Reflection from Ulm

Standing in the majestic Ulm Minster, I was overwhelmed by its beauty and the sacred history it holds. Yet, my heart grew heavy as I gazed upon a statue of Martin Luther and reflected on the fragmentation of the Christian faith. The Reformation not only divided the Church Christ founded but also took countless souls away from the fullness of truth, the sacraments, and the unity Christ so fervently prayed for: “That they may all be one” (John 17:21).

Under the statue of St. Michael, the defender of truth and the Church, I could not help but feel sorrow for the Protestants who worship here. The paintings of the Assumption of Mary adorning the walls are a poignant reminder of the rich truths and traditions that were lost to them. How tragic to see this church, once a symbol of unity, now a testament to the wounds inflicted by division.

During this Advent season, as we prepare our hearts for the coming of Christ, my sadness is especially profound. Advent calls us to hope and to reflect on Mary’s Magnificat: “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord; my spirit rejoices in God my Savior” (Luke 1:46–47). Mary, the Mother of the Church, is a unifying figure for all Christians, yet she is often misunderstood or ignored by those who no longer recognize her vital role in salvation history.

Still, Advent is a season of hope. Just as Christ came into the world to unite all people to Himself, we can trust that He will one day restore unity to His Church. St. Michael, whose image watches over this place, reminds us to persevere in prayer and truth.

“Heavenly Father, I pray for our separated brothers and sisters, especially those who gather here. Draw them by Your grace back to the fullness of faith in Your Church. St. Michael, defend us in this mission, and Mary, Mother of the Church, intercede for all Christians, that we may one day be one flock under one apostolic Shepherd. Amen.”

As we await the coming of the Savior, may our prayers and longing for unity rise like Mary’s Magnificat, proclaiming the greatness of the Lord and trusting in His promises. This Advent, let us hope and work for the day when all may once again share in the fullness of the Church Christ founded.

A Universal Experience: Attending Mass at Theatinerkirche in Munich

This morning, I had the extraordinary privilege of attending my first Mass in Germany at the Theatinerkirche in Munich. While many visitors are drawn to this magnificent Baroque church for its architectural splendor, I decided to experience it as it was meant to be, a sacred space for worship. Attending this weekday Mass proved to be a deeply moving and spiritually uplifting experience.

Although the Mass was celebrated in German, a language unfamiliar to me, I did not feel like a stranger in the church. As Catholics, we are united by a universal liturgy that transcends language and culture. The familiar rhythms of the Kyrie, the Sanctus, and the occasional Amen grounded me in a shared faith that connects believers across the world. This universality reminded me that wherever we are, we are at home in the Church.

The setting added to the experience in ways I could not have anticipated. Theatinerkirche’s Baroque architecture, with its soaring arches, intricate detailing, and soft white and gold tones, seemed to draw my spirit heavenward. The early morning stillness and the crisp winter air further heightened the sacred atmosphere, inviting reflection and prayer. As I took in the splendor of the space, I noticed a painting that appeared to depict Saint George. The dramatic portrayal of the saint battling evil resonated deeply with the church’s aura of faith and courage. It was a vivid reminder of the power of God’s grace working through His saints.

Later, Leesa asked if I had taken any pictures, but of course, I had not. A picture simply cannot capture the full experience. A photograph would fail to convey the physical feeling of the unheated church, the pew beneath me, the cold brass that capped the top, or the soft comfort of the kneeler during moments of prayer. These small, tangible elements added to the sacredness of the moment in ways that no image could ever replicate.

This was so much more than a tourist’s visit to a historic church. Worshiping in this space allowed me to connect with its true purpose, engaging with its sacredness in a way that a simple tour could never provide. I left feeling profoundly grateful for the gift of the Mass and for the Church’s ability to bring unity and comfort even in a foreign land.

I'm looking forward to attending Mass at other churches in Germany, to explore the richness of our faith as it is expressed in different sacred spaces. For anyone traveling abroad, I encourage you to do more than admire the beauty of a church as an observer. Attend Mass, participate in the liturgy, and experience the Church as it was intended—a universal home where the soul can be uplifted and God’s presence felt deeply.

