It rained for most of the morning. It wasn’t rain that comes and goes in a few minutes, leaving the sidewalks steaming in the sun, but rain that settles over the Valley and makes you forget, briefly, that you live in a desert.
By late afternoon, the rain had stopped, but the clouds remained. The temperature hovered somewhere around 60 degrees, which is cold enough for those of us in Imperial Valley to start complaining about the weather. The sky was a dull gray, making five in the afternoon feel much later than it is.
It was a good day to return to church.
I hadn’t been to Mass in a while. Longer than I care to admit, really. There were reasons, of course. There are always reasons. Some felt practical, others were personal, and a few were the sort of things I still haven’t figured out how to explain to myself.
My dad died in January this year. That changed a lot of things, including my relationship with God. I didn’t stop believing or stop being Catholic. But somewhere between grieving my father, raising my son, and trying to keep up with the ordinary demands of life, attending Sunday Mass became something I kept telling myself I would do next week. And then next week would come, and I’d find some excuse to not go, whether I was too anxious, too tired, felt unworthy, or didn’t want to deal with a restless toddler.
I think that’s one of the more uncomfortable things about being Catholic. You can know what you’re supposed to do, genuinely want to do it, and still find yourself making excuses. Eventually, those excuses become a routine of their own.
Today, I broke that routine.
The 5 p.m. Mass fell on All Saints’ Day, a solemnity honoring the men and women who have gone before us and now share in the joy of Heaven. It seemed an appropriate day to return, although I hadn’t planned it that way.
The Gospel reading was Matthew 5:1–12, the Beatitudes.
Blessed are the poor in spirit. Blessed are those who mourn. Blessed are the meek.
I’ve heard these words many times throughout my life. They’re familiar enough that it’s easy to listen without really hearing them. But today, after the year I’ve had, I found myself thinking about what it means to be among those who mourn.
The priest delivered his homily, though I struggled to understand much of what he was saying. I wish I could tell you that I hung on every word, that something he said brought me to tears or answered a question I’d been carrying around for months. That would make for a lovely story. But it wouldn’t be an honest one.
Later, I found a written homily for All Saints’ Day by Fr. Tony Kadavil, reflecting on the same Gospel. One passage stood out to me. He described mourning as accepting the sufferings that inevitably come with life while also trying to ease the suffering of others.
I’ve spent much of this year thinking about suffering in terms of what it has taken from me. My father, obviously. But also my sense of normalcy, certain expectations I had for my family, and some of the confidence I once had in my ability to handle difficult things.
I hadn’t given much thought to mourning as something that could bring me closer to God.
The Beatitudes don’t promise that the faithful will be spared pain. In fact, they seem to suggest the opposite. There will be grief, injustice, disappointment, and persecution. There will be times when doing the right thing costs us something.
And yet, Jesus calls these people blessed.
Fr. Tony’s homily also explains that the Beatitudes are not simply a list of things we must accomplish to earn holiness. They describe the kind of person we become as Christ transforms us. I like that distinction.
I’ve spent a lot of time feeling as though I need to get myself together before I can properly return to my faith. I need to go to confession, pray more consistently, be more patient, stop letting little things upset me, and somehow become the kind of Catholic mother who has everything organized before Sunday morning.
But perhaps that’s backward. Perhaps returning to Mass is part of how I become that person, rather than something I do once I’ve managed to become her.
I don’t expect one Sunday evening to change everything. Tomorrow will still be Monday. The responsibilities waiting for me at home will still be there. I’ll still have moments of impatience, sadness, and doubt. I’ll still miss my dad. And I’ll probably still struggle to get myself to church some Sundays. But today I went.
Outside, the weather had been gloomy all day. The rain had come and gone, leaving behind the kind of chilly, overcast evening we don’t experience often enough in the Valley. It was November, and for once, November actually felt like November.
I thought about the saints, about the ordinary lives many of them lived before anyone thought to call them holy. They had their own difficulties, their own losses, their own moments of uncertainty. They weren’t born with everything figured out. They kept turning toward God. That’s something I can try to do, too.
I don’t know what my return to regular Mass attendance will look like yet. I hope it becomes a weekly habit again. I hope my son grows up knowing the rhythm of the liturgical year, the prayers, the familiar responses, and the comfort of belonging to a Church that has existed for centuries.
I hope I can teach him that faith isn’t the absence of struggle. Sometimes it’s simply choosing to show up, even when you’ve been away for a while.
—
Reflection question: What would change in my spiritual life if I stopped waiting to feel ready and simply allowed God to meet me where I am?
Homily reference: Fr. Tony Kadavil, “All Saints’ Day, November 1, 2026” (https://frtonyshomilies.com/2026/10/24/all-saints-day-nov-1-sunday-2026/). This reflection draws on his published homily, not the homily delivered at my parish.
Mass outfit of the day:
