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For the past ten years, I have been blessed to share my faith journey through talks and testimonies at retreats, Catholic schools, churches, and communities around the world. When I am asked how I prepare my talks, my answer is always the same: I don’t. I let the Holy Spirit speak. He knows who will be sitting in front of me. He knows the wounds they carry, the questions they have hidden, and the message their hearts need far better than I ever could. I simply make myself available and trust that He will use my story, with all its imperfections, for His purpose.

This August, I was invited to speak at a retreat in Lexington, Kentucky, about trust. As I walked from the conference area toward the church, I found myself surrounded by trees and vegetation. In the distance, I noticed what looked like a cross-shaped light post. It caught my attention, so I walked closer. Then I stopped. It wasn’t one cross, it was three; three crosses intentionally aligned, just like Calvary.

I had seen that image countless times, but that day, something in me changed. For the first time, I truly stopped to think about the two thieves hanging beside Jesus. They were not simply two men beside the cross. They were two hearts facing the same Savior, in the same suffering, at the same final moment, and yet they responded completely differently.

They were both suffering. Both were dying. Both were close enough to Jesus to see Him. Neither could change the past. Neither could escape the cross. Yet one turned toward Jesus, while the other turned away. They chose different responses. Then suddenly, I saw myself.

How many times have I been like the thief who rejected Jesus? How many times have my actions denied Him? How many times have I sinned, chosen my own way, trusted myself more than Him, or allowed fear to speak louder than faith? I realized that I have stood at that same crossroads more times than I want to admit. Yet, Jesus has never stopped giving me another opportunity to turn back—to surrender, to repent, and to return to Him. That is the beauty of His mercy.

Christina taught me this in a way I could never have learned from a book. Her life was short, but her faith was deep. She carried her cross of cancer with extraordinary trust and showed me that the cross does not have to be the end of the story. In God’s hands, even suffering can become light. Her death taught me something I carry every day: we only have today.

We assume tomorrow is promised. We think there will always be another opportunity to apologize, to forgive, to change, to love, or to turn toward God, but life can change in a single moment. So, I asked myself: When I stand before my own cross, which thief will I be? Will I turn toward Jesus with humility and say, “Jesus, remember me?” Or will I look away?

We all fall. We all have weaknesses and moments when our faith is tested, but there is always a loving God waiting for us to turn back to Him. This is why I continue the work of Build the Faith. I don’t stand before others because I have all the answers. I stand there because I am human, I am a sinner. I have fallen, I have questioned, and I have hurt. I have carried my own crosses, but I have also experienced the transforming power of God’s mercy.

Trusting Jesus doesn’t mean knowing how the story will end. It means knowing who is carrying us through it. Christina carried her cross with faith. I carry mine with hope. Through Build the Faith, I pray that the pain I have experienced can become a light for someone else, a reminder that no matter how far we have fallen, Jesus is still there, waiting for us to turn toward Him. Until our very last breath, it is never too late to trust.  Jesus, I trust in You!

Monica Lacouture

Monica Lacouture was born and raised in Colombia, South America. She moved to the United States in 1995, where she and her husband, Fernando, married and were blessed with three children—Daniel, David, and Christina, whose unwavering faith became the inspiration behind Build the Faith. Today, Monica and Fernando are also blessed with their first grandchild, Luca, a beautiful new generation of their family.

Although raised Catholic and educated in parochial schools, Monica describes much of her adult life as that of a “lukewarm” Catholic. That changed unexpectedly in late 2012 when she attended a retreat and had a profound personal encounter with Jesus. She had no idea at the time how much she would come to rely on this renewed faith just three months later, when her daughter Christina was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

Throughout Christina’s battle, Monica’s faith deepened, sustained by her daughter’s extraordinary trust in Jesus. Christina’s courage and unwavering love for Christ transformed Monica’s understanding of faith and became the foundation of a mission that continues to grow.

In 2016, inspired by Christina’s unwavering faith, Monica and Fernando founded Build the Faith. As President of the organization, Monica feels deeply blessed to carry forward Christina’s legacy, spreading faith and hope to others and helping bring people closer to God. What began through Christina’s faith has grown into a mission that continues to touch lives, build communities, and bring Christ’s light to others.

buildthefaith.org

I grew up in Swampscott, Massachusetts, a small seaside town on the North Shore of Boston. It was there that I received my first Sacraments, and years later, after my ordination to the priesthood, it was there that I returned to celebrate my first Mass at St. John the Evangelist Church, overlooking Nahant Bay.

That stretch of coastline has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. From King’s Beach, Fisherman’s Beach, Eisman’s Beach, Whale’s Beach, Phillips Beach and Preston Beach in Swampscott, to Nahant Beach, Devereux Beach in Marblehead, and familiar oceanfront places such as Red Rock Park in Lynn, Chaisson Park in Swampscott, and Fort Sewall in Marblehead, the sea has always seemed close at hand.

