When Gratitude and Grief Meet at the Table

This Thanksgiving carried a mix of emotions I didn’t entirely expect. There were moments of warmth and connection, moments that brought peace, and moments that stirred up a heaviness I didn’t see coming. Looking back, the holiday became less about the day itself and more about what it revealed within my own heart.

The week began gently. I spent time with people whose calm presence reminded me how healing simple kindness can be. A thoughtful conversation, a caring gesture, even a moment of intentional attention created space where I felt myself begin to breathe again. I didn’t realize how much tension I had been carrying until someone offered me the chance to let it go. It felt like God’s comfort arriving in small, human ways.

I also had the chance to reconnect with friends who have known me through many seasons of life. Sharing a meal, laughing together, and catching up reminded me of how grounding true friendship can be. Those hours felt steadying, like stepping on soft ground after walking through uneven places for too long.

Thanksgiving Day itself began simply. Preparing the meal, moving through familiar steps in the kitchen, and participating in the rhythm of the holiday brought a sense of calm. But the afternoon carried a different emotional weight. I spent time with loved ones who are facing significant health challenges, and seeing those changes stirred a grief that caught me off guard. Watching someone you care about struggle or decline can leave the heart aching in ways words cannot fully express. It reminded me how fragile life is and how quickly things can shift.

The emotions of the day stayed with me as I drove home, and the tears came freely. Sometimes crying is the only way the heart knows how to release what it cannot hold any longer. I let the feelings rise and fall, allowing myself to sit with them instead of pushing them away.

Later, I faced a painful moment within my own family. Harsh words were spoken toward me, unexpectedly and without cause. The tone alone was enough to shake me. It left me feeling small, unwelcome, and emotionally drained. Sometimes hurt arrives not because of misunderstanding but because someone projects their own frustrations outward, and you happen to be standing in the path. I found myself withdrawing, trying to sort through the heaviness without letting it settle permanently in my spirit.

Through all of this — the tenderness, the sadness, and the discomfort — I still sensed God’s quiet presence. Healing rarely follows a neat or predictable path. Sometimes it shows up in moments of connection. Sometimes it shows up in tears shed in private. Sometimes it shows up in recognizing when a situation is too heavy and choosing to protect your own heart.

Maybe that is what this Thanksgiving taught me: that gratitude does not require everything to be perfect. It can exist right beside sorrow. And healing can begin in the honest places where we admit that both are true at the same time. God does not ask us to hide our mixed emotions. He simply asks us to bring them to Him.

If your Thanksgiving held both joy and ache, please know you’re not alone. Many of us carry emotions that don’t fit neatly into the holiday narrative. It is okay to feel grateful and still feel the sting of what is painful. God meets us in all of it—in the softness, in the confusion, in the ache, and in the quiet moments when we are trying to find our footing again.

This year reminded me that healing often begins when we stop pretending and allow our hearts to be honest. And gratitude grows not from perfection, but from noticing small glimmers of grace in the midst of everything else.

Wherever this holiday found you, may you also find hope. God is working gently, faithfully, and lovingly in ways that may be unfolding even now.

Where a Family’s Welcome Reveals the Gospel

“So he came down at once and welcomed him gladly.” — Luke 19:6

There is something deeply sacred about being welcomed — truly welcomed — into someone’s home. In Luke 19:6, we see that kind of wholehearted openness. Zacchaeus didn’t hesitate. He didn’t second-guess himself. He simply received Jesus with joy. And in that moment, hospitality became holy.

I didn’t think about that verse until after I left, when I was reflecting on the night and how deeply welcomed I felt in Jenn and Frank’s home. I walked in as someone who was expected, almost like entering the home of family. Their kids came running toward me with bright eyes and wide smiles, arms outstretched, wrapping me in hugs before I could even sit down. That kind of welcome warms the heart faster than any words can.

Dinner was simple, but full of the kind of joy that lingers long after the meal ends. There was loving correction. The kind of gentle reminders that help kids grow. There was teaching and reinforcing of manners, offered with patience and kindness. There were silly kid jokes and the swooping of finger airplanes flying through the air, adding playfulness to the evening. The ordinary rhythms of family life felt touched by something gentle and beautiful.

