They saw the child with Mary, His mother. They prostrated themselves and did Him homage. Then they opened their treasures and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. - Matthew 2:1-12

Happy Epiphany Sunday!

In our faith tradition, we celebrate today’s feast in remembrance of the Magi's visit to pay homage to Jesus, the newborn king. The three Magi represented Africa, Asia, and Europe, solidifying the universality of the Church. Each region of the world commemorates it in different ways, and I’m sure you personally celebrate it with your family in various ways as well.

For me, the holiday marks the end of my Christmas display at home. I have collected so many special ornaments over the years that I place on my tree. Each one has to be wrapped or placed in the box it belongs in. It takes hours to store my Christmas treasures as I reflect on the memories they trigger. So many of them are from my annual trips to Maui every December, when my husband and I traveled there to celebrate his birthday, before he died.

Now, the ornaments not only trigger memories of my husband but also the loss of our beloved Lahaina town, which was destroyed by fire in August 2023. This year, it will spark thoughts of those who lost their homes in California, and the first anniversary is just days away on January 7. I will feel so thankful to have all my ornaments to cherish for many more years, and pray for those who lost theirs.

I also take time to reflect on how I can be a Magi and present the Lord with gifts to glorify him in the year ahead. Take time to reflect on the gifts you can give Him in 2026. Happy New Year!

Sherry Hayes-Peirce

I remember the reactions my parents would have when I would change my career aspirations as a child. At first, I wanted to be a dentist (because my dad said I should be), then I wanted to be a nun (because my mom said I should be), and my parents would beam with pride. Then I realized a life of fixing teeth or quiet seclusion wouldn’t quite cut it for my 7-year-old self and I landed on becoming a journalist, and my parents, while confused, sighed some mild relief. Then by 10-years-old I wanted to be a screenwriter because two Gemini horoscopes said it was my destiny, and I pursued film in college. My parents sighed with disappointment and concern. However, I ultimately arrived on a path that neither my parents nor horoscope could predict and followed my discerned calling to become a mental health therapist. 

While my parents were off the mark about my career, what they did tap into was my potential as a child. The path ahead seemed so limitless and the possibilities endless, which was a cause of both anxiety and excitement for the decisions I needed to make. And I noticed in our spiritual childhood, the potential is the same. Fortunately for us, we don’t have to answer the daunting childhood question of “what do you want to be when you grow up?”, since the answer is given to us in today’s first reading: “We do know that when it is revealed we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. Everyone who has this hope based on him makes himself pure, as he is pure.”

Our spiritual childhood potential isn’t realized in making the “right decision” for our futures it seems, but rather in our intimacy with whom we are to imitate: Jesus. And when we get to know Jesus for who He is, He guides us to be raised by Father God, whose parenting style isn’t rooted in building up expectations for us, but rather in helping us gently let go of our attachments so we become more “pure”, like His Son. Perhaps it's in this process that we slowly “grow up” to become who we’re called to be. It’s from this relationship that we can make those “right” decisions and collaborate with God to create the life that perhaps our childhood selves couldn’t even dare to dream up. 

In what ways is God inviting you to realize your spiritual childhood either in “getting to know” Jesus or “letting go” of attachments?

Liz Tapang

Authenticity is one of my top core values. I believe in this stage of my life that I have an agile-enough heart and spirit to see good in all things, to honor folks different from me, and, at least, understand my limitations when neither of those other circumstances are true. “So, why lie to me?” I ask myself.

“Lies,” or what I perceived as lies, used to frustrate me immensely. Somedays, they still do. I used to rack my brain trying to understand why folks would lie, put on masks, etc. as if I would not be able to handle the truth of who they are or even the difficult situations. I used to think truth was simply the easier path, the path of least resistance. As I experience more and get to know more people on a more intimate and authentic level, I now believe that truth is the harder thing. 