Prepared, Yet Unprepared

As I prepare for our Germany trip, I find myself double-checking every detail. I’ve read guides, mapped routes, and packed for every possible situation. Yet, despite all this preparation, I know the journey will still surprise me. There will be unexpected detours, missed turns, and moments I couldn’t have planned for. It’s a reminder that no amount of preparation can fully eliminate the unknown.

Life itself mirrors this tension. We work hard to prepare for what lies ahead, whether it’s a trip, a career, or the ultimate journey to eternal life. But in the end, the unknown is always waiting, and nowhere is this more true than in the mystery of the afterlife.

From a Catholic perspective, we do our best to prepare: living out our faith, receiving the sacraments, and striving to follow Christ. But only Jesus has returned from the dead, and only He truly knows what awaits us. His resurrection is our greatest assurance, a reminder that while we don’t have all the answers, He does. As He said, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life” (John 14:6).

Just like a trip, the afterlife is a destination we can only imagine but won’t fully understand until we arrive. While I trust my planning, I also trust the journey will bring surprises, and that some of those surprises will be the most meaningful moments of all. The same is true for life. God often uses the unexpected to draw us closer to Him, reminding us that we’re not ultimately in control.

As I pack my bags, I pray for openness to the unknown, trusting that God will guide both this trip and the greater journey of life. Whether it’s a missed turn on the road or a moment of unexpected grace, I’m learning to lean on the One who’s already been there.

Because in the end, it’s not about having everything figured out. It’s about trusting the One who does.

Zig Ziglar and busyness

Growing up, my mom had a knack for bringing inspiration into our home. As a HR professional at Mississippi Power, she surrounded me with the wisdom of great speakers, motivational talks, and sales training videos. Among the many voices that filled our living room, Zig Ziglar stood out. His cheerful Yazoo City Southern drawl and practical advice left a lasting impression on me, even as a kid. At the time, I didn’t realize how deeply his insights would shape the way I see the world.

One particular lesson from Zig has stayed with me for years. He would ask: “If a loved one was suddenly in the hospital miles away, would you find the time to be there?” Of course, the answer is yes. We’d drop everything, rearrange schedules, and make it happen. Then he’d point out the obvious but uncomfortable truth: if we can find time for an emergency, why do we struggle to prioritize rest and renewal? That question has echoed in my mind during countless busy seasons of life.

For a long time, I wore my busyness like a badge of honor. My calendar was packed with work commitments, family responsibilities, and church activities. Taking time off felt indulgent, even irresponsible. But in hindsight, I see that my refusal to rest wasn’t just about busyness—it was about trust. Deep down, I was telling myself that the world couldn’t keep spinning without me, that stepping away would cause everything to fall apart.

It wasn’t until I started reflecting on Zig’s wisdom through the lens of faith that I began to see rest differently. Scripture reminds us that rest isn’t just a suggestion—it’s a commandment. God Himself rested on the seventh day of creation, not because He was tired, but to model the rhythm of work and rest for us. And yet, how often do we ignore this divine design, convincing ourselves that we can’t afford to pause?

A few years ago, I finally embraced the idea of taking a proper break. My fiancée and I planned a vacation—not an extravagant getaway, but an intentional time to step away from work and reconnect with each other and with God. I expected to feel guilty about the time off, but instead, I found myself renewed. The time we spent together, reflecting on God’s blessings, was a reminder of His provision and care. Rest wasn’t a luxury; it was an act of trust and gratitude.

Reflecting on those childhood days of Zig Ziglar tapes, I realize now how much my mom was teaching me through those moments. Zig’s wisdom wasn’t just about success in work or sales—it was about living intentionally, with balance and purpose. He reminded us that rest is essential, not only for ourselves but for those we’re called to serve. As Catholics, this lesson carries even deeper meaning. St. Augustine said it best: “Our hearts are restless until they rest in You.” True rest comes when we trust God with our time and allow Him to renew our hearts and minds.