One of my favorite moments came as we all sat around the table. One by one, we shared: “The best part of our day, the hardest part of our day, what we want to ask of Jesus and Mary, and what we want to ask of the family.” Each voice, small and big, offered something honest. Something tender. Something hopeful. It was precious and uplifting, the kind of ritual that strengthens hearts and bonds at the same time. A little family examen. A holy pause in the middle of everyday life. Watching Jenn and Frank guide their children through that moment reminded me again what amazing parents they are.

After dinner, another sweet moment unfolded. I had brought Christmas gifts for the kids. The excitement on their faces was immediate. They could hardly wait to open them, their little hands ready to tear into the paper. Inside were copies of Miriam’s Heavenly Tea Party and copies of my other books. Their joy was contagious, and almost right away they asked if I would read to them.

And of course, I did.

They gathered close as I read aloud, and even though the books had just been opened, it felt like the stories belonged to them instantly. When we finished, their enthusiasm kept going. They wanted to show me their rosaries, tiny treasures they held with reverence, and they asked to see mine too. It was such a tender, faith-filled moment, sharing something sacred with children whose hearts receive God with such openness.

But it was the moment I was getting ready to leave that stayed with me the most.

One of the kids ran up and said, “I love you, Kimberly.”

Another followed with, “You have a beautiful smile.”

Then came more hugs, more kisses, and more of that unfiltered affection that children offer so freely.

Again, Luke 19:6 echoed in my heart: Welcomed gladly. Not because I brought anything extraordinary, or because I earned it, but because love was already there waiting to be shared.

Zacchaeus welcomed Jesus with joy, but Jesus also welcomed Zacchaeus. He noticed him. He called him by name. He saw his heart. That exchange of seeing and being seen is where transformation begins.

onight reminded me that hospitality, true Christ-like hospitality, has that same power. It notices. It embraces. It creates space for belonging. It reminds us that relationships are gifts, and sometimes the Gospel looks like a child squeezing your hand and saying, “I love you.”

Tonight, I was welcomed gladly. And I left carrying that joy with me.

Beginning Again: Restarting the Butterfly Girl Podcast

There is something sacred about returning to a project you once set aside. You look at it again, feel that familiar pull, and realize it never stopped belonging to you. It simply waited for the right moment to come alive again.

That is exactly how it feels to restart the Butterfly Girl Podcast.

When I recorded the very first episode four years ago, I had a hope-filled heart and a desire to create a space for honest conversations about healing, faith, and transformation. Then life shifted, as life often does, and the podcast needed to pause. A pause is not an ending. Sometimes it is preparation for something deeper.

Why I Am Returning Now

During the past few years, I have continued to grow, heal, pray, and learn. My journey has reminded me again and again that people need safe spaces to talk about their stories and to hear the stories of others.

I am a survivor of childhood sexual assault. That experience shaped parts of my life, but it does not define who I am. Trauma is something that happened to me, not my identity. What defines me are the choices I make, the faith I hold, the love I offer, and the courage I continue to build.

Restarting this podcast feels like the right way to bring my voice, my mission, and my purpose together again. It feels like opening a window and letting in fresh air that has been waiting on the other side.

What You Can Expect Moving Forward

I do not have every episode planned and I think that is a good thing. Healing and creativity both grow best when they have room to breathe. Here is what I hope you will find in this new season of the Butterfly Girl Podcast:

• Honest conversations about what healing really looks like

• Reflections on faith that come from lived experience and prayer

• Personal stories that show growth, struggle, joy, and the quiet courage to keep going

• Guest conversations with survivors, teachers, therapists, faith leaders, writers, and others who carry wisdom

• Encouragement for anyone who is trying to rebuild, rediscover, or reclaim their voice

Some episodes will be simple and reflective. Others may be full of storytelling or practical guidance. All of them will be rooted in hope and honesty.

What I Hope This Podcast Offers

My deepest hope is that this podcast becomes a gentle and steady space. A place where people feel seen, heard, and understood. A place where truth and grace live side by side.

I hope a survivor listens and feels less alone. I hope someone in a season of waiting finds a little more faith for the road ahead. I hope a parent or teacher learns how to support a child who is hurting. I hope someone who feels lost hears something that helps them breathe again.

Healing does not happen in silence. It happens when stories are shared, when voices rise, and when we remember that transformation is possible at any stage of life.

Thank You for Being Here

If you have followed my writing, my books, or my journey, thank you. If you are new here, welcome. You are part of this new beginning just by reading these words.