Truth requires us to unlearn all the lies that have been written onto our lenses and heart by society, circumstances, and other untruths. Today’s readings encourage us to do this unlearning and to live in what is true. That is, among other things that: “Jesus is the Christ,” we are promised eternal life; and that we already have the truth through our shared anointing. The encouragement is not that we need to go seek truth outside of ourselves (outside of what God has created us from); the call is to strip ourselves from all the untruths and remain in the truth - a much more difficult invitation. 

May we be given the grace to unlearn the untruths we hold; to return to the truth of who we are; and to have patience with ourselves and others in the process.

Vivian Valencia

As Advent draws to a close and a new year begins, the Church invites us not into urgency or resolutions, but into stillness, blessing, and trust. On this feast of Mary, the Holy Mother of God, today’s readings call us to slow down and root ourselves in God’s faithful presence.

Today’s first reading offers a blessing fitting for the new year: “The Lord bless you and keep you… the Lord let His face shine upon you and give you peace.” This blessing does not promise certainty or easy answers, but presence. It reminds us that whatever lies ahead, God goes before us and remains with us.

January 1 is my mother’s birthday. Her name is Maria de Jesus. Like Mary in the Gospel, my mother is patient and deeply rooted in faith. She has carried the faith of our family quietly, with consistency and trust.

Trusting God is something I struggle with. In early 2024 when I had surgery on my wrist, I felt anxious and afraid. Sitting with that fear, my mother simply said, “A person of faith should never be afraid.” Her calm, steady trust reminded me of where my faith needed to be. She often tells me, “Denny, have more faith.” Those words challenge me, but they also comfort me, inviting me to place my fears into God’s hands.

In today’s Gospel, we hear that “Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart.” This is faith rooted in trust, the courage to live with unanswered questions. This is a posture I see in Mary and in my own mother - one I am still learning.

As we begin this new year, may we start as Mary did, slowing down, listening, and trusting God. May we be rooted in Christ’s love and strengthened in faith, especially in moments of uncertainty.

Mary, Mother of God, help me begin this new year in trust. Teach me to listen, to wait, and to place my fears in God’s hands. 

Denny Hernandez

Photo credit: “The Virgen in Prayer” by Giovanni Battista Salvi da Sassoferrato

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. - John 1:1

Today’s Gospel begins not with instructions but with presence. Prior to providing answers, clarity, or strength, there exists the Word—alive, relational, and already among us. Over the past year, this passage has resonated with me during moments when life felt burdensome, uncertain, or fragile. It serves as a reminder that my life, as well as every life, is not defined by achievements, independence, or physical capabilities, but by Christ Himself.

Living with cerebral palsy has heightened my awareness of how easily societal measures of worth focus on ability rather than intrinsic value. There have been occasions when I have felt frustrated by my limitations or fatigued by the barriers I encounter. Nonetheless, John's words in today’s Gospel gently challenge that perspective. Life itself originates from Christ. My dignity is a gift freely bestowed and is unshaken by any limitations. Even when I feel invisible, misunderstood, or excluded, the light of Christ persists—steadfast, unwavering, and shining beyond opposition.

This profound truth became intimately personal during Eucharistic Adoration a couple of months ago as I brought my questions, fears, and longing for clarity before the Lord. During my mystical, intimate conversation with the Lord, I did not receive the answers I anticipated. Instead, I was invited to trust, to remain attentive, and to open my heart fully. The Word, who spoke creation into existence, appeared more concerned with my willingness to remain present with Him than with certainty. At that moment, I understood that light does not always eradicate darkness; at times, it merely shines within it, illuminating even the most delicate or concealed aspects of life. I observed this particularly in the quietness of my heart, in the tension between longing and patience, and in the gentle reassurance that I am not alone.

Today’s Gospel affirms that Christ’s presence precedes understanding. The Word continues to speak life into circumstances where answers remain in development, reminding me that I am upheld, known, and accompanied.

Where in my life is Christ inviting me to trust His light, even without clear answers—and how might I stay present with Him in that space, allowing His life to guide me forward?

