he stays in touch with his supportive grandmother, Memaw (Oscar-winner Cloris Leachman). He connects with Shannon (Madeline Carroll) from high school and they grow close. On an impulse, he returns home to visit his dad to discover that something incredible has happened.

I Can Only Imagine is probably the best film of the Christian genre that I have seen so far and certainly the best from brothers Jon and Andrew Erwin (October Baby).

Not yet rated, Implied physical violence, adult themes.

When the Loyola Chicago men’s basketball team is looking for guidance both on and off the court, this 98-year-old sister provides it.

Rock star. Icon. Living legend. These are just some of the words used to describe Sister Jean Schmidt, the 98-year-old chaplain of Loyola University Chicago’s men’s basketball team and a member of the university’s sports hall of fame.

The 5-foot nun can be seen at every home game for the men’s team. She’s most often decked out in Loyola gear and wearing her trademark maroon Nike tennis shoes with gold laces that have “Sister” stitched onto the heel of her left shoe and “Jean” stitched on the right one. Everyone on campus knows Sister Jean. The door to her office in the Student Center is always open. She lives in a dorm with 400 undergraduate students and serves as their chaplain. When she comes onto the court to lead an opening prayer at games, students often cheer, “Sis-ter Jean! Sis-ter Jean!”

Born in San Francisco in 1919, Sister Jean played basketball growing up and was on her high school team from 1933 to 1936. In 1937, at age 18, she joined the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary in Iowa. She taught in elementary schools and also volunteered as a coach in Los Angeles public schools when she was teaching in that city.

In 1961, Sister Jean took a teaching job at Mundelein College, a women’s college that would merge with Loyola University Chicago in 1991. Just a few years later, in 1994, Sister Jean became chaplain of the men’s basketball team.

She takes her job seriously. After games, she e-mails each player, pointing out what they did well and what they can work on. When Loyola Coach Porter Moser took the job in 2011, one of the first people he heard from was Sister Jean, who gave him a scouting report of all the players.

Before home games, Sister Jean waits for the team and sits on a bench near the entrance to the court, where the players come in. Students stop by to say hello. Referees come over to hug her. During games, she sits up behind the home bench, intently watching the action. Before their final warm-up, Sister Jean gathers the young men in a circle, all of their arms linked together, and prays with the whole team.

“I love every one of [the players],” Sister Jean says. “I talk about the game to them, and then they go out and play.”

In addition to the team, Sister Jean also leads the entire crowd in a prayer before tipoff.

Prayer is important, she says. “I always pray that we don’t get injured, that we play with great sportsmanship, and that we be respectful toward each other. I think that’s very important.”

Should we pray to win? “Sure. We pray to win because we’re in competition. When you’re in competition, you want to win,” she says. “If that’s the way God wants it, it’s fine.”

Weekly Mass nourishes our spiritual lives. But what about the other six days of the week?

It has been said that “too late we come to wisdom,” and I’ll agree. My husband, Joe, and I married in 1960, shortly before Vatican II. By the time the changes in the Mass were being explained, we were in the throes of raising our six children, born in a 10-year span. The days were full, sometimes frantic, and often harried. If the concept of the “domestic church” was introduced, I was too busy to have the message penetrate my consciousness to see how intimately connected God was with us on a daily basis. If only I had known then what I know now!

Oh, we went to church every Sunday, the six kids in tow, and they went to Confraternity of Christian Doctrine (CCD) classes. We said the blessing before meals and heard bedtime prayers. I knew intrinsically that family life was holy, but I didn’t really make the connection that, as we left after Mass, we were celebrating what I’ve come to think of as “the liturgy of everyday life” in our domestic church the six days until the following Sunday.

Several years ago, after our kids were grown and had kids of their own, I looked back and was amazed to see the connection between the components of the Mass the priest celebrates on Sunday and what, in a very real way, we lived out every day.

The Liturgy of the Word: Family Stories

The realization happened while sitting in my prayer chair early one morning. I had been thinking about our family as the domestic church, and how it is “the church of the home.” In the stillness, snippets of times and places, people and events came into focus. In no particular order, memories simply bubbled to the surface of my mind. I heard my husband say, “Good morning, dear! Is the coffee ready?” and then one of the girls say, “I’m sorry I didn’t ask if I could borrow your blouse; I know I should have.”