New episodes of the Butterfly Girl Podcast will be released on Sunday mornings. They will be moments of connection, reflection, and encouragement as the week begins.

You can follow the podcast for free on Spotify but you will need to download the app on your phone,
or go to the podcast section of my website.

Here is to beginning again. Here is to courage and hope. Here is to the butterfly inside each of us, ready to grow and fly in its own time. Welcome back to the Butterfly Girl Podcast.

When Heaven Spoke in Color: Faith in the Northern Lights

Last night, the heavens above Fargo were alive with color as they were across the country. The Northern Lights shimmered across the sky in brilliant shades of red and green, filling hearts with awe and gratitude. I did not take these particular photos, but when I saw them, I instantly felt the same sense of wonder that so many experienced beneath that glowing sky. It was as if creation itself was worshiping, and for a few quiet moments, we were invited to join in.

The Northern Lights have always been a marvel of both science and spirit. We know that they occur when particles from the sun collide with our atmosphere, creating waves of color that ripple through the sky. Yet for those who watch in silence, it often feels like something more. It feels like a whisper from God, reminding us that His presence is not distant or confined to a church building. It moves and breathes in the world He made, lighting up even the darkest night.

In Scripture, light has always been a symbol of God’s presence. From the burning bush that called to Moses, to the pillar of fire that guided the Israelites, to the dazzling light of Christ’s Transfiguration, the message has always been the same: God is near. He reveals Himself not only in words, but in wonder. The radiant red that filled the sky last night felt like a living reflection of that truth.

The deep hues reminded me of the Holy Spirit, often represented as fire and light. It is the same Spirit that hovered over the waters at the beginning of creation, the same Spirit that descended upon the apostles at Pentecost, filling them with courage and renewal. Perhaps this brilliant display of light was a gentle reminder that the Spirit still moves through creation today, filling us with peace, awe, and faith when we take the time to look up.

As I gazed at the photos this morning, I could not help but think of how God continues to reach out to us through beauty. The world can feel chaotic and heavy at times, yet God’s artistry never stops. He paints reminders of hope across the heavens, inviting us to slow down and see His love written into the fabric of the universe. The Northern Lights are a reminder that the same Creator who shaped galaxies and starlight also shaped each of us, breathing life into our souls and purpose into our days.

Moments like these call us to gratitude. Gratitude for the mystery that keeps us humble, for the beauty that awakens our hearts, and for a Creator who never stops speaking through His creation. Even when clouds cover the stars or storms fill the air, the light is still there, waiting to break through.

Though I did not take these photographs myself, they capture something eternal: the way God’s light continues to reach us. It shines above us, around us, and within us. It reminds us that faith is not just something we hold in our hearts; it is something we can see reflected in the sky. And when we lift our eyes to that glowing canvas, we are reminded once again that God is still painting hope across the night.

**Note: Photos were shared on the Fargo/Moorhead/Area Community Page on Facebook and are being used with permission from the photographers.**

Faith, Freedom, and Service: A Veterans Day Reflection

Each year on November 11, we pause to honor the brave men and women who have served in the Armed Forces, ordinary people who answered an extraordinary call. Veterans Day invites us not only to remember their courage but also to recognize the deep faith that often sustains such service.

For many who have worn the uniform, faith has been their anchor in uncertain times — the quiet prayer before a mission, the whispered Psalm in the darkness, the cross tucked into a pocket as a reminder that God walks with them even in the valley of shadows. Their service reflects Christ’s teaching in John 15:13: “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

As people of faith, we are called to remember that freedom itself is a gift, and with that gift comes responsibility to serve others, to protect the vulnerable, and to work for peace. Veterans have embodied that call through sacrifice and steadfast devotion. Their courage reminds us that true strength often comes not from power, but from love and faith lived out in action.

This Veterans Day, may we not only express gratitude but also lift up every veteran in prayer:

• For healing of body, mind, and spirit.
• For comfort to families who carry memories of loss and love.
• For the grace of peace in a world that still longs for it.

In every flag that waves, every note of “Taps,” and every quiet moment of remembrance, may we see the hand of God guiding our nation toward compassion, justice, and unity.

Let us give thanks for all who have served, and recommit ourselves to living lives worthy of their sacrifice, rooted in faith, hope, and love.

Today I remember and pray particularly for those in my life who have served in one of the branches of the Armed Forces. 

