World at Prayer blog
Reflections of Family and Faith
"The family that prays together stays together." - Venerable Patrick Peyton
Holy lives of inspiration | Why pray?
Some years ago, I read a story about a little boy named Eamon, who was gravely ill and being treated in a children’s hospital. His parents kept vigil by his bedside day and night. One nurse recalled walking past his room in the small hours of the morning and finding his mother singing softly to him, holding his frail hand. She said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever witnessed: in that dimly lit hospital room, it felt like she had stepped into holy ground. The boy Eamon eventually passed away, but his parents said they felt surrounded, carried even, by a strength beyond their own, the kind you can’t explain but only receive. That, I believe, is the quiet work of angels. Not always with trumpets and fire, but with presence, with consolation, with a reminder that God is near. When we hear Daniel’s vision in the Bible—thrones set in place, rivers of fire, the “Ancient of Days” clothed in glory, it feels like something out of a movie. You almost expect special effects and a booming soundtrack. Daniel wasn’t writing a screenplay. He was trying to put into words an experience of God’s majesty that words can hardly hold.
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Holy lives of inspiration | Learn more about our faith
Jerusalem lay in ruins. For seventy years the songs of worship had fallen silent, the temple reduced to rubble. And then, of all people, a Persian king, the ruler of their former captors, signed the checks to rebuild the house of God. There’s something deliciously ironic about King Darius funding the rebuilding of a temple to a God he didn’t even worship. Yet this is precisely what unfolds in our reading today. The Persian emperor, and his successors, rulers of the known world, becomes heaven’s unlikely contractors. The temple project wasn’t just approved, it came with a blank check and royal protection.
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Holy lives of inspiration | Learn more about our faith
Speaking of concealing light under a bed or a vessel, I think of a true story from World War II. In the blackout nights of London, families were ordered to cover every window so not a single candle or match lit could be seen by enemy bombers. But one evening, a single crack of light escaped from a house, and the entire neighborhood panicked; it could be a target signal for the enemy. One sliver of light in the dark sky could make all the difference. Isn’t that astonishing? Even the faintest light carries immense weight in the darkest night. Consider the curious case of Moses after his mountain-top encounter with God. When he descended Sinai, his face shone so brilliantly that the Israelites couldn't bear to look at him directly. What did Moses do? He covered his face with a veil. The veil wasn't permanent; it came off when he spoke with God and when he taught the people, but at other times the veil remained covering his face. Moses learned the delicate art of being a lighthouse, knowing when to beam at full intensity and when to provide gentle guidance.
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Learn more about our faith | Our Lady of Sorrows
When parents leave the hospital with their newborn, it’s one of the strangest moments in life. The nurse hands you this tiny human and says, “Congratulations, you can go home now.” And you think: That’s it? No manual comes with it? No training session? Not even a return policy? One dad told me he drove home from the hospital at fifteen miles an hour, with the mother and the newborn, with hazard lights flashing, convinced that every pothole was a death trap for the newborn. Another mother confessed that she spent the first week constantly checking if her baby was still breathing, until her husband joked, “If you keep touching and feeling the child every five minutes, none of us will ever sleep again.” Parenting begins with this comedy of fear and love. You’re overwhelmed, exhausted, terrified, and yet you would do anything for that child. Simeon’s words to Mary, from Luke's Gospel, “A sword will pierce your own soul too,” capture that same mystery. Love opens you to joy but also to the deepest wounds. Every parent, every spouse, and every friend who has loved knows this truth: to embrace love is to risk being pierced.
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On April 15, 2019, the world watched as flames tore through Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris. For hours it seemed nothing could survive. Yet amid the smoke, firefighters and few daring cathedral staff formed a human chain to rescue what could not be replaced: the Crown of Thorns, relics of saints, the Blessed Sacrament. Reuters, the newspaer later reported that 90 percent of the cathedral’s treasures were saved because, in the moment of crisis, people knew instinctively what mattered most. When the fire subsided, a golden cross still hung above the altar, gleaming through the ashes. That image is what Paul is talking about in Colossians in the first reading today. “Seek what is above, not what is on earth.” Not because the earth is worthless, but because in the fire, we learn to recognize what endures.
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Holy lives of inspiration | Learn more about our faith
Every week on a Monday I visit Good Samaritan Hospital in Brockton or what is now known as Boston Medicals South. The hospital chaplain once in our conversation told me something striking. He said, “You can always tell when a great experienced doctor has walked into the room. It’s not just the white coat, it’s the atmosphere. Patients sit up straighter, nurses move with more confidence, and even the families waiting outside breathe easier. It’s not that the illness disappears instantly. It’s that the presence of authority that changes the air.”
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