These places have been more than beautiful scenery for me. Over the years, I have spent long periods walking these beaches, sitting beside the water, praying, thinking, struggling, questioning, and sometimes simply being still. I have returned to them during many of the ups and downs of my spiritual life.

Yet, somewhere along the way, I began to realize that the sea itself had become a teacher. The tides taught me something about coming and going. The waves taught me about perseverance. The sand taught me about change and impermanence. The rocks taught me about strength, stability, and the importance of having something solid beneath us. Storms taught me about fear, uncertainty, and trust. Those rare moments when the sea becomes almost perfectly calm taught me something about silence, peace, and the presence of God; and, the horizon—where the sea seems to meet the sky and our eyes can go no farther— taught me about hope, mystery, and trusting that there is always more beyond what we can see.

These are some of the lessons I have learned by the sea. For the purposes of this blog, however, I will explore only one of those lessons. Perhaps the tides, waves, storms, calm and horizon will have to wait for future blogs. For now, I want to return to something we see all along our North Shore coastline: the rocks.

There is something reassuring about a rock. The water moves. The tide rises and falls. The sand shifts beneath our feet. Waves crash against the shore and storms come and go. Yet the great rocks remain. Scripture repeatedly uses that image to speak about God. The Psalmist cries out, “The LORD is my rock, my fortress, my deliverer.” (Psalm 18:2) Elsewhere we hear, “He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken.” (Psalm 62:2) In a world where so much changes, God remains.

Jesus takes that image even further at the conclusion of the Sermon on the Mount. He tells us about two builders. One builds his house upon rock; the other builds upon sand. Then the rain comes, the floods rise and the winds blow against both houses. The difference is not that one house encounters a storm and the other does not. The storm comes to both. That may be one of the most important spiritual lessons of the rocks. Faith does not mean that storms will never come. Faith does not promise a life without disappointment, grief, uncertainty, illness, failure or fear. The question is not whether storms will come. The question is: What have I built my life upon?

Jesus says that the wise person is the one who hears his words and acts upon them. It is not enough simply to know the Gospel, admire the Gospel or listen to the Gospel on Sunday. We have to build upon it. Forgiveness has to be practiced. Prayer has to become part of our lives. Mercy has to be given. Love has to become concrete. Christ has to become the foundation beneath our feet.

There is another beautiful biblical image of rocks that I love just as much as the ones I have already shared. St. Peter tells the first Christians: “Like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house.” (1 Peter 2:5) We are not merely standing upon the rock. God is making us into living stones. Notice that a single stone does not make a house. God takes each of us—with our different gifts, personalities, experiences, strengths and weaknesses—and fits us together. We become part of something larger than ourselves: the Church, the Body of Christ, a spiritual house in which God dwells. Perhaps that is another lesson I have learned from those rocky shores. A rock by itself may seem insignificant, but rocks joined together can become a foundation, a wall, a shelter, even a house.

There are many more lessons that the sea still has to teach me—and perhaps I will share some of them another time, but before summer ends, perhaps each of us could make some time to step away from our usual routines and enter into the great cathedral of God’s creation. It may be the ocean or a quiet river, the mountains or a forest, a lake or simply a familiar place outdoors where we can become still.

Creation has lessons to teach us if we are willing to listen. The God who speaks to us through Scripture and the Sacraments has also left traces of his wisdom throughout the world he has made. Perhaps there is a spiritual lesson waiting for each of us—in the tides, the rocks, the trees, the mountains, or somewhere just beyond the horizon.

Fr. Michael Harrington

Fr. Michael Harrington, a native of Swampscott, MA, is a Catholic Priest for the Archdiocese of Boston, and Currently the Pastor of St. Mary’s of the Annunciation Catholic Church in Cambridge. In the past he served as The Director of the Office of Cultural Diversity for the Archidiocese of Boston and is currently a Consecrated member of the Institute of Jesus the Priest (the Pauline Family).  

We call Mary Queen of Heaven, Queen of the Apostles, and Queen of all who believe in Jesus, but what does it really mean to call Mary Queen, and why does she hold such a special place in our faith?

For Catholics, everything begins with a simple yet extraordinary truth: Mary is the Mother of God.  She not only bore Jesus, but she was also his first disciple. She said “yes” to the angel Gabriel, accompanied Jesus throughout his life, remained at the foot of the Cross, and stayed with the disciples after the Resurrection. That is why we look upon her as our Mother; a mother who accompanies and protects us and, above all, intercedes for us before her Son.

