As I near my fifth anniversary, I find myself treasuring these reminders more deeply—how a priest is never really alone, how none of us are. We are all held by a communion of saints, living and departed, who cheer us on in ways seen and unseen.
There are days when the vocation feels unbearably heavy. Years spent in trauma bays, oncology units, and hospice rooms can carve their own kind of ache. The hardest moments are the ones when I wish I could do more—when every instinct in me prays for something, anything, to ease another’s suffering. And yet so often, all I can offer is presence.
But somewhere along the way, I learned that presence is not a small thing. It is enough. It is the quiet space where God does what only God can do. And it remains the greatest privilege of my life to be invited to walk beside people in their deepest joys and hardest seasons, to stand witness to the sacredness that lives in both.
And maybe that is what this chasuble teaches me every time I slip it over my shoulders. It is not simply a vestment; it is a story. It holds the fingerprints of the people who formed me, the laughter and tears of the ones who believed in my calling long before I ever stood at an altar. It reminds me that love—real love—never sends us alone into the hard places. It surrounds us, steadies us, and whispers courage when our own feels thin.
I think of the countless faces across these years: a family holding vigil through the night, a mother whispering her final blessing, a patient whose gratitude came through the faintest squeeze of a hand. None of those moments depended on eloquent words or heroic feats. They depended on showing up. On listening. On trusting that God was already there before I arrived.
If priesthood has taught me anything, it is that holiness is rarely loud. It is found in the quiet faithfulness of showing up again tomorrow. It is found in being human enough to break, humble enough to listen, and hopeful enough to believe that grace still moves in the places we least expect.
So as I approach this five-year mark, I carry two truths with me: the work is heavy, yes—but it is also breathtakingly beautiful. And God, in infinite mercy, keeps meeting me in the space between those two realities.
For that, I am grateful. And for every person whose life has brushed against mine in these sacred years—every joy, every sorrow, every whispered prayer—I carry you with me, stitched into the fabric of this calling, a reminder that love is always the beginning and the end of the story.