Today, I’m more intentional about prioritizing rest, whether it’s a full vacation, a quiet retreat, or simply setting aside Sunday to truly honor the Sabbath. Rest isn’t selfish; it’s how we recharge to serve others better. It’s also how we remind ourselves that we’re not the ones keeping the world spinning—God is.

If you’re feeling too busy for rest, take a moment to ask yourself Zig’s question: “Am I really too busy, or am I choosing not to prioritize what matters?” Trust me, stepping away doesn’t mean you’re neglecting your responsibilities. It means you’re living the way God intended—fully present, fully alive, and fully trusting in Him.

Rest is a gift. Don’t let it go unopened.

Travel anxieties

In just a couple of days, Leesa and I are heading to Germany, and my thoughts are all over the place. I’m excited to explore the culture, history, and, of course, indulge in some beer and sausage. But I’m also anxious, leaving our dogs behind (even with a trusted sitter) always tugs at my heart.

And then there’s the food challenge. Leesa’s allergies to beef and dairy, combined with her preference for vegan meals, make eating while traveling a test of patience and creativity. I’ll admit, I’m no saint, though I hope to be one someday, but certainly not now. When I get hungry, I can become snappy and mean, which only adds stress to an already tense situation. I want her to feel as stress-free as possible when it comes to food, so we’ll tackle this together, thoughtfully and with care. Knowing the potential challenges ahead, I’m committing to keeping my attitude in check and being a partner she can rely on, rather than someone who adds to her worry. Peanut butter anyone?

One thing I am especially looking forward to is visiting the Frauenkirche, the Cathedral of Our Dear Lady, in Munich. This iconic church, with its rich history and ties to saints like St. Benno of Meissen, is a sacred space where countless prayers have been offered over the centuries. Standing there, I hope to reflect on my own journey of faith and what it means to strive for sainthood. Perhaps the Frauenkirche will remind me that holiness isn’t found in grand gestures, but in the daily acts of love, patience, and trust, especially when life feels challenging.

In the end, it’s not about the food or even the destination, it’s about the shared experiences. The laughter, the problem-solving, and yes, even the stress, all become part of the story we’ll look back on together. Here’s to stepping into the unknown, embracing the challenges, and coming out stronger on the other side.

Imposter Sin-drome?

Every time I sit down to write for this blog, a familiar voice creeps in: Who do you think you are? It’s a persistent question that echoes through my mind, challenging my right to share thoughts about faith, theology, and life as a Catholic. I’m not a theologian. I’ve never pursued formal training in doctrine or apologetics. I’m not a priest or a deacon. I’m just a Catholic layperson with a love for the Church.

And yet, here I am.

This past spring, I attended a retreat, and during spiritual direction, I shared these very feelings with the priest. “Father, I look around and see all of these successful men, and I’ve messed up more times than I’ve gotten things right. I wonder to myself, What in the hell am I doing here? Father, I feel like an imposter.”

He looked at me with a smile and said, “You too? I can’t believe after all these years, they still let me put this collar on.”

We both laughed. It was a deeply human moment, a reminder that even priests—those we often place on pedestals—have their own doubts and struggles. That conversation helped me realize that feeling unworthy is part of being human. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being faithful, leaning on God despite our limits and failings.

***** DISCLAIMER *****

Let me be clear: I am not an official teacher of the Church. I’m a layperson who, like many of you, is learning as I go. While my time as a catechist gave me some tools and insights, I’m not an expert. Everything I write comes from the perspective of someone striving to grow closer to God and to live faithfully according to the Church’s teachings.

This blog is not a source of formal instruction. Instead, think of it as a conversation—one Catholic sharing their reflections on life and faith with others. I try to ensure what I share aligns with the truth of the Church, but I encourage you to always seek out Scripture, the Catechism, and trusted sources for deeper understanding.

***** *****

Despite these feelings of inadequacy, I’ve come to believe that lay voices have a special role in the Church. My time as a catechist taught me that we don’t need perfect credentials to make a difference. Often, what students appreciated most wasn’t my theological knowledge but my willingness to listen, to share my own faith struggles, and to meet them where they were.

Laypeople bring unique insights to the faith. We live it in the world, navigating its challenges and joys in real time. We juggle work, family, community, and personal struggles, all while striving to remain faithful. That lived experience matters.