• Bob Becker (Grandpa) - Army
• Frank Wujek - Navy
• Janean Doherty - Navy
• Jeff and Jocelyn Wujek - Navy
• Jason Motter - Marines
• Jay Stabler (Uncle) - Army
• Tim Glass - National Guard
• Mitch McCoy - National Guard
• Norman Souba (Grandpa) - Army
• Matt Levy (Navy)
• And many more

Lord, bless our veterans and all who continue to serve. May Your light shine upon them and bring peace to their hearts.

Forever and Ever, Amen: A Weekend of Music, Memories, and Meaning

Last night I went to the Randy Travis concert in Grand Forks, alone. That’s not something I usually do, but something inside me said to go. And I’m so glad I listened.

The concert was unlike anything I’ve experienced. Though Randy’s stroke has changed his ability to sing, his presence filled the arena with grace, gratitude, and quiet strength. You could feel his heart in every smile, every wave, every lyric shared through the voice of James Dupré, who sang Randy’s songs with deep reverence. The original Randy Travis Band played alongside him, giving the evening an authenticity that felt like stepping back in time.

When the first notes of Forever and Ever, Amen filled the room, I felt my throat tighten and my eyes well up. That song has always been my favorite and one of my grandparents’ favorites, too. They didn’t sing along to the radio, but they loved Randy’s music, the way it carried messages of faithfulness, love, and devotion that matched the kind of life they lived. Hearing it performed again stirred a deep nostalgia. 

Being there alone gave me space to feel it all — the memories, the inspiration, and the reminder that even when life changes in ways we never expect, beauty can still emerge. Watching Randy on stage, surrounded by those who’ve walked the journey with him, was a powerful picture of resilience and grace.

Tonight, I carried that spirit with me as I volunteered at the Sts. Anne and Joachim Fall Festival. After the emotional night before, it felt grounding to spend time in community, meeting new people, laughing, sharing food, and chatting with those I’m still getting to know.

There’s something sacred in those small interactions: a familiar face offering a smile, a new acquaintance becoming a friend. Volunteering reminded me that while music can stir the soul, connection is what sustains it.

As I reflect on this weekend, I’m reminded that inspiration often comes when we step a little outside our comfort zone whether it’s going to a concert alone or saying yes to a volunteer opportunity. Both moments filled my heart in different ways.

Faith, love, and community — that’s the melody I’m taking with me this week.

Rediscovering Friendship in God’s Timing

Today I was blessed to spend several hours with a Sister I have known since 2003 but have only recently begun to know more deeply. It amazes me how God can take someone who has been quietly present on the edges of your life for years and bring them closer when your heart is finally ready to receive the friendship He intended.

This Sister is part of the Religious Community I once called home, the same community where I spent five transformative years discerning my vocation. Those were sacred years of prayer, formation, and growth, as I sought to understand God’s will for my life and where He was calling me to serve. Over time, I came to realize that my vocation was not to Religious Life but rather to serve Christ as a single woman, loving and serving others within the Church and the world through my daily work, relationships, and quiet acts of compassion.

Leaving Religious Life was not easy. It meant stepping into the unknown and trusting that God’s plan for me would continue to unfold in ways I could not yet imagine. Looking back, I can see how He never stopped guiding me. He simply redirected my path so that I could serve Him in a different yet deeply meaningful way.

Now, all these years later, God has brought this Sister back into my life in a new light. For more than two decades, I recognized her face, her smile, and her gentle spirit. We crossed paths at events, exchanged polite greetings, and went our separate ways. I always admired her from a distance for her kindness, wisdom, and peaceful way of being, but I never really knew her story, her laughter, or her heart.

In recent months, something began to change. Our conversations have grown deeper, and our time together has become more intentional and meaningful. I have always known Sister to be a woman of deep prayer and faith, yet now I am beginning to see more of the gentle joy, kindness, and humble humor that flow from her closeness with God.

Today, as we sat together for hours, I felt a calm joy that is difficult to describe. It wasn’t excitement or adrenaline; it was a deep peace that assured me I was exactly where I was meant to be, doing exactly what I was meant to do. Simply being present.

This experience made me reflect on how many people God places in our lives — some for a short time, others for a lifetime — and how often it takes time for those reasons to unfold. Sometimes we think we know someone because we have known of them, but a deeper kind of knowing happens when we slow down long enough to truly listen, to share stories, and to see the image of Christ reflected in another person.