One of the most beautiful expressions of this intercession can be found in the apparitions of Saint Catherine Labouré, a young religious sister of the Daughters of Charity of Saint Vincent de Paul. In 1830, in the chapel of the congregation’s motherhouse in Paris, Catherine experienced the events that gave rise to the Miraculous Medal.

According to Catherine’s testimony, Mary appeared standing on a globe, with a serpent beneath her feet and her hands extended toward the world, rays of light radiating from her fingers. Around the Virgin appeared the inscription: “O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.” In other words, the rays had a special meaning. They represented the graces that God grants to those who ask for them through Mary’s intercession. This reminds us of something fundamental: Mary is not the source of grace; God is. Mary is the intercessor.

For this reason, the Miraculous Medal should not be understood as a talisman, but rather as a sign that leads us to faith, prayer, and Christ. Mary does not replace God, nor does she possess any power independent of Him. Like a mother who presents the needs of her children, she intercedes for us and leads us toward her Son.

We can clearly see an example of Mary’s mission as our intercessor at the wedding feast at Cana. When Mary realizes that the wine has run out, she brings the need to Jesus and then tells the servants: “Do whatever He tells you.” These words summarize her entire mission. Mary does not ask us to put her in Christ’s place; she leads us to Him.

Yet, why do we call Mary Queen?

To understand this, we need to remember the tradition of the Davidic kingdom. In ancient Israel, the king’s mother held a place of honor in the royal court. As Queen Mother, or Gebirah, the mother of the king shared in her son’s reign by advocating for the people. Bathsheba, the mother of Solomon, was the first to hold this distinguished role. (1 Kings 2:19) Catholic tradition sees here an image that helps us understand Mary’s role: Jesus is the King, and Mary, His Mother, participates in a unique way by interceding for the People of God.

This understanding is also connected with the dogma of the Immaculate Conception. We believe that God prepared Mary from the very first moment of her existence to be the Mother of the Savior and to participate in a unique way in the history of salvation. Therefore, when we contemplate Mary as Queen, we should not imagine her as a distant figure. We can see her as our Mother: the one who intercedes for us, accompanies us, teaches us to trust, and continually reminds us of the path that leads to Christ.

Mary always leads us to Jesus. At Cana, she tells us: “Do whatever He tells you.” Through the Miraculous Medal, she invites us to turn to her and ask for her intercession. In every authentic Marian devotion, we find the same message: drawing closer to Mary means drawing closer to Christ. So, as we celebrate Mary as Queen of Heaven and Earth, we can pray:

Holy Virgin, Mother of God and Queen of the Apostles, hold us in your heart. Intercede for us before your Son. Help us remain faithful to Christ, walk with faith and hope, and one day attain eternal life with Him. Amen.

Fernando Dangond

Fernando Dangond, MD, was born in Colombia, South America. He and his wife, Monica, live in Weston, MA, and have been blessed with two sons Daniel and David and a beautiful daughter, Christina (the inspiration behind Build the Faith) who left to be with the Lord 7 years ago.
Dr. Dangond, is a neurologist and scientist who works for a pharmaceutical company developing medicines to treat devastating neurological diseases.

In today’s media climate, the noise can be unbearable. Newscasters shout to their cameras about wars, earthquakes, fires, and storms. Commercials are set to a higher average volume than the shows they are meant to serve. Music blares so loudly during sports broadcasts that it is hard to hear the professional commentators. Panelists on news shows scream over each other to make their voices and their points of view heard. Politicians yell at reporters who ask them questions they don’t like.

The noise isn’t just audible. It also finds us in the written word. Some of us subscribe to online publications. Some of those publications send us daily emails with headlines from stories they are covering. Some send us emails more than once a day. Click the headlines and you’ll find the stories, some short and some long, on any number of topics. The information stream is constant, and the volume of data it presents to us can be staggering.

Many of us also navigate social media. Users of platforms like Instagram and TikTok can feast on a rapidly moving stream of posts and videos presented through addictive algorithms. Those algorithms are meant to keep us glued to our phones and our computers, deluged by a flood of snippets and memes that command our attention.

Surely some of the material that bombards us has value, but much of it is designed to capture our attention by causing us alarm or provoking fear and anger. Even the valuable communications can be too much of a good thing, overburdening our limited capacity for receiving and comprehending information and distracting us from our immediate surroundings, our companions, and ourselves. Amidst all the noise, where is God?

The Lectionary recently presented us with a reading from the first Book of Kings. In it, God told the prophet Elijah to come out of the cave where he had found shelter and stand on the mountain to see the Lord passing by. When Elijah did so, he saw a strong and heavy wind, an earthquake, and a fire. The reading tells us that God was not in the wind, the earthquake, or the fire. Rather, after the fire, there was “a tiny whispering sound,” or as the King James Version describes it, “a still small voice.” It was then that Elijah heard the voice of God.