I think of St. Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 12:12-27, where he reminds us that the Body of Christ is made up of many parts, each with its own unique purpose. Laypeople have a vital role in that body, not to supplant the teachings of the Magisterium, but to witness to how those teachings can transform everyday life.

When doubt creeps in, I ground myself in the Church’s wisdom. I consult Scripture, the Catechism, and writings from saints and Church Fathers. I ask for guidance from the Holy Spirit. And most importantly, I pray.

I’ve also come to realize that feeling like an imposter might actually be a gift. It reminds me to stay humble, to lean on God rather than my own understanding, and to keep striving to learn and grow. It’s a reminder that none of us is perfect, and that perfection isn’t required to do God’s work.

If you’ve ever hesitated to share your faith because you felt unworthy or unqualified, let me offer some encouragement: You’re not alone, and you don’t have to be an expert to share your journey. God doesn’t call the equipped; He equips the called. And every one of us is called to be a light in the world, even if that light flickers sometimes.

As long as you stay rooted in Christ and His Church, your voice matters.

Yes, I feel like an imposter sometimes. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. It keeps me humble. It keeps me reliant on God. And it reminds me that this blog isn’t about having all the answers, it’s about sharing the beauty of a faith-filled life, one post at a time. For me, more than anything, this is my therapy.

So, if you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. And thank you for walking with me on this journey of faith, doubt, and trust. Let’s keep growing together, one step y una mas cerveza at a time.

Language Barriers

Language shapes the way we understand the world around us, and as a Catholic, I’ve noticed how certain words carry profound theological weight. Take the word saint, for example. In English, it’s incredibly specific—used almost exclusively to describe someone officially canonized by the Church. But in other languages, like Latin (sanctus) or Spanish (santo/santa), the word is far broader, encompassing not only holy people but also sacred objects, places, and ideas. That got me thinking: does this narrower use of saint in English subtly shape how we view holiness? Could it even limit Catholic growth in English-speaking cultures?

This thought came to me while listening to Scott Hahn’s audiobook Angels and Saints. If you’ve never listened to it, I highly recommend it. Hahn does a masterful job exploring the Church’s teaching on saints and angels, making their lives feel real and relevant. As I absorbed his reflections, I began to wonder if English speakers unintentionally put sainthood on a pedestal, seeing it as something reserved for spiritual giants rather than something every baptized person is called to. That narrower linguistic framework, I realized, might be part of the problem.

In English, when we say “saint,” we’re almost always referring to someone officially canonized by the Church—those extraordinary men and women whose heroic virtue and miraculous intercession have been rigorously examined. While this specificity is beautiful and honors the Church’s discernment process, it can also create a sense of distance. If sainthood feels like something only a spiritual elite can achieve, what does that say to the rest of us? For many, it might feel like sainthood is out of reach—a lofty goal for someone else, not something they’re personally called to.

“Be a saint” -St Josemaria Escriva 

Contrast that with other languages like Spanish. In Spanish, the word santo isn’t just reserved for canonized saints; it’s also used for anything holy. A sacred object might be santo. A holy moment could be described as santo. This broader use reflects a more integrated view of holiness, one that includes not just the saints in heaven but also the faithful on earth striving to live in God’s grace. It aligns beautifully with the Church’s teaching that we are all called to holiness—something Vatican II emphasized in Lumen Gentium. That call feels natural and accessible in cultures where the language reinforces the idea that sanctity isn’t just for a few but for everyone.

But in English-speaking cultures, that message can sometimes get lost. The specificity of saint might unintentionally make holiness feel institutional—something bestowed by the Church on a select few, rather than a shared vocation for all the baptized. I’ve often wondered if this perception discourages people from seeing themselves as part of the communion of saints. After all, the communion of saints isn’t just the canonized; it’s all of us, living and dead, united in Christ.

This linguistic gap might even create challenges for evangelization. In many Protestant traditions, the term saint is used broadly to refer to all Christians, as St. Paul does in his letters. When Catholics emphasize canonized saints, it can feel foreign—or even hierarchical—to those outside the Church. Without proper explanation, this misunderstanding can create unnecessary barriers for people exploring the Catholic faith.