I am grateful for this Sister and for her prayers, her laughter, and her friendship. I am also thankful for the quiet joy of reconnecting with someone from a Community that helped shape who I am today. Our time together reminded me that discernment is not a single moment in time. It is a lifelong journey of listening to God’s voice in the people and moments He places along the way.

Tonight my heart is full. What a gift it is to rediscover someone I have known for years and realize that perhaps, all along, God was simply waiting for this season for both of us to bloom in our friendship together.

Sometimes God brings people back into our lives not by accident, but by invitation. When we slow down long enough to listen, we may find that the same person who once crossed our path casually is now meant to walk beside us intentionally.

Who might God be inviting you to see with new eyes today?

Rereading No More Faking Fine: A Return to Honest Lament

I pulled No More Faking Fine off my bookshelf again this week; its familiar underlines and dog-eared pages a reminder of where I once was - and where God has brought me since. The first time I read Esther Fleece Allen’s book, a decade ago, I was desperate for permission to not be okay. Her words, raw and real, gave me that permission. She reminded me that lament is not weakness; it’s worship.

Now, rereading it with a few more miles of healing behind me, I see new layers. Before, I read it through the lens of pain — through tears and exhaustion. This time, I read it through the lens of gratitude. God has met me in the places I once tried to hide, and I can now recognize how He used those seasons to shape my compassion, faith, and voice.

I’ve followed Esther on social media for years because I see so much of my own story in hers. She’s open about the ache of abandonment, the confusion of unanswered prayers, and the beauty that can still bloom in broken places. Her honesty continues to inspire me to stay authentic in my own journey, whether I’m writing, creating, or simply showing up as I am. It’s refreshing to see someone model what it looks like to live faithfully and vulnerably, without glossing over the hard parts.

Her second book, Your New Name, beautifully builds on the message of No More Faking Fine. In it, she explores how God gives us new names—names that speak of redemption, belonging, and identity in Christ rather than shame or past labels. That message struck a deep chord with me. For years, I carried names that were never meant for me: unworthy, broken, too much, not enough. But like Esther writes, God is in the business of renaming us. Through His grace, I’ve begun to embrace the names He’s given me instead: beloved, restored, chosen, free.

Both of her books speak to the rhythm of healing—first learning to lament, then learning to live with new purpose. No More Faking Fine gives you permission to bring your pain to God; Your New Name reminds you that your pain doesn’t define you. Together, they echo the gospel truth: that God meets us in our sorrow and leads us into a new identity.

These aren’t just books I’ve read once and set aside. I’ve reread them four or five times over the years, and each time, something new speaks to me—something that meets me right where I am. I’ve also given away more than two dozen copies of each to friends, family, and even strangers who needed hope. I keep extras on my shelf because I know the message will reach someone at just the right moment, the same way it reaches me every time I read them.

Esther's reminder that “God can handle our honesty” still hits hard. It’s easy to slip back into performing and pretending I’m fine to avoid discomfort or to meet others’ expectations. But honest faith doesn’t fear the truth. Honest faith says, “Here I am, Lord - hurt, hopeful, and still believing.”

If you’ve ever found yourself faking fine, smiling when you want to cry, or showing up when your soul feels heavy, this book is worth reading (or rereading). It’s not a how-to guide on fixing your feelings; it’s a gentle invitation to bring your whole heart to God.

As I close its pages once again, I’m reminded that authenticity is not the absence of pain but the presence of truth, and that’s where real healing begins.

If I could, I’d give Esther Fleece Allen 1,000,000 stars. Her words continue to heal hearts, point people back to Jesus, and remind us all that we don’t have to fake fine to be fully loved. 

Be Not Afraid: Reflections on Healing and Trust

Yesterday brought an unexpected reminder of faith and courage. I found myself sitting in a waiting room, uncertain about what the afternoon/evening would bring. It wasn’t a place anyone looks forward to, but sometimes life slows us down just enough to make us listen to our bodies, our hearts, and to God’s quiet voice within us.

As I sat there, I thought of the woman in Scripture who had been hemorrhaging for twelve years (Mark 5:25–34). Her story has always touched me, but this time it felt especially close. She lived with uncertainty and pain, yet she never stopped believing in the possibility of healing. With quiet courage, she reached out to touch the hem of Jesus’ cloak, and in that moment of faith, everything changed. Jesus didn’t just heal her physically, He looked into her soul and said, “Daughter, your faith has made you well.”