In this loud and stressed-out world, God speaks to us in the silence. Especially in these times when televisions, streaming services, internet platforms, phone apps, and emails bombard us with wide‑ranging and often disturbing words and images, we sometimes need to escape the noises that would drown out that one true voice. Rather than turn up the volume or try to keep up with the deluge of information presented to us, sometimes we would be better off entering a quiet space where we can listen for that whispering sound, that still small voice of God that speaks to us beneath the din. Rather than contribute to the clamor through our own raised voices, more often we would do well to lower our own voices and address the world and the people around us in a calming and peaceful manner, in the hushed reverence of a whispering Lord.

Don Frederico

Don Frederico is a writer and retired lawyer living in Mashpee, Massachusetts, where he serves as a Lector at Christ the King Parish. Before he retired, Don served on the boards of several nonprofits, including as President of the Boston Bar Association and Board Chair of the College of Wooster. Don also has taught courses at Cornell Law School and Boston College Law School. He authors the Substack “Reflections of a Boston Lawyer,” and hosts a podcast called “Higher Callings.” Don is currently writing a memoir focused on his life, his work, and his faith journey.

Today’s Gospel passage always touches my heart: a woman approaches Jesus, persists, doesn’t give up in the face of his initial silence, and ends up hearing from his lips a compliment we’d all love to receive: “Your faith is great.” The woman—whose name we don’t know—doesn’t ask permission to approach him with who she is and what she has. She simply gives herself, just as she is, and that gesture opens the door to the miracle.

I believe that’s the key to so many things we seek but cannot find. Miracles begin when we give ourselves—who we are, what we do, and what we have—to God; not an improved version of ourselves, not when we’ve finally figured out everything, but right now, with our wounds, our doubts, our limited time, and our meager resources. God does not wait for perfection to act. He waits for our surrender. The prophet Isaiah helps us understand what that surrender means in our daily lives. God asks his people for something very simple and yet very demanding: to act with integrity and practice justice, because his salvation is already at hand. (Isaiah 56:1–7) It is not a faith of words alone, but a faith that is reflected in how we treat others, in how we make our daily decisions, and in the way we use our time and money. God’s law is not a list of prohibitions; it is a path by which our entire life becomes praise.

Isaiah proclaims that all who join the Lord, love him, and keep his covenant, will be brought to his holy mountain and will find joy in his house of prayer, because that house will be a house of prayer for all peoples, without exception. It is a promise that surprises us. God does not close the door on anyone who approaches him with a sincere heart. Like the woman in the Gospel, who did not even belong to the chosen people and received what she asked for, we are all invited to enter that house of prayer. This leads me to the following reflections that I would like to share with you.

It is not enough to come to Mass or say a few prayers if, later in the week, there is no consistency between what I say, what I believe, and what I do. Living God’s will is, above all, to truly love: to be honest at work, patient with our family, generous toward those who have less, and to give alms—and perhaps our time—to the poor person waiting for us as we leave Mass. To praise God with our lives means that anyone observing us can sense that there is Someone behind our decisions.

How do I recognize that what is happening to me is God’s will, and how do I respond?

It’s not always easy to discern whether what’s happening to us today is God’s will. Sometimes life presents us with trials, losses, and long waits, and we don’t know if these come from God or are simply part of living in a wounded world full of temptations.

What we can do is respond like the woman in the Gospel: with persistence, with humility, and without ceasing to believe, even if the silence feels endless. Also, we can imitate Abraham, who learned to trust even when he did not understand the path. Recognizing God’s will is often not about guessing a secret plan, but about accepting with peace what we cannot change, and putting all our freedom at the service of what we can do:  love and serve better today, here, with what we have in our hands.

In the end, great faith is not the kind that never doubts, but the kind that persists, surrenders, and trusts. Like the people Isaiah invites to the house of prayer for all, we too can draw near to God today with who we are, what we do, and what we have, and let the miracle begin. May Our Lady of the “Yes” grant this to us.

Paula Gomez

Paula Gómez Victorica was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and lived in Massachusetts from 2001 until December 2024. She is a Certified Spiritual Director and is trained in accompanying individuals through the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. She is currently completing a Graduate Certificate in Ignatian Spirituality at the Clough School of Theology and Ministry at Boston College, where she also taught Biblical Spirituality through asynchronous online courses.

For the past three years, she served as the Director of Faith Formation and Coordinator of the Hispanic Community at St. Ignatius Jesuit Parish. Since moving to San Antonio in 2025, Paula has continued her ministry as the Ministry and Liturgy Coordinator at a local parish and at the Oblate School of Theology (OST).