Still, I don’t think this linguistic limitation is a roadblock we can’t overcome. In fact, it’s an opportunity. The Church can reclaim the universal call to holiness by emphasizing that sainthood isn’t an elite club—it’s something we’re all called to. Every baptized person is invited to grow in holiness, no matter how ordinary their life might seem. One of the things I love most about the Church is how it highlights saints who lived relatable lives. St. Thérèse of Lisieux found sanctity in her “little way,” embracing simplicity and love. Blessed Carlo Acutis, a modern teenager, inspires young people to see technology as a tool for evangelization. These saints remind us that holiness isn’t out of reach; it’s lived in the small, faithful moments of everyday life.

At the same time, the specificity of saint in English can be reframed as a strength. It underscores the seriousness with which the Church recognizes lives of heroic virtue, showing the world that holiness is real and achievable. In a secularized culture, where role models are often fleeting, the canonized saints offer enduring examples of faith, courage, and love. By pairing this depth with a broader catechesis on the communion of saints, the Church can inspire English-speaking Catholics to embrace their identity as “holy ones”—not just as admirers of saints but as participants in the same journey toward God.

Ultimately, the word saint doesn’t have to limit us. It can be a doorway to something greater. Holiness isn’t just for a select few; it’s the destiny of all who follow Christ. If we, as English-speaking Catholics, can communicate this truth effectively, then the term saint will no longer feel distant or exclusive. Instead, it will inspire us to see ourselves as part of a living communion, striving for holiness in unity with those who have gone before us.

No Apologies for No Apologetics

As a Catholic Parrothead, I find great joy in navigating life with a margarita in hand (metaphorically, of course!) and faith in my heart. My spiritual journey, much like Jimmy Buffett’s music, is about balance—embracing the richness of the Catholic faith while enjoying the beauty of this world. Along the way, I’ve discovered a love for reading theological works and watching dialogues about the Church. Whether it’s a deep dive into Aquinas or a spirited debate on YouTube, exploring the faith feeds my soul like a Cheeseburger in Paradise.

That said, I’ve come to realize that actively engaging in apologetics isn’t where I’m most comfortable—or effective. I’ve read many of the foundational works, and I deeply admire the skill of those who can recall scripture and theological arguments with lightning speed. But whether it’s my memory or perhaps my ADHD, I often struggle to bring up chapter and verse on demand. Apologetics can feel like a fast-paced duet, and let’s face it—I’m more of a laid-back solo act.

Instead, I’ve found my rhythm in the internal dialogue of faith. Much like savoring the lyrics of a Buffett song, I prefer to reflect on the truths of Catholicism in my own time, at my own pace. There’s no rush, no pressure—just the quiet joy of contemplating the beauty of the Church. This approach has helped me deepen my faith without getting caught up in the frenzy of debates. Faith, much like a perfect day in the sand, is best enjoyed without stress.

As I’ve grown older, my inclination to engage in public argumentation has faded, much like the sun at the end of a long beach day. I’ve come to believe that the most powerful apologetics is how we live our lives. Instead of arguing doctrine, I try to live my faith as a witness to the truth of the Catholic Church—showing faith, hope, and love in action. After all, the greatest way to inspire others isn’t always through words, but through how we embody the gospel.

So, while I may not be a defender of the faith in the traditional sense, I like to think I’m doing my part—one reflection, one act of kindness, and one prayer at a time. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about living authentically, with gratitude for the blessings of both faith and this salty, sweet life. Apologetics may not be my calling, but as Jimmy said, “If we couldn’t laugh, we would all go insane.”

Charting for therapy

In the swirling tides of modern life—constant news alerts, the roar of social media, and the chatter of opinions—it’s easy to lose touch with my own thoughts. Journaling has become my little island, a place where I can drop anchor and take stock of what’s happening in my soul. It’s where I sort out life’s questions, reflect on blessings, and chart my course forward—all without the distraction of outside noise.

