CMO 95: Wednesday Reflection

 

Reflection on Existence and Accountability

A Contemplative Rewrite

There are moments when I find myself pondering the mystery of why God loved me enough to call me into being. What purpose have I truly served? Whose lives have been uplifted because our paths crossed, our hearts connected in friendship or kinship? When I close my eyes and let the narrative of my life unfold from its uncertain dawn to this present hour, I am left asking—really? Is this how it was meant to be?

Such reflection brings no comfort; rather, it aches within me like an unhealed wound. Anger simmers deep beneath the surface, a force I resist unleashing, much less giving voice to. Grief settles upon me with crushing weight as I reckon with the souls for whom I am accountable—whether through my own anger, or my longing to be cherished, or the pride, envy, vanity, and ego that have colored my days.

Between what I once yearned for and what I have received lies a chasm I never anticipated. The life I imagined stands in stark contrast to the reality I inhabit.

I confess, I fear death—not the end itself, which awaits each of us—but the reckoning before God that follows. The thought of judgment unsettles me far more than mortality's close.

Ultimately, I am left with the inescapable truth that responsibility rests with me. I could point to others, uttering, “If only they had not…”, but in the end, the choices and consequences are mine to bear.

And so, again, I return to that haunting question: why did God love me into existence?

I do not speak from a place of resentment or ingratitude. On the contrary, my heart is deeply grateful that God, in infinite love, called me into being. Though I am now 63 years old, my desire to learn from my mistakes remains as keen as ever. I long not merely to recognize my errors, but to truly understand them, just as I yearn to experience sincere contrition for my failings—even in this very moment.

I have no wish to cling to the past; instead, I aspire to look forward, carrying with me the wisdom gained so that it may serve a greater good. In God, I know I will always find love and mercy—there is always the promise of renewal, regardless of what doubts may try to convince me.

My only path, each day, is to surrender all that I have been, am, and might yet become into Christ’s hands. Not my will, but His be done. Amen.

--

Reflections on Family and Understanding

A Father's Contemplation

My adult children remain something of a mystery to me. Each one, though my eldest might protest, carries challenges I recognize from my own experiences, yet the depths and intricacies of their struggles are beyond my full grasp. I see distinct differences between my two older children and the two younger ones—differences that cannot be ignored.

I often find myself questioning how much of their frustration, or whatever it might be called, is in some way directed at me, or perhaps stems from how they perceive my actions or failings. If there is any truth to that, I wish I could turn back time and undo whatever harm I may have caused—become the father they truly needed. Maybe, had I done so, their lives would have unfolded differently. This certainly isn’t the life I envisioned for my children, nor the one I hoped they would lead.

--

Mental What!?

In the quiet aftermath of these reflections, another question has begun to stir within me—one both unsettling and humbling. Is it possible that the angst and anguish I sometimes feel are not merely the product of circumstance or temperament, but rather part of a larger, undiagnosed condition?

During a conversation with one of my children, the suggestion was made—gently, yet unmistakably—that perhaps I ought to consider whether mental illness might play a role in my experience. I have since turned this notion over and over in my mind: On what basis did my child reach such a conclusion? What signs or patterns did I display, perhaps unconsciously, that led to such a line of inquiry?

In truth, I have never considered myself anything but rational, grounded—someone striving to think clearly, guided by faith, and intent on embracing reality with both its light and its shadow. I have always thought of myself as a person of sturdy conviction, not easily unraveled, though I freely admit to moments of distraction, of wavering focus and restless spirit. And yet, the possibility lingers now, uninvited but impossible to dismiss: what if there is more beneath the surface than I have allowed myself to see?

It is a difficult thing, to hold in tension the self I believe I know and the self reflected to me by those I love most. That my child would wonder about my mental wellbeing is not, perhaps, an accusation, but a gesture of concern—a desire that I be well, truly well, even if it means facing uncomfortable truths. I find myself wondering if there are currents within me, subtle yet persistent, that I have overlooked or learned to mask too well.

Perhaps, after all, part of true humility is the willingness to examine myself anew, to seek understanding not only in the light of faith but in the wisdom found through others’ observations and questions.

--

The Paradox Persists

The joy of Christ has dwelled in my heart since 2017, a light that endures even as shadows pass across my days. Why, then, do sadness, frustration, and a quiet anger still find their way in, pressing me against some unseen wall? There are times when it feels as though every word I utter trips some invisible wire, as if harmony and misunderstanding are two sides of the same coin.

But perhaps this is nothing new—did not my own mother, with a weary sigh, voice the same lament about us as young adults? In that sense, I suppose I understand; this dance of clashing longings and tangled words is part of the human condition, handed down from one generation to the next.

Would you believe, though, that my heart, after all this time, still yearns for what it first desired when I was three or four years old?