For the most part, I consider myself to be a highly decisive person. Some would call it “impulsive,” and on occasion they’d be right, but in general I prefer “resolute.” Stubbornly self-sufficient and willing to face any resulting consequences, my first instincts are typically my lasting ones. I’m plagued by very little doubt or regret, and, by God’s grace, I haven’t yet met any catastrophic repercussions.

Don’t misunderstand, I’m not claiming an extraordinary capability for discernment. It’s more a kind of inner resolution that comes from a life of privilege. My decisions, even the questionable ones, have always come with a safety net for failure. Such safety nets allow for a general sense of freedom.

It’s for this reason that I’ve always loved Peter. Simon Peter, who drops his whole life to follow a man he’d just met, because he was that resolute. (I’m pretty sure his mother was calling him “impulsive.”) Peter, who along with Martha was the first to profess Jesus “Christ and Messiah,” guided not by evidence, but, rather by a small voice inside himself. He received the name “Rock” from Jesus, as he was trusted to be the foundation on which the Church would be built; the leader of The Twelve.

It’s notable that in today’s Gospel, it’s Peter’s idea to challenge Jesus to give him the power to walk on water! Jesus doesn’t ask him. It almost feels like a two-sided dare. Peter says, in effect, “show me it’s you Lord by helping me do the impossible.” Jesus responds with “I am The Impossible.” The reader can sense the excitement that’s in it for both of them. With his eyes ultimately fixed on Jesus, Peter is solid, decisive. It’s a temperament to which I can relate. It’s a life lived in full color, risk and all.

Yet, like Peter, there are also moments of doubt and denial. There are moments when the wind blows up and the waves crash around me during my own fourth watch (3AM-6AM). From the time babies are newborns, mamas’ bodies learn to recognize that window, where their little one’s grasp of sleep is most tenuous and they are often clamoring for comfort. For me that window never really closed. I manage to stuff a regular person’s daily dose of anxieties into that fourth watch. It’s a predictable, brief, dark window of uncertainty.

Staring at the ceiling, with my blissfully unaware, snoring husband beside me, I can make a meal out of every small decision. My over-packed schedule becomes a strong, driving wind. My daughter’s college course decisions become a seismic wave resulting in an earthquake in my own mind. An interaction with a coworker that just didn’t feel right at the time can catch fire. While I try to pray through it, God isn’t in the wind, earthquake, or fire. God is whispering, and my own mind is too noisy to hear.

I get the sense that for more careful decision makers, the day is littered with too much noise, and they are seeking God’s voice in the murmuring whisper found in the quiet of evening prayer. For me, the din of the day is the background accompaniment to the solo of the whispering voice. It’s the night’s silence that is cacophony.

Whether you’re a cautious and vigilant decision maker or a spontaneous and instinctive reactor, anchoring oneself to the voice of Jesus is the only path to freedom. Jesus, whose voice never diminishes and sings of your own infinite value. Jesus, whose voice comforts in the midst of stepping out into the dark unknown, assuring you that there is no reason to be afraid. Jesus, whose voice whispers in the day and in the night and in every moment in between, tells you that the wonderfully impossible is possible now.

Kelly Meraw

For the past decade Kelly Meraw has served as the Director of Liturgy, Music, and Pastoral Care for St. John-St. Paul Collaborative in Wellesley, Massachusetts. Kelly earned her Master’s Degree from McGill University, where during her undergraduate studies, she was received into the Catholic Church through the RCIA program at St. Patrick’s Basilica in Montreal, Canada. Kelly brings her deep love of scripture, liturgy, music, and devotion to Church teaching and tradition to her ministry.

Recently Kelly joined the faculty at Newton Country Day School of the Sacred Heart as the Director of Vocal Music. She looks forward to being part of the incredible Sacred Heart mission of forming women of faith, courage, and confidence. 

About ten years ago, the Lord led me to the Pauline Family. At that time, I had never heard of the Holy Family Institute. I was newly engaged and beginning to prepare for married life, carrying in my heart a deep desire to follow Jesus fully, not only as a woman of faith, but as a future wife and mother called to holiness in family life.

As I began to learn about the Pauline Family and the charism of Blessed James Alberione, I encountered a spirituality that deeply shaped my understanding of vocation. I was especially drawn to its mission of evangelization through communication and its vision of holiness lived in everyday life. Over time, I also encountered families who welcomed me with warmth and faith. Their witness helped me see more clearly that marriage and family life are not separate from holiness, they are a true path to it.

As a nurse and through my work in family ministry, I have had the privilege of walking with many families through both joy and suffering. I have learned again and again that every family carries a cross, and that no one is meant to carry it alone. My own family has also faced seasons of trial, but the Holy Family Institute has remained a steady source of grace. It has become the “glue” that holds us together by calling us back to prayer and forgiveness while keeping Christ at the center.