Sue Do

“She never left the temple, but worshiped night and day with fasting and prayer.” – Luke 2:37

Today’s Gospel spotlights Anna—a figure often overlooked, yet profoundly relatable. What strikes me is not just her prophetic role, but the utter endurance of her hope. She waits decades in the Temple, carrying the weight of widowhood, loneliness, and unfulfilled longing. And when Christ finally appears, her response is not bitterness or exhaustion—it’s joyful gratitude and proclamation.

I find that contrast unsettling in the best way. It invites me to confront the areas of my life where waiting was hardened into cynicism: prayers that feel unanswered, dreams delayed, relationships that didn’t turn out as hoped. It’s easy for me to romanticize perseverance, yet her experience exposes how difficult and draining such faithfulness can be. She gave her life to waiting—without knowing when, or if, she would see fulfillment. That feels painfully close to the experiences many of us carry: waiting for clarity in vocation, for healing in family wounds, for a community where we feel seen, or for a sense of purpose beyond daily routines that feel repetitive and unnoticed.

What Anna reveals is that genuine faith unfolds not just in mountaintop breakthroughs but in the steady commitment to keep showing up—even when God feels distant or silent. And how often I need reminding that silence doesn’t mean absence of presence. Her witness suggests that God is not idle in those stretches—we are being shaped, not shelved. And when grace appears, whether it’s loud or gentle, it reframes the waiting without denying the pain that came before.

What stays with me from Anna is this: God’s promises are not fragile, even when my hope is. The years I fear are wasted may be the very space where God is preparing my heart to recognize Him—and to rejoice with gratitude—when He comes close.

Lord, in the long stretches of silence, help my heart to remain open and trust that Your unseen work can unfold even when I feel weary or uncertain.

David Romero, SJ

“It took my grandfather a long time to die, in fact it took him my whole life.” I wrote these words at 11 years old, shortly after my grandfather died. My entire life had been marked by his cancer and heart attacks. Among my earliest memories are visits to him in the hospital. This Christmas marks the 30th anniversary of his passing, and I can still recall how deeply his loss affected me. 

I never felt like I had enough time with him, that I was “robbed” of the chance for my grandfather to see me grow up. Both 11 year old me and 41-year old me  would give anything for one more day with him. Each visit to the duck pond, the San Francisco Zoo, and the sundial were superfluous gifts that I may never have received.

The day after Christmas, St. Stephen’s Day, was always one such sacred time. It was our special day with our grandparents after the chaotic (loud), giant Italian family dinner on Christmas night. At the time I did not recognize the significance of St. Stephen’s Day being “our day.” 

St. Stephen is the first known martyr of the Church and it seems odd that the Church would immediately follow the beauty of Christmas with the violent, jarring recounting of one who was killed for believing in Christ. The infancy narrative with its cute animals and traveling kings is just the beginning of the story, and the stakes are very high.  

For many years my own grief at losing my grandfather was interwoven with the excitement and joy of Christmas.  The mingling of life and death gave me a taste of the Paschal Mystery. Since uncovering my childhood journal entry, I have pondered how Mary might have felt after giving birth to Jesus, knowing that His whole life would be a preparation for His death. Each day that Jesus walked, breathed and lived among us was a gift, the greatest gift. 

Jen Coito

“What came to be through him was life, and this life was the light of the human race.” – Jn 1:3-4

“I would risk everything to be with my family. They are my home.” These were the words of Pedro, a deported migrant I recently met at a shelter in Tijuana, Mexico. After 50 years in the U.S., his entire family remains on the other side of the border. Like many others, Pedro is still willing to risk detention or deportation again, just to be with those he loves.

In Pedro, I encountered the God we celebrate at Christmas: Jesus, who crossed every border—divine to human, heaven to earth—risking everything to be with us.

Last night, Pope Leo preached powerfully in his Christmas Eve Homily: “The divine light radiating from [the Child Jesus] helps us to recognize humanity in every new life … The Lord chooses to reveal himself in each human being, who reflects his true image … There is no room for God if there is no room for the human person. To refuse one is to refuse the other. Yet, where there is room for the human person, there is room for God.”