Noticing the tin trunk my maternal grandmother brought from Scotland, I was reminded of how dear she was to me. In my mind’s eye I saw the relish dish—the one with the hand-painted violets—that had been on my paternal grandmother’s table, and then my mother’s wedding dress that hangs in the bathroom. A lush brown velvet, it is too pretty to be kept in a trunk. I feel her presence when I see it.

At some point, it occurred to me that I had heard a “greeting” and a “penitential rite,” as well as having been in touch with my family’s “Old Testament.” It was then that I began to see a connection between what is celebrated in our parish church and what takes place in our domestic church, the church of the home.

Now I recalled “Gloria” moments: the wonder Joe and I experienced when we looked into the face of each of our newborn babies, my delight in smelling lilacs in May, and our fascination with the hummingbirds outside our windows. Then I remembered that I hadn’t written our six children their monthly letter updating them on what is going on in our lives—and how I cling to this tradition of letter writing. Letters and texts, I realized, are the “New Testament” of the domestic church.

I remembered how the good news of the day was shared at the dinner table; in actuality it was our “Gospel.” But it wasn’t always good news. Jesus had more than a few painful moments; and so it was with us. But it was in sharing the good that joy was experienced, in sharing the difficult that the load was lightened.

I recalled, too, the number of times we’d done our best to make clear to our kids the difference between right and wrong. Although they hadn’t always gotten the message, we’d tried to instill in their minds that with every choice—good or bad—comes a consequence. Better the choice be good! Homilies, that’s what those lessons were, and there were a good many, often dredged up from the archives as each child reached the age of reason.

Later, words I’d read in Father Ronald Rolheiser’s book The Holy Longing came to mind: “God takes on flesh so that every home becomes a church, every child becomes the Christ Child, and all food and drink become a sacrament.”

So there it was. In a very real way, parents, by virtue of the sacraments they have received, are the presiders in their church of the home. Our daily lives are laced with holiness and, when Sunday comes, we return to our parish, where we celebrate with other families all that has transpired during the week. As the priest presides, collectively we ask forgiveness; we listen to the readings from Scripture; we hear a homily; we celebrate what we did in our church of the home the six days until Sunday. It came to me that, as presiders in the domestic church, our vestments are an apron or a chef’s hat; our vessels are mixing bowls and platters.

The Liturgy of the Eucharist: Mealtime

My thoughts then moved from the Liturgy of the Word to the Liturgy of the Eucharist. Like greetings and penitential rites, “prayers of petition” can happen anytime, anyplace. When an ambulance siren is heard or another act of violence occurs or a friend is diagnosed with cancer, what do we do but ask God to be present?

In my mind’s eye, I saw our family one long-ago Sunday, bringing the gifts to the altar during the offertory. Our teenagers had been a bit embarrassed, but it had given me pleasure. It hadn’t occurred to me at the time how many times the “offertory” occurred during the six days till Sunday. Wasn’t Joe’s paycheck that provided for our family an offering? Wasn’t driving the carpool offering my services? And what about teaching CCD or being a Scout leader? Hadn’t those been offerings to invest in our kids’ futures? And when we reached out to the needy, weren’t we offering our hands as Christ had? The kids had made offerings, too, when they set the table, walked the dog, or made their beds.

More memories surfaced. Now I saw myself standing at the kitchen sink. Without realizing it, I had entered into the “eucharistic prayer” of the domestic church. Apron on, I was peeling potatoes for dinner. Through the window over the sink, I watched as the kids played a game of Wiffle ball in the backyard. Joe drove in from work, and they ran to greet him.

I couldn’t hear what they said, but watched as he put his briefcase down, took off his suit coat, and went over to pitch to the next batter. I had no idea at what point the peeler paused, but when I returned to the potato in hand, there were tears running down my face, tears that had welled up from deep within without my knowing. My heart was full of gratitude. That’s what Eucharist means: thanksgiving.

I didn’t see if there was a need for a “sign of peace” in the ball game, but it wasn’t uncommon! I remember calling them all in for dinner, but before coming to the table, hands needed to be washed—an “Oh, Lord, I am not worthy” act, if you will. Joining hands, we said the blessing and then took “communion”: We ate the meat, the potatoes and gravy, and the salad that nourished our bodies in the same way the Eucharist nourishes our spirits.