One of the most profound experiences of my life was a family pilgrimage to Rome with other families of the Institute. We went to deepen our understanding of the Pauline Family and its spirituality. Because of unexpected travel complications, we had to remain in Rome almost two additional weeks. What initially felt uncertain and overwhelming became one of the most powerful experiences of God’s providence and love.

The sisters welcomed us with extraordinary generosity. They provided us with a place to stay, meals, and constant care. More than assistance, they gave us something deeper—they made us feel like family. They played with our children, laughed with them, and created a sense of home.

During that time, I experienced a severe lupus flare-up that left me in significant pain and exhaustion. One night, without hesitation, one of the Institute families took my youngest child so I could rest. That simple gesture of love revealed something profound to me: God was showing me, in a very concrete way, what it means to belong to a spiritual family in Christ. In that moment, I knew with certainty that this was the family God had given us.  Since then, the Holy Family Institute has remained a place of stability and grace. It continually draws us back to what matters most: Christ at the center of our home.

This past June, my husband and I had the great joy of making our First Profession in the Holy Family Institute. Standing before the altar with other couples was a deeply moving moment in our journey.  The blessing we received during the Profession Mass remains deeply engraved in my heart. It reminded us that God never promised a life without suffering, but He did promise His constant presence. That truth has become a source of strength for me in moments of difficulty—whether in marriage, family life, or health.

In today’s world, families face many challenges. There is often pressure toward individualism, division, and distraction from what truly matters. Yet the Holy Family of Nazareth continues to show us a different way: a life rooted in love, sacrifice, patience, and unity in God. When Christ remains at the center, even the most difficult trials can become moments of grace and transformation.

My hope is that more families will discover the Holy Family Institute. For us, it has been far more than a community or movement.  It has been a home; a place where we are supported in our joys, carried in our struggles, and reminded that we are never alone on the journey toward holiness.

I do not know what tomorrow will bring. I know there will be more joys and more crosses, but I also know this: as long as we remain united to Christ and to one another as a family, we will be given the grace to persevere through all things.

May every home become a little Nazareth and may our families—united in Christ—be living signs of hope, love, and faith for the world.

Leiri Bocanegra

Leiri Bocanegra was born in Villalba, Puerto Rico but now resides in Massachusetts with her Husband and four children. Leiri and her husband Gustavo met in their parish youth group, “Agape,” and have been serving together ever since! You can usually find them singing together at church events and retreats! Leiri works as the Coordinator of Outreach and Evangelization for St. Mary’s Parish in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  She also has a nursing background in both Geriatrics and Pediatrics. She has been a member of the Holy Family Institute for six years and enjoys Family Ministry. Her biggest accomplishment has been becoming a mother.  She enjoys being able to use social platforms to help other Catholic mothers connect and assist one another through the wonderful vocation of motherhood!

Invariably, as human beings, we fail to recognize the value of others – until it is too late. When I went through my studies for the permanent diaconate, without knowing it, I spent almost five years with such a person. His name was Larry.

For four and a half years, two nights a week, fifteen men gathered at Saint Mary’s Parish in New Bedford for an education that would lead eventually to us being ordained permanent deacons. Among the group was Larry—a quiet man, not one to draw attention to himself. Yet there was one thing about Larry that really bothered me. You see, at Saint Mary’s, the chairs were metal and uncomfortable—except for one.  One chair was taller and perfect for using a computer. It had arm rests, a cushioned seat and a beautiful backrest that conformed to one’s back. I loved that chair. So did Larry. If he got there first, he claimed it. If I got there first, I did.

For four and a half years, we competed, silently, for that one chair. Eventually, we were ordained and we all went to our various assignments. Larry was assigned to Saint Joseph’s in Attleboro. Time passed and about a year later, we received an email from Larry. Larry had been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. We were stunned. A few days later, we gathered to pray with him at Saint Joseph’s.

Larry stood, weak but composed.  He said the only thing we could pray for now was a miracle. Three weeks later, the miracle didn’t come. Larry died. At his wake, for some reason, I was asked, unexpectedly, to say a few words. Words for which I hadn’t prepared.  All I could think of was the chair story. So, I told it. People smiled and really enjoyed hearing it, but the next day, at the funeral Mass, something happened. One by one, Larry’s six siblings stood up to speak. As I listened, I realized, I had never really known Larry. After their father died suddenly, Larry, at just seventeen years old and the oldest child, became the father figure for the family.

He coached the kids in sports. He helped them with schoolwork. He guided them through First Communion and Confirmation. When the girls wanted to be cheerleaders, Larry drove them to practice and, from what I understand, even coached them! He walked his sisters down the aisle at their weddings.

