Thoughts, Prayers & Art

Lately, I find myself drawn into deeper reflections on my spiritual journey, as though the threads of my past, present, and future are weaving together in ways I can no longer ignore. Perhaps it’s the growing chorus of voices encouraging me to publish something new—a call to share my thoughts and experiences in another work. But this time feels different. I don’t want to create just another book or collection of reflections. Instead, my heart stirs toward something much deeper, something profoundly personal: my autobiography.

My life has been filled with sacred encounters, lessons, and moments of grace that defy easy summary, a story far richer than any short publication could capture. Yet even as the idea begins to take root, I hesitate, uncertain if I am truly ready to embrace such a vulnerable undertaking. Still, I find myself reflecting, remembering, and pondering, as though the Spirit is inviting me to embark on this journey of rediscovery and storytelling.

As far back as I can remember, my life has been divenly knit together with threads of the sacred, the unseen, and the unexplainable. These moments have often felt like the quiet whispers from God, beckoning me toward the path I now walk as a priest, pastor, and spiritual guide. But one particular moment stands out as the beginning of this call—a moment so extraordinary that it still lives vividly in my memory. It wasn’t a vision or dream, nor was it a child’s overactive imagination. It was a deeply real, spiritual encounter that began my journey toward recognizing the divine in my life and my work.

I was no more than three or four years old. A tiny girl sitting in my bedroom, coloring with the innocent focus that only a child can possess. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of my AM radio—one of my prized possessions at the time, shaped like and adorned with a decal character of Fonzie from Happy Days. I can still picture the way the room felt, bathed in the soft, golden light of the afternoon.

And then, he walked in.

My grandfather—a man I never met, a man who passed away long before I was born—entered the room. There was no mistaking who he was, even though I never saw a photograph of him before this day. He exuded a presence that was both peaceful and assured, as if he simply stepped out of eternity to visit me in that moment. He didn’t say much, if anything at all. But his presence was profound, leaving an indelible mark on my heart. He picked up my Fonzie radio and smiled, as though to acknowledge something I didn’t yet understand. It felt like a blessing, an affirmation of who I was, even though I was only a child.

My excitement was immediate and irrepressible. I ran out of my room to find my mother in the living room, eager to share what just happened. I wanted her to know that my grandfather visited me, that he was in my room, right there with me. But instead of meeting my joy with curiosity or wonder, she dismissed my experience. “You must have seen pictures of him,” she said matter-of-factly, brushing aside my description of him. Her disbelief felt like a quiet deflation of my wonder. Now, though, with the wisdom of years, I understand her response differently. The spirit world, or anything holy for that matter, frightens her. It challenges the boundaries of what she knows and feels safe accepting. That would prove over and over again throughout my life.

Even as a young child, I knew the truth of what happened. My grandfather had come to visit me, not as a ghost but as a guide. It was a sacred moment, one that assured me of a greater reality beyond what I could see or touch. It was as though he came to bless me on a journey I hadn’t yet begun to imagine.

At that age, I didn’t have the language to describe what I felt or the understanding to see it as part of a spiritual call, but I carried that moment with me, tucked into the quiet corners of my heart, a seed of faith waiting to grow. I’d look back on that day every time I wondered how I came to be or why I was where I was, as if I knew somehow in the midst of my mother’s disbelief, I had a divine call, a mission that was somehow greater than the both of us.

That encounter did not stand alone. Over the years, there have been others—moments where the veil between the seen and unseen thinned, and I felt the unmistakable presence of God or those who have gone before me. These moments have been like markers along the road, guiding me closer to my call. This encounter with my grandfather was the first I can remember, and in many ways, it laid the foundation for all the others. It was the moment I began to sense that my life was part of something much larger, that there was a holy thread weaving its way through my days, pulling me toward a purpose I would only come to understand much later.

As I reflect on this now, I see how deeply rooted this experience is in my spiritual call. My ministry is not just about preaching, teaching, or even pastoring—it’s about holding space for the sacred in all its forms. It’s about recognizing and honoring those moments when the divine breaks through the ordinary, reminding us of who we are and whose we are. My grandfather’s visit was one of those moments, a holy interruption that set my life on a trajectory I am still following. It was as if he came to plant the seed of my call, assuring me—even at such a tender age—that I was seen, known, and loved by God.

This experience also taught me something essential about faith: it is not always something others will understand or validate. My mother’s doubt and dismissal could have made me question what I saw, but instead, it strengthened my conviction and instead left me questioning why she was and is so afraid.

Faith often requires us to trust in what we know to be true, even when the world around us cannot or will not confirm it. This lesson has served me well, not only in my personal spiritual journey but also in my ministry. It has given me the courage to trust the Spirit’s movement, even when it defies logic or explanation. Even when the world seems so uncertain and scary.

Today, as I reflect on that first sacred moment, I feel a deep sense of gratitude. For my grandfather, whose visit reassured a little girl of her worth and purpose. For the God who orchestrates these encounters, planting seeds of faith in the most unexpected places. And for the path I have walked since then—a path that has led me into a life of service, love, and deep connection with the holy. It has not always been a smooth path, that’s for sure. Plenty of mistakes, heartache, and pain, but each challenge, every lesson has led to where I am, deepening my faith and leading me onward.

This story is more than a memory; it is a cornerstone of my faith and my calling. It reminds me that God’s presence is always with us, even in the quiet moments of our lives from birth to death and beyond. It reminds me that we are never alone, that we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, seen and unseen. And it reminds me of the sacred responsibility I have to honor those moments of divine connection—not just in my own life, but in the lives of those I am called to serve.

My grandfather’s visit was the beginning, but it was only the first of many moments that have shaped my journey. Each one has been a reminder of the sacred thread that runs through all of life, binding us to one another and to God. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.