He spoke indirectly of migrants and directly of Christmas: “[God] does not give us a clever solution to every problem, but a love story that draws us in … Before violence and oppression, he kindles a gentle light that illumines with salvation to all the children of this world.” The mystery of Christmas reminds us that every ordinary moment—every anxiety, uncertainty, or struggle—is pregnant with divine love.

Today, we celebrate a love born in a manger and carried to the cross. In Pedro, I saw that love—a God willing to bear any cost to be with us who are the beloved. When we see someone who is poor, who forgives, who loves—we see God. God who is poor. God who forgives. God who loves.

God chooses to shine light most clearly through human beings, through you and me. Through us who are poor, weak, and sinful. This is the glory of God’s humility. This is the light of God’s love.

Where in your life is God crossing borders to be close to you? How might you make space for the “human person”—especially the migrant or stranger—and so make space for God?

Tri Dinh, SJ

“Forever I will sing the goodness of the Lord.” - Psalm 89

It is Christmas Eve. Tonight, I share this season with my partner, Patrick. Today’s Psalm invites me to linger on “the goodness of the Lord,” especially in moments when I have felt unseen… uncertain… unsteady.

For much of my life, I have been holding on—holding on to the need to belong, to be understood, to justify every choice. I held on to rails for balance… to my parents for safety. I held on to relationships that left me afraid, trying to fit a version of myself others might accept. Fear of failing, of being unlovable, of not measuring up stretched like shadows across my days.

There came a time when my prayer life felt dry—like St. John of the Cross describes as the dark night of the soul. I cried until I felt hollow, my defenses crumbling… collapsing like sandcastles in the tide. In that surrender, I whispered, “God, I can’t do this anymore. Take the wheel.”

And then… God sent love. Gentle. Patient. Quiet. Love that reminded me I could be seen, and loved, exactly as I am. I began to sense that holding on so tightly had kept me from being fully present. Letting go… trusting… allowing myself to be vulnerable… opened a new path, a way to walk with God and others more honestly.

On this Christmas Eve, as we wait for the gift of Christ, I invite reflection: Where am I still holding on too tightly? Which fears keep me from receiving God’s love fully? How might I open my heart… just a little… to the grace quietly unfolding, even now? How might I allow myself to be loved, in small ways and in large?

God, help me notice where I cling, and give me courage to trust your timing, your care, and the journey you have for me… even when it feels uncertain.

Sue Do

“What, then, will this child be? For surely, the hand of the Lord was with him.” - Luke 1:57-66

There is a gentle quality in today’s gospel that stays with me. Elizabeth, who once thought her time had passed, now holds a child in her arms. Neighbors gather in awe, and Zechariah’s voice returns like a blessing after months of silence. Everything feels simple yet sacred, as though God has been at work in the stillness all along, tending what was hidden and patiently drawing hearts toward trust.

As I prayed over this passage, a line from a hymn came to mind: “O God, you search me, and you know me.” It feels like a truth Elizabeth and Zechariah faithfully carried in their hearts. Elizabeth receives a promise she never expected, and Zechariah’s silence becomes a doorway into his reshaping. Both are held by a God who sees who they are and who they are becoming.

This Advent, my spirit turns toward the people in my life who walk with more than meets the eye. A friend keeping vigil in a hospital room. Another supporting a loved one at a pivotal moment. Someone dear learning the first tender steps of grief. And my younger brother, entering a holiday season that no longer resembles the one he knew just a year ago, says gently, “It’s quiet, but I will be okay.”

When I bring this into prayer, what surfaces is not certainty but presence. I wish I could lighten their burdens, yet most days all I can offer is my listening. It is a helplessness that is not empty, but a threshold where God meets me, shouldering what I cannot carry alone.

As God meets me in these in-between places, I begin to notice His love in the small moments, especially in a familiar exchange with my daughter. I tell her, “I love you as big as the sky.” She responds, “I love you most,” and I say, “I loved you first.” She always lets out a soft “Ahhh,” as if the words are settling into her heart.

It reminds me that love begins before we fully understand it. It waits for us, inviting us to trust the God who loved us long before we could name it. In that small exchange, I glimpse what Advent asks of us: to lean into a love that assures us God is already shaping the light ahead.

