Yesterday I finally got to my "home" parish to offer a Mass of Thanksgiving. Not that it was my home for very long; I was only a parishioner of Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Quaker Hill, Connecticut for three short semesters when I was in college. Nevertheless, because I received the sacraments of initiation there, it will be always be home in a certain sense.
As I drove up to the church, I looked at the sidewalk and remembered how it was the last walk I took as an unbaptized seeker. The permanent deacon who baptized me assisted with the Mass, and among those present were his wife and my godfather, who is a captain in the Coast Guard and a professor at their academy. It was almost overwhelming to pronounce the Lord's words of consecration at the same altar from which I received my first Holy Communion.
So today, with two funerals on deck and trying to recover from a being absent from my regular ministry for a day, I am trying to remember to be grateful for my vocation. Gratitude saves us from so much misery.