He was, in every sense, the foundation of that family. For fifteen minutes, they spoke about a man of extraordinary love, sacrifice, faith and quiet strength. I sat there thinking: “I just saw him as the guy who took my chair.” I had completely missed the greatness of the man sitting right next to me for four and a half years… and now, it was too late.

It’s easy to recognize Christ throughout the Gospels and maybe even in some people of our choosing. Our challenge, as Christians, is to scratch the surface, dig deeper and recognize the true Christ in all people.

We need to take the time… time to notice… time to reach out… time to say what needs to be said. Is there someone in your life you take for granted? Someone who supports you, cares for you, loves you quietly? Someone whose goodness you have simply gotten used to? Do not wait, because we have one chance—and it is now.

Jesus says, “Seek and you shall find.” The goodness of God is present in so many people around us. If we seek it, we will find it and, if we recognize it—truly recognize it—we may just discover that we are standing in the presence of someone very holy.

Deacon Brendan Brides

Deacon Brendan Brides , a native of Ireland, was educated by the Presentation Brothers in Cork City, Ireland. Deacon Brendan emigrated to the United States in 1986. Shortly thereafter, he met his wife, Gail. They married in the early nineties and have resided in Sandwich ever since. They have a son, Patrick, who grew up attending religious education and serving as an altar server for many years at Christ The King Parish. Patrick now serves in the United States Navy. Deacon Brendan worked for many years as a building contractor on Cape Cod where he oversaw the construction of many fine houses in his career. In 2013 he decided to accept a position as building commissioner for a local municipality. He continues in that position today.

After his ordination by Bishop Coleman to the permanent diaconate in 2013, Brendan was transferred to Saint Johns in Pocasset. He spent six and a half years there serving the people of Bourne. He and his wife Gail returned to Christ the King in 2021 and although they sincerely miss the great people of Saint Johns, they are very happy to be back at their home parish of Christ the King. Besides being active at Christ the King, Deacon Brendan is currently a mentor for gentleman that is going through the permanent deacon program and he is also actively involved in assessing the latest class of applicants to the permanent diaconate for the Diocese of Fall River.

There is a chapel I run to, not walk to run. When the weight of everything I cannot control presses in at once, my work, my marriage, my children, my own quiet sense that I am not where I thought I would be by now, I get in the car and drive to the perpetual adoration chapel in Natick, Massachusetts. I rarely know what I will say when I arrive. Most of the time I say nothing. I sit down in front of the Blessed Sacrament and try to be still and listen.

For a long while I thought that was not enough. I am someone who solves things. I am used to walking into a problem with a plan and walking out with it handled. So, when I first started coming to the chapel with empty hands and a racing mind, I felt as though I was failing at prayer. Shouldn’t I feel peace? Shouldn’t I, by now, be able to say the words I had been taught, that God has a plan, that this season has a purpose, that something good will come of it?

We are taught to embrace our cross. We are told that God writes straight with crooked lines, that he will not waste our suffering, that His time is perfect. These things are true, but they are not always things we can feel. It is hard to believe something is true when you do not feel it. That gap, between what you are supposed to feel and what you actually feel, only makes things heavier.

It helped me to learn that the saints knew this gap too. When Mother Teresa’s private letters were published after her death, the world discovered that the woman who radiated Christ to the poorest of the poor had spent decades feeling that God was silent, even absent. She kept going to him anyway. She kept serving, kept praying into what felt like an empty sky. Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, near the end of her short life, was visited by real doubt about whether heaven was even there, and she chose to keep believing in the dark. Saint John of the Cross gave that experience its name, the dark night, and insisted it was not a sign that God had left, even though it felt that way.

Which brings me back to the chapel, and to why I keep going even when I leave with nothing solved. I go there to look at Him. That is what I think I am doing when I drive to Natick to sit down in front of the Blessed Sacrament. I am coming to find Him. Yet, somewhere in the quiet, it turns around. I am not the one doing the looking. He is looking at me. I came to visit Him, and He is looking back, the way you look at someone you love and have been waiting for.

That is the part I did not expect, and it is the part that comforts me most. I do not have to perform. I do not have to arrive with the right words, or a neat account of my faith, or a plan for how I am going to fix my life. I can come with empty hands and a heart full of worry, and He simply looks at me. He sees all of it, the parts of my life that feel like they are coming apart, the fear I cannot reason my way out of, the places where I am not the wife or the mother or the woman, I want to be, and He does not look away. I am seen, exactly as I am, and I am not turned away.

I cannot promise myself that things will turn out the way I am praying they will. What I have is not optimism, the easy confidence that everything will work out the way I want. What I have is hope that God is present and good even when I cannot see how, and that He is holding my future, whatever shape it takes.