For a Catholic Parrothead like me, it’s a practice that combines the best of both worlds: the peace of slowing down and the joy of connecting with faith in a personal, meaningful way.

When I sit down with my journal, I don’t always know where I’m headed. My ideas tend to flow like a Jimmy Buffett song—free and wandering, with plenty of unexpected connections. I’ll start with a central thought, and from there, it branches out like spokes on a wheel. One idea drifts into another, much like hopping between islands, and before long, I’ve uncovered insights I didn’t see coming. This approach feels natural to me—loose, creative, and open-ended.

But sometimes, I need more than a lazy drift. That’s when I take inspiration from St. Thomas Aquinas, the master of theological precision. His approach was like navigating by the stars: focused, deliberate, and unshakable. He’d present a question, map out objections, and work step by step toward a logical conclusion. Where my mind-mapping style is about exploring, St. Thomas’s triangulated method is about defining and grounding my thoughts.

Both methods have their place, and I’ve found value in each. When I’m journaling to reflect on gratitude or to process big, open-ended questions, my free-flowing approach feels right. It allows my thoughts to take me where they will, much like letting the tide carry you.

But when I’m wrestling with a specific question—like how to handle a challenge at work or discern what God’s calling me to do—St. Thomas’s structured approach brings clarity. His method challenges me to dig deeper, to confront objections, and to work toward answers that hold water.

For me, journaling isn’t just about thinking—it’s about faith. It’s where I pray, reflect on Scripture, or just talk to God about the ups and downs of my day. It’s where I work through questions like, Am I really trusting God with this? or How can I better reflect Christ’s love in my life? Whether I’m mind-mapping my way through gratitude or following St. Thomas’s lead to wrestle with doubts, my journal has become a spiritual compass.

As a Catholic Parrothead, I find that this balance of exploration and grounding mirrors my faith. On one hand, I’m called to embrace the beauty and mystery of God’s creation—finding joy in life’s little blessings, much like savoring the perfect margarita at sunset. On the other, I’m challenged to seek truth, to question, and to grow deeper in my understanding of God’s will.

If you’ve never journaled before, I’d encourage you to give it a shot. You don’t need to overthink it. Start with a simple question like, What’s on my heart today? Let your thoughts wander, or take a more structured approach if that feels right. There’s no wrong way to journal—it’s your island, your refuge.

For me, journaling is more than just a habit. It’s a place where I drop anchor and reconnect with my soul. It’s where I can explore life’s big questions, process emotions, and hear the still, small voice of God in the quiet. Whether I’m mind-mapping like a Parrothead or triangulating like St. Thomas, journaling helps me live more intentionally, think more deeply, and grow in faith.

So, grab a pen, pour yourself a coffee (or a little boat drink), and open up a notebook. Whether you’re exploring life’s tides or following the steady hand of faith, your journal is there to guide you. Who knows? You might just discover your own island sanctuary along the way.

Sailors on Watch: Advent Lessons from the Helm

With Advent underway, I’ve been reflecting on how the duties of a sailor on watch offer profound insights into the spirit of this season. For sailors, the concept of “watch” is central. It’s a time to stay alert, be prepared, and take responsibility for the vessel and crew. Advent, too, is a time of watchfulness, preparation, and readiness—not for a storm on the horizon, but for the coming of Christ. Let’s explore these intersections with a little ocean breeze and a Catholic perspective.

On a ship, someone is always on watch, scanning the horizon for hazards or signs of safe passage. It’s an act of diligence and care, often requiring long hours and sharp attention. Similarly, in Advent, we are called to spiritual watchfulness. Jesus reminds us in Matthew 24:42, “Stay awake, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” As Parrotheads, we know the value of watching for beauty in life’s sunsets and opportunities to lend a helping hand. Advent calls us to lift our eyes to the spiritual horizon, looking for where God is moving in our lives and how we can respond with faith and joy.

Before any voyage, a sailor ensures the ship is ready for the journey. Supplies are loaded, the galley is stocked, and the crew knows the plan. Advent is our time to prepare spiritually for the coming of Christ. It’s the season to “prepare the way of the Lord” (Luke 3:4), tidying up the clutter in our hearts and making room for Jesus. As Parrotheads, we might think of this preparation like readying for a dock party: the food, the music, and the company are all important, but the celebration means nothing without the right spirit. This Advent, let’s prepare not just our Christmas parties but our souls, through prayer, reconciliation, and acts of kindness.