What about the “final blessing”? I remember listening to their bedtime prayers. “Now I lay me . . .” when they were little, and as they grew older, the Our Father and Hail Mary. And for us, for all married couples, what greater blessing at day’s end than becoming one with Christ in the act of love?

Every Day of the Week Is Sacred

All of these thoughts happened long ago. I reflect on them today and wonder: Why was it that I didn’t make the connection during our child-rearing years? Why did this all come to me after the fact? And why, all these years later, isn’t more attention given to the beauty of the church of the home—the family?

I now see how sacred family life is and that parents are the presiders in their church of the home; that there truly is a liturgy of everyday life that is lived out during the six days till Sunday. It doesn’t happen in a prescribed order, yet, if you look closely, you’ll see that your everyday lives are a prayer.

Pope Francis on the Domestic Church

• “Our families, our homes, are true domestic churches. They are the right place for faith to become life, and life to become faith.“

• “These little gestures [of love] are those we learn at home, in the family. They get lost amid all the other things we do, yet they do make each day different.”

• “They are the quiet things done by mothers and grandmothers, by fathers and grandfathers, by children. They are little signs of tenderness, affection, and compassion.”

• “Like the warm supper we look forward to at night, the early lunch awaiting someone who gets up early to go to work. Homely gestures. Like a blessing before we go to bed, or a hug after we return from a hard day’s work. Love is shown by little things, by attention to small, daily signs, which make us feel at home.”

And in one sense, this is certainly true. Having endurance will make Lent a more fruitful experience by the end. But Lent is not fundamentally something to be endured. We go on this journey not just because we want to get to the end, but because there is something amazing to be found along the way: hope.

A Deeper Definition

Hope is an interesting word in our day. Like its counterparts in the theological virtues—faith and love—hope is used (and overused) in our world in so many vast and varied ways that we can hardly find meaning in it anymore. We hope for good weather and the health of our families, for peace and medical miracles, for victory in sporting events and lottery numbers. More often than not, what we mean by hope is nothing more than emotional optimism, an expression of our wishes and a sense of defiance in the face of long odds to accept what is inevitable. We know that what we want is not very likely, but we refuse to give up. We hope that our future will hold something greater than our present.

As Christians, we can admire this steadfast conviction and honor those who refuse to give up in the face of adversity. Especially in our world today—stricken by fear and unending violence—such an attitude is always welcome to see.

Like a marathon runner setting out for a race, Lent is often seen as a test of perseverance, enduring hardship and pain with discipline to reach the final destination.

And yet, we know as Christians that the true answer to these troubles cannot be found in our own personal optimism. No, when we have hope as Christians, we mean something quite different. Rather than looking to the future for what we desire, we as Christians begin by looking to the past, finding our identity in what has already come to be: the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. In these actions, completed and undisputed, our sin was taken away. In this moment of history, real and complete, our relationship with God was restored, and our future was assured.

Unlike the hope of the world that deals with possibility, the hope of Christianity deals with reality. Our hope is not in wishful thinking, but in the promise of Jesus Christ to fulfill what has already been started. The truly remarkable statement of our faith is that we already possess what we hope for.

An Easter People

With this profound realization at the center of who we are, we see that Lent is not something to be endured to receive the prize at the end. We already possess that prize! In a very strange but real sense, we have already completed the race, even though we are still along the way. Even in times of trouble and when all seems lost in our world, when we feel as if all we are doing is barely enduring an arduous journey of perseverance, we forever remain an Easter people. We have already received the gift of the Holy Spirit, living within us.

Looking to the past, to the resurrection of Jesus Christ, we are already filled with the future joy of our own resurrection. How could we forget what has already taken place? How could we believe that the present is our ultimate reality?

With profound hope, we live and grow in this season as an assured and empowered people. We do not lie awake at night worried about our ultimate future; we do not question our place in God. More than in anything else, we know our place in salvation history. And this drives us forth. We fast, pray, and give alms, not as punishment for our sins, but as a redeemed and hopeful people who can do nothing else but reveal our joyful anticipation for the fulfillment of God’s promise to a world that only hopes in possibilities.

What we do in this season is not something to be endured to get to the real glory. It is a taste of the very glory itself: Through these acts of sacrifice, love, and conversion, we become what God promises in us and begin to build the kingdom to which we belong.