Lord, help us walk with Elizabeth’s quiet hope, Zechariah’s openness, and the neighbors’ wonder. Teach us to trust that the God who knows us so intimately is the maker and keeper of our days.

Tam Lontok

The Magnificat delights me.

No matter how many times I’ve read or sung it–my favorite settings are “Holy is Your Name” (Tony Alonso), “Canticle of the Turning” (Rory Cooney), and “Magnificat” (Norah Duncan IV)–there is always something new, surprising, utterly bewildering to discover in its text. 

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;

my spirit rejoices in God my savior,

for he has looked upon his lowly servant

From this day all generations will call me blessed.

Grandiose words, and hardly ones you’d expect from the mouth of a young girl. 

What follows is even more baffling:

He has cast down the mighty from their thrones

and has lifted up the lowly.

He has filled the hungry with good things,

and the rich he has sent away empty.

The Magnificat is shocking. We understand the Gospels as recountings of Jesus’ life and ministry. Yet these are not his words but his mother’s, a teenage girl who, if she were living today, we might say was plucked from obscurity. And this is not Mary, meek, lowly, and mild, as some Christmas carols depict. She is neither docile nor submissive. The Mary who sings of a just, redeeming God, is fiery. She is brimming with confidence that she is known and loved by God. And she praises the Lord who subverts expectations, striking down that which we exalt and exalting those whom we ignore. 

The Canticle of Mary serves as an exhilarating, poignant reminder that–in Ignatian terms–God is in all things. Speaking through voices society considers insignificant. Dwelling in the places we rush past. Converting hearts and, through those hearts, transforming our world.

God of surprises, grant us the grace to see with eyes of curiosity rather than expectation, so that we may better embrace others and ourselves as vessels of Your transforming power. 

Gabrielle Poma

“Do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home.” – Mt 1:20

Homecoming is one of the deepest longings of the human heart. To be loved is to come home to someone. Home is the place where we are known and named, welcomed as we are, and held safely enough to become our truest selves.

Today’s Gospel invites us to reflect on home through the quiet courage of Joseph. We meet him at a moment of real crisis. Mary is pregnant, and Joseph knows the child is not his. As a righteous man, he stands at a crossroads between law and love. The law prescribes shunning and even stoning; compassion points toward another way. When the angel enters his dream with the words, “Do not be afraid,” Joseph is freed to choose love over fear.

Joseph does not follow the letter of the law, but lives its deepest spirit. In effect, he says to Mary, “You are not alone. You are safe here.” He welcomes her into his home, adopts Jesus, gives him a name, and offers both of them what they need most: belonging. In doing so, Joseph embodies the kind of justice Jesus will later reveal—a justice shaped not by rigidity, but by expansive mercy.

Welcoming Mary also means welcoming everything stirred within Joseph’s own heart: confusion and fear, disappointment and hope, tenderness and trust. Even without understanding, Joseph believes God is present in the mess. And in that trust, he becomes God’s favorite hiding place. God makes a home in him—and in us—not after everything is resolved, but right in the middle of our broken dreams and unwanted feelings. This is Emmanuel: God-with-us.

As Christmas draws near, many of us are traveling—coming and going, returning home, or longing for one. Today’s Gospel invites us to ask: How do we make home for others? How do we offer dignity, safety, welcome, and belonging—especially to those who feel homeless in heart or spirit?

Like Joseph, we are invited to choose love over fear. We can offer a safe place. And as we do, we may discover that God is making a home in us—and through us, for others.

“Therefore the Lord himself will give you this sign: the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall name him Emmanuel.” -Isaiah 7:14

As you enter our home and walk towards our kitchen, you will see a painting featured in today’s reflection. Even after a decade, this painting that I bid and won at an auction would cause visitors to take notice and reflect on “The Annunciation.”

Notice the hand of angel Gabriel inviting Mary. Notice the flowers from angel Gabriel. Notice Mary’s face and body language. Notice how you would react if you were in Mary’s place.