That story is one of courage in the face of fear. And today, on the Feast of Pope St. John Paul II, those same words he so often spoke - Be not afraid” - echo through my heart. He faced immense suffering in his life, yet he carried hope with him wherever he went. His faith didn’t erase the challenges he faced; it illuminated them with peace.

I think that’s what faith is meant to do. It doesn’t always give us immediate answers or clear outcomes, but it gives us something better. It gives us trust. The kind of trust that reminds us we don’t walk through uncertainty alone. The kind that allows us to breathe, pray, and rest in God’s presence, even when the path ahead feels unclear.

Yesterday reminded me that faith can look quiet. It can look like patience, like seeking help, or like waiting with grace. It’s the steady belief that God is already at work, even when we can’t see how.

So today, as I reflect on St. John Paul II’s life and the faith of the woman who reached for Jesus, I carry those three words close to my heart: Be not afraid. Whatever we face, may we reach out in faith, trust that God sees us, and find peace in knowing that we are never alone.

Lord Jesus, When we feel uncertain or afraid, help us to remember Your words: “Do not be afraid; just have faith.” Give us the courage to reach out to You as the woman in the Gospel did and to trust that even the smallest act of faith can open the door to grace. Teach us to rest in Your timing, to find peace in Your presence, and to believe that You are working for my good even when I cannot see it. Through the intercession of Pope St. John Paul II, may we learn to live with faith that is bold, hope that is steady, and love that never fails. Amen.

Witnessing a Heart Awakened to Christ

Tonight, I attended the new parishioner event at Sts. Anne and Joachim Catholic Church, and it felt like stepping into the warmth of a family I didn’t know I was missing. The parish social hall glowed softly beneath the warm lights, filled with friendly conversation and the hum of community. Along one side of the room, a table was beautifully set with trays of hors d’oeuvres - bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, cheeses, fruit, chips and dip, and cheesecake - that seemed to invite people to gather, linger, and talk. The joyful giggles of children playing on the stage echoed through the room like music. It was the sound of life, of faith being lived out in real time through fellowship, welcome, and joy.

By God’s gentle design, I found myself seated at a table with Kelvin, a gentleman I had met a few months ago. I remembered his warmth and sincerity right away, but tonight I noticed something even more radiant: a deep, unmistakable fire for the Lord. As we talked, Kelvin shared that he’s currently in the OCIA program and will be entering the Catholic Church this November. His eyes lit up as he spoke about yearning for Jesus in the Eucharist, describing it with such purity and conviction that it caught my breath. His longing was not merely intellectual; it was the kind that springs from the soul, a holy ache for union with Christ.

Listening to him speak took me back nearly three decades, to my own journey into the Catholic Church in 1997. I could almost feel the same anticipation stirring within me again, that mixture of wonder, humility, and reverence filling my heart when I first knelt before the Blessed Sacrament, knowing that Jesus was truly present. Kelvin’s story rekindled that sacred awe and reminded me of how faith, once awakened, continues to grow and deepen in ways we can never fully predict.

I thought about how the Holy Spirit weaves these encounters into our lives, connecting one person’s story of conversion to another’s story of renewal. Perhaps that is how God draws us closer, through the quiet intersections of faith shared over simple conversations and hors d’oeuvres, laughter and grace, old memories and new beginnings.

As the evening came to an end, I lingered for a moment before leaving. The children were still laughing and playing on the stage. Their joy echoed like a benediction over the room. I closed my eyes for a second, offering a silent prayer of gratitude for Kelvin’s courage and zeal, for the beauty of our Church, and for the reminder that God is always at work, awakening hearts to His love in ways both grand and gentle.

Walking out into the cool night air, I felt that same warmth within me: a quiet renewal, a rekindled flame. What a blessing it is to witness someone discovering the treasure that has sustained me all these years. And what a gift to be reminded that conversion is not a single moment in time, but a lifelong invitation to fall in love with Christ again and again.

Lord Jesus, thank You for the gift of Your presence in the Eucharist,
the source and summit of our faith. Thank You for the ways You reveal
Yourself through others, through stories, conversations, and moments that
remind us of Your nearness. Bless Kelvin as he prepares to enter Your Church,
and bless all who are still searching for You. Rekindle in each of us
the fire of Your love, that our hearts may burn brightly with faith, gratitude, and joy. 

Amen.