The peace I find in that chapel is not the peace of having things resolved. Nothing gets resolved while I am sitting there. It is the peace of being with Him, and of letting Him be with me. It is the difference between being alone with my fear and being accompanied in it. So, I keep going. On the hard days I still run. I sit down, I go quiet, and I let myself be seen. I came to look at Him, and the gift is that He is looking at me.

Maria Eugenia Layrisse de Bello

Maria Eugenia grew up in Caracas, Venezuela, raised in a Catholic family of three sisters and one brother. She currently lives in Framingham, Massachusetts, with Alex, her husband of 24 years, and their French Bulldog RoRo. They have twin sons, 21 years old, Carlos and Luis, who are about to graduate from the University of Wisconsin and Boston University respectively. Maria Eugenia and Alex are active servers of Build the Faith, and practice their faith with the support and inspiration of a close group of friends, and guided by the example and legacy of Christina Dangond and her family.

Fear is one of the most universal human experiences. We fear illness, failure, rejection, uncertainty, loss, violence, and even death. In a world marked by wars, economic instability, social divisions, and personal anxieties, fear often seems to have the upper hand. Yet the Christian faith offers a different path: acceptance and surrender to God.

The Bible repeatedly addresses fear. In fact, “Do not be afraid” is among the most frequent commands in Sacred Scripture. Through the prophet Isaiah, God reassures His people: “Fear not, for I am with you.” (Isaiah 41:10) Jesus echoes this message when He tells His disciples, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me.” (John 14:1) These words do not deny the existence of fear; rather, they remind us that God’s presence is greater than our fears.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches that trust in God is at the heart of the Christian life. Faith does not eliminate suffering or uncertainty, but it allows us to face them with confidence. Acceptance, in the Christian sense, does not mean passive resignation. It means recognizing reality as it is while remaining open to God’s grace and action within it.

Many saints lived this wisdom. St. Thérèse of Lisieux embraced her limitations and entrusted herself completely to God’s mercy. St. Francis de Sales advised, “Do not lose heart over your imperfections, but always rise up with fresh courage.” Their lives teach us that peace comes not from controlling everything but from trusting the One who holds all things in His hands.

Surrender is perhaps the most difficult step. Human beings naturally seek control and certainty. Yet Jesus Himself showed us the way in the Garden of Gethsemane when He prayed, “Not my will, but yours be done.” (Luke 22:42) Christian surrender is not giving up; it is placing our lives, fears, and uncertainties into God’s loving care.

Pope Francis often reminded us that fear can close our hearts and prevent us from encountering God and others. He encouraged Christians to cultivate hope, knowing that the Lord walks with us even through life’s darkest moments. Hope is not optimism based on favorable circumstances; it is confidence rooted in God’s faithfulness.

There are many things we cannot change: the past, the actions of others, unexpected losses, or events beyond our control; however, we can choose how we respond. We can allow fear to dominate us, or we can accept our limitations and surrender ourselves to God.

When fear arises, let us remember that we are not alone. God does not promise a life free from storms, but He does promise His presence in the midst of them. Acceptance helps us embrace reality, surrender opens us to grace, and faith gives us the courage to move forward. In God’s hands, even our greatest fears can become pathways to deeper trust, peace, and hope.

The spirit of this Christian attitude is beautifully captured in the Serenity prayer: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Although widely associated with the American theologian Reinhold Niebuhr, the prayer echoes timeless biblical wisdom. It reminds us that peace comes not from controlling every circumstance but from trusting God’s providence. Acceptance is not surrendering to despair; it is acknowledging reality with faith. Courage empowers us to act where we can make a difference, and wisdom helps us discern when we must simply place our lives into God’s hands.

Father Gabriel Tokoh

Fr. Gabriel Afumbom Tokoh is a priest from the Archdiocese of Bamenda, Cameroon, Africa. He was ordained on Wednesday, March 30, 2016, after completing his Philosophical and Theological studies at St. Thomas Aquinas Major Seminary in Bambui, Cameroon, where he earned bachelor’s degrees in both Philosophy and Theology.

In May 2024, Fr. Gabriel graduated with a master’s degree in leadership and administration from Woods College of Advancing Studies at Boston College.

Since his ordination, Fr. Gabriel has served in various capacities, including:

• Pastor of St. Clémentine Anuarite Parish in Yemge (August 2016 – August 2018)
• Pastor of St. John the Baptist Parish in Ntaghem (August 2018 – December 21, 2022)

During his time in the Archdiocese of Bamenda, Fr. Gabriel also held several additional roles, such as:

• Member of the Presbyteral Council
• Teacher of Scriptures to three Religious Houses
• School Manager
• Chaplain to the Catholic Men Association (CMA)
• Dean in two deaneries of the diocese

Currently, Fr. Gabriel serves as Parochial Vicar at St. John-St. Paul Collaborative in Wellesley.