I resonated with Mary when I was a student at Cal Poly where my life was turned upside down. I was arrested, lost my full ride scholarship, and was banned from the university system. I tried to end my life because I couldn’t accept myself as a gay Vietnamese-American Catholic.

Returning to my hometown, someone gave me “The Purpose-Driven Life” by Pastor Rick Warren. I will never forget the chapter that challenged me to do something different: surrender. As I prayed that evening, I will never forget myself literally shaking on the bed surrendering to God. I was so scared of my future. I was so scared to give God the steering wheel. I was so scared of accepting who I am.

Imagine how Mary felt with the visit from Gabriel. Imagine Mary’s shock that she will conceive a son, Jesus Christ, who would become our Lord and Savior. Imagine Mary’s moment of surrendering when she committed to become the Lord’s servant saying: “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38).

Although I will never forget the moment I surrendered to God that fateful night, I am challenged to surrender everyday. When was the last time you surrendered to God? When will you let God drive the wheel? When will you accept the person God made you to be?

Lord, as I continue to thank you for the life you’ve given me, behold, I am your servant. May it be done to me according to your word. Amen.

John Huân Vũ

“Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard.” - Luke 1:13 

Santa is not the only one making a list and checking it twice as Christmas approaches. I have a

Christmas card list, and an elaborate spreadsheet of gifts to purchase, ship, or wrap. Each of my kids has extensive wish lists of items, most of which they do not need. There are dozens of Legos sets, random tween tech gear, and even an electronic cow that can be fed with a baby bottle. They are doing a lot of earnest asking for the things they believe they need in order to be happy. 

Perhaps our “wish list” of requests to God takes on a different format: take away this illness, get me this job, change this person who irritates me. We ask, pray, and hope for the things that we believe will bring us joy. Sometimes we pray and pray for things that never come true, and then we begin to give up hope. Elizabeth and Zechariah had prayed and hoped for a child for years, and by all accounts their opportunities to be parents had passed. In today’s Gospel, when the angel Gabriel appears to Zechariah, he says “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard.”. Instead of responding with joy and gratitude, Zechariah questions how God could possibly answer his prayers at this time. Why now, after all these years?

Today’s Gospel pairs two announcements from the angel Gabriel: the pregnancy of Elizabeth and that of Mary. Two impossible scenarios. Two births foretold. Two different reactions to the news. I want to be like Mary, who responds to God with a joyful “Yes, your will be done!” But more often than not, I respond like Zechariah with doubt, questioning, and hopelessness. How long have I prayed to forgive? God could not possibly be calling me to forgive now. I asked for a clear sign of a direction to take in a discernment, but what I sense now from God is not what I expected to hear. We make a list, say the prayers, and then sometimes find ourselves struggling to receive the blessing that God has gifted us. 

But there is hope for those of us who doubt and fear! God does not withhold his blessings from Zechariah. The gift of new life is still freely given, despite the less than enthusiastic response to the announcement. Zechariah needed time. So in addition to the gift of parenthood, God gifted him with the space to absorb this news. In Zechariah’s story, we receive the consolation that God will nurture and tenderly care for His precious gifts to us.

God, give me the grace to want what you want for me, the openness to be more open to your will, and the willingness to be as patient with myself as you are with me. These gifts of hope do not fit in an Amazon cart. I am probably also going to buy some Legos, but not the bottle-drinking electronic cow. 

Jen Coito

“Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home. For it is through the Holy Spirit that this child has been conceived in her. She will bear a son and you are to name him Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.” - Matthew 1:20-21

Have you ever stood at the supermarket, staring at all the different choices and prices, and weighing whether you really needed something? I take that to an extreme. I will stare at an item and the price tag before I leave empty-handed despite standing 10 minutes in the aisle, deciding the easiest choice would be to not buy anything. It is one thing I dislike about myself. I marinate over decisions for an inordinate amount of time before giving up. Even after the fact, my choice would still haunt me.