It’s true: my greatest wish is to love God with the unguarded heart of a child, to see with eyes unclouded by resentment or suspicion, to listen with ears attuned to whispers of hope, to embrace the Divine with unreserved trust. I long to live as God intended—free of drama, unencumbered, content in the gentle hush of nature where birds sing and the wind brushes my skin like a benediction. I want to gaze from my window at a quiet house while wild storms rage outside, and somehow, even there, find the face of God in the tumult.

I wish for peace—space for prayer rising spontaneously, for writing and reading, for sending cards and letters, even if the world calls such things obsolete. I want to worship at Mass on Sunday, to sing with the choir (however off-key), to linger among my Church family without haste, to share a simple breakfast with a friend after the final hymn.

Is this really so much to ask?

In these yearnings there is both simplicity and ache; a longing for a life aligned with the gentle cadence of faith, the laughter of community, and the serenity of a soul at rest.

If only…

--

The Days Ahead

The days to come are marked on the calendar with both gladness and sorrow, woven together in a tapestry only God could conceive. Today, I reserved a U-Haul truck—an act both ordinary and momentous—for this Saturday, when I will help my middle son move into his new apartment. I did this with a tremulous hand, my heart heavy with hesitation and that subtle fear that nestles in the unknown. Yet beneath the anxiety, a deeper trust in Christ persists—one that eclipses apprehension, however persistent its shadow.

Already, I have weathered harsh words from a family member who insisted, in no uncertain terms, that my agreement to this move proves I no longer want my son at home—that, by their reckoning, I had “approved” the whole thing. The truth, though, is less tidy and far more tender.

Despite weariness, and the countless hours spent in care and concern, I did not approve or orchestrate this change. Rather, it was my son’s own longing, quietly voiced to the team entrusted with his support.

When I raised my concerns, I was met with gentle, unwavering clarity: I have no say in the matter—no power to veto, reframe, or reverse. In the eyes of the state, my son is an adult; as their client, his wishes are to be honored. Thus, the wheels are set in motion, not by my assent, but by his will and the world’s workings. In this, I stand both witness and participant, learning again to surrender—fumbling for grace in the letting go.

He will not be navigating this new life in isolation. The “team”—that small, dedicated constellation of support—will check in on him each day, guiding and encouraging, helping him sharpen the skills he’ll need to flourish.

Their presence is unwavering, but there’s a threshold only he can cross, an inner work that must be his own.

Is this not, in truth, what we have hoped for all along? That he might discover his footing and endure, even thrive, apart from the shelter of family, as countless others have done—many of whom carry heavier burdens, contending with illnesses as intricate and daunting as his own, and yet have, by persistence and grace, carved out lives of dignity and quiet strength.

Why should he be denied the same hope?

It is a temptation, I know, to measure the future by the shadow of an earlier attempt, to let the memories of his first apartment—so long ago—cast doubt on the new. Yet to do so would be to ignore the growth, the slow mending, the hard-won wisdom that time has bestowed. The chorus of distant voices, those who have not shared in the long vigils or known the daily tides of care, too often seem to rise above the whispers of those who live the reality. They speak with certainty, but from afar—they have not witnessed the sharp edges or the gentle spaces of his days, nor have they watched the illness unfold, hour by hour, season by season.

Still, their judgments come, swift and sure.

But what do they know of schizophrenia, of the delicate calculus of resources and options that define what is possible here, in this state, as opposed to another? What do they know of the relentless presence of symptoms, or how it shapes and reshapes not only the one who bears them, but all who love them? Those truths are for the quiet, for the ones who keep watch—who rise each morning and hope, despite everything, for grace enough to continue.

My son is not mine to hold forever—he belongs, as we all do, to God. This is not a narrative penned by my own hand, but one authored by the Divine. I find myself reminded, with every trial and trembling step, that to claim the name of Christian is to embody trust, not only in word but in deed. One either trusts or does not; believes or does not; forgives or withholds forgiveness. There is no place for a faith measured by convenience, nor for a heart yielding only in comfort. This is a call that echoes for me as much as for anyone else. God knows how fierce my striving is.

I pray, too, that even those who raise their voices in accusation and judgment are striving, in their own way, toward understanding. Yet before we cast stones, let us pause; so often we are quick to condemn without seeing the whole tapestry of a life. How can I hope to share this story if every word is drowned out by shouts and pointed fingers? It becomes impossible to reveal the depths and contours of our journey when all that returns is accusation and noise.

Still, I forgive, because love compels me. My hope remains that, one day, love might be mirrored back to me—not because I deserve it, but because, at our core, we all yearn for such grace.

But this story was never meant to be about me; it is about surrendering to a will greater than my own. May God’s purpose find its course. Until next time, may peace abide, and may our hearts be enlarged by understanding and mercy.

--Carlos Michael