A sailor on watch isn’t just looking out for themselves—they’re responsible for the safety of the entire crew. It’s a job that requires selflessness and vigilance, especially during challenging conditions. In Advent, we’re reminded of our role in the broader crew of the Church. Christ calls us to serve one another as we await His coming, following His example of self-sacrifice. As Parrotheads, we know the joy of community, whether it’s sharing a beach bonfire or raising funds for a good cause. This Advent, let’s embrace that same sense of responsibility by serving others, reaching out to those in need, and spreading the joy of the season like sunshine on the waves.

A sailor on watch endures long, dark hours, sustained by the hope of seeing the first light of dawn or the sight of land. Advent, too, is a season of waiting and hope. We look forward to the celebration of Christ’s birth at Christmas and the fulfillment of God’s promises. For us, hope is what keeps us anchored when life’s seas get rough. It’s the knowledge that even in the darkest nights, the Son will rise. Advent is our time to rekindle that hope, singing a joyful tune as we anticipate the arrival of the Light of the World.

No sailor is alone on their journey. The safety of the ship depends on each crew member doing their part and supporting one another. Similarly, Advent is a communal journey. As Catholics, we light the Advent candles together, celebrate Mass, and support one another in faith. I've always appreciated how our Parrothead culture thrives on community—whether it’s singing along to “Margaritaville” with strangers or gathering for a cause. Let’s bring that same spirit into Advent, encouraging our families, friends, and parishes to prepare together for Christ’s coming. Being on watch, whether on a ship or in our spiritual lives, isn’t always easy. It requires patience, attentiveness, and hope. But as any sailor knows, the reward of a successful watch is worth the effort. This Advent, let’s take inspiration from the sailor’s duties, staying awake, preparing well, and joyfully awaiting the arrival of Christ, our Captain and Guide.


As we navigate this season, let’s keep a song in our hearts, a prayer on our lips, and our eyes fixed on the horizon of God’s promises. After all, the best voyages—like the best celebrations—begin with preparation, vigilance, and a little faith.



Fins up and blessings to all this Advent season!

Intensity impresses, consistency is transformational

Ahoy! It's been a while since I last checked in, and I wanted to share some of the adventures and reflections I've had over the past year. Earlier this year, I set sail on a journey called Exodus 90. Imagine 90 days of prayer, asceticism, and fraternity – a spiritual retreat that took me away from the constant buzz of social media and into the calm waters of faith and personal growth.

During this time, I discovered just how much calmer the seas can be without the constant storm of updates and opinions. It was a time of peace and clarity, a chance to chart my own course without being tossed around by the waves of social media. I realized that if I don't take the time to create my own thoughts and write, I can easily be overwhelmed by the "wickedness and wiles" of the digital world.

Over the past year, I moved to the sunny shores of Pensacola, and navigated a lot of change. While change has been good, I've found that I need a steady anchor in my faith life. During a recent Circle, I heard a phrase that struck a chord: "Intensity impresses, consistency is transformational." This has become my guiding star as I sail through life's ups and downs.

While change is a constant, I've really had time to reflect and hone in on aspects that require my effort to change. For example, I've got to take better care of my health. Over the past couple years, I've gained back over 60 pounds, and I feel miserable. Either I can accept this miserable or take action to alter the course. I don't plan on taking a violent gybe to alter course, instead implementing an incrementally consistent turn of the tiller while holding the mainsheet to safeguard the boom. Once again the theme returns, consistency not intensity...

Now, as I return to writing, I feel more grounded and inspired. I want to share more about my journey, the insights I've gained, and how this experience has strengthened my faith. I hope my reflections can offer some encouragement and perhaps inspire you to find your own moments of peace and clarity.

Thank you for your patience and for sticking with me. I'm excited to reconnect with all of you and continue this journey together.

Fair winds and following seas,

Chris