St. Joseph and Mary handle choices in remarkably different ways, yet they are truly two halves of a whole. I admire and aspire to Mary’s fiat, her pure trust in God’s will. Mary trusted in God’s promise to her, even in upending her life and knowing the pain and hardship she would go through. Unfortunately, true to my saint namesake, I am more like St. Joseph in today’s Gospel, mired by logic and overthinking over faith, and choosing the path of least resistance over instantly trusting God. But just as God’s grace allowed Mary to say yes to God’s messenger Gabriel, God’s grace also came in the form of an angel reassuring Joseph to take Mary into his home. And together, they gave us the greatest gift of all in Jesus.

In reflecting on this year, I realized all my choices had God’s reassuring presence behind it. He comforted me as I agonized over my choices and its consequences. Perhaps a little less so in my shopping choices, but every time I wanted to give up and walk away, God’s grace would gently push me to make the difficult decision, commit, and then trust in Him to handle the rest. Life will continue, just as it had in the past and will in the future. And whether the result was good or bad, God would still be by my side and help me face whatever else life threw at me. His reassurance is the greatest gift and empowers me to continue choosing.

Ironically as I am writing this, I struggle with the words and worry whether it will help anyone. I write and rewrite sentences going through countless drafts in my attempt to convey my thoughts. But I trust God to guide my hands and guide you, in whatever choices you may face. May God reassure you that whatever you may choose, He will be there too.

Kevin Nguyen

In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus came from a number of generations of epic and biblical proportions. 14 times 3. A mix of perfect numbers in the Jewish tradition. Signaling to perfection. Fulfillment. A new era.  

However, looking more closely, the list of names reveals a list of less than perfect people leading to the most perfect person who would ever walk the face of the earth.

And that most perfect person is perfect in the most important way. The way that He loves. And Jesus loves each and every one of those less than perfect people that would lead up to him. He loves them with compassion and empathy. His love extends to all the generations.    

Over the last few months, I have found myself in a new era. I have felt Jesus inviting me to love my own history and the people in it with more compassion and empathy. For my own circumstances, happenings, and mistakes, I am learning to love my doings by understanding them rather than judging them, being loving to myself rather than being critical of myself, and befriending myself rather than being a stranger to myself.

So, as I do so for myself, I find myself loving the people in my life with more compassion and empathy, and I have found that love extending to more and more people - people whom I would have previously excluded. I have discovered that people in my life can be way less than perfect (most of all myself), because I am loving them.  It is not that they are unloveable, it is only that I have room to grow in loving them.

Whether it takes me generations, I know not. I only know I find it fulfilling, this striving, this progress: to love perfectly the less than perfect.

Eddie Ngo, SJ

The verses from today’s Psalm offer profound comfort: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; those who are crushed in spirit he saves.” This promise is a strange gift, because it validates the necessity of the crushing, the moment where we are finally emptied of our own strength.

I remember when I felt “crushed in spirit” after a breakup. In that season, I thought my prayers had to be eloquent and neat. Thankfully, God shows me in simple ways that He doesn't require perfection. As a choir singer, I’m reminded that the sincere intention behind a song can be more important than hitting every note flawlessly. On a retreat, I found an even deeper image of this truth: a rosary that was missing one of its beads. To me, it symbolized how prayer can be flawed, yet remain whole in God's eyes.

My turning point came when I applied this lesson to my pain. I didn't utter a formal prayer but I simply sat and wept. In that moment, the Lord heard me. My honest cry was the vulnerable me God was waiting for.

The experience was precisely the detour God needed to take me on. It cleared the way for a different, infinitely better story. Today, I look at the man who is now my fiancé, the exact partner I need, the one who honors me and my faith and I see not a second chance, but God's first plan, perfectly executed.

This Advent, the Psalm is a profound instruction to me: Never be afraid of being broken. Our greatest hope is not in our ability to endure the trials, but in our willingness to become lowly enough to receive God’s true refuge.

I am consistently inspired by the below lyric from Sarah Hart’s song “Better Than a Hallelujah”:

God loves the drunkard's cry
The soldier's plea not to let him die
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

Alyssa Bellia