Formed To Serve

Help us celebrate Logan’s remission by giving blood this Sunday April 12th at SLDM Parish from 8:30-1pm! Please sign up early early by using the QR code or visit https://donors.vitalant.org/dwp/portal/dwa/appointment/guest/phl/findDrives to sign up!

Weekend at the Workbench 029:
UNEXPECTED PERFECTION

Over the past several years, I’ve had the unexpected honor of stepping into conversations no one ever prepares for.

They don’t happen in conference rooms or over planned coffee meetings.
They happen in hotel lobbies, hospital hallways and early mornings, when the world is still quiet and the day hasn’t had a chance to do its thing yet.

If you take the time-really take the time-to listen inside a place like City of Hope in Duarte, California, something becomes clear very quickly: Fear and hope live side by side and trauma is proofread by no one. Age, race, success, and strength mean-almost-nothing-here.

On and off for the past four years, I’ve taken what I call the weekend shift-Friday to Monday-staying with my son during treatments and recovery at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles and City of Hope, just east of Pasadena. This Christmas, we find ourselves back again.

This morning, I was in the lobby with a cup of coffee, waiting for my boy to wake up, when I met a man-65 years old-and his amazing wife of 34 years. From the outside, they looked like the picture of health(besides the masks). Five children and eight grandchildren - a life already full. And now, a brand-new diagnosis.

A very rare form of leukemia. One of those one-in-ten-million mutations that, if you take five minutes to look it up, doesn’t usually end well. We started the way these conversations always start.
Where are you from? How long have you been here? He began explaining the technical details-mutations, protocols, numbers. I recognized it immediately.
There’s a stage early in treatment where learning the language gives you a sense of control. It’s not real control…but it lets you breathe. It’s like the small crag in the rock, on a sheer face of granite, that you shove your fingers in and thank God you found that hand-hold.

His first post-transplant bone marrow biopsy is coming up on Tuesday. You could see the dread in his face, in his wife’s. It was their first wait, their first “is it gone or is it back.” If you’ve been there, you know how fast the mind spins. You don’t even know what to be afraid of yet-only that you are.

We’ve been through this before, a lot. So I spoke to them plainly…I told him he had an extraordinary woman in his corner-loyal, present, unflinching(he threw in beautiful, too :)). I told them how many people walk these halls alone, with caregivers pushing wheelchairs but no one standing next to them emotionally. No one to carry the fear with them. They both teared up, grateful for each other, suddenly more-than-ever.

I reminded them that nothing bad had happened yet. That he was still here. That God doesn’t ask us to suffer tomorrow’s pain today. They cried again. They commented on my calm, on the steadiness and willingness to be honest. And standing there-in the open lobby, with people passing by-we all let the tears come. There was just no way around this one.

I told them about my wife and me, about how months of separation during hospital life somehow pulled us closer. About long evening phone calls-like high school again-sometimes not even talking, just being present to one another. How distance softened us and how crisis stripped away the unnecessary and made love clearer, and rise to the top.

I told them about the strange gifts that arrive with suffering: patience, kindness, perspective. How once you’ve carried a heavy cross, you start to see that everyone else is carrying one too-we just don’t talk about it, but we need to…we MUST.

They were so grateful and hope-filled. Not the kind of hope that fades-I could see it. The kind that stands next to two people who have endured 34 years of marriage-the kind that sticks.

We talked about how calamity comes in waves. How you face something unbearable, it passes, and then another arrives. And how long hours in hospital rooms give you time to reflect-enough time to see how earlier moments in life were quietly preparing you for this one.

They shared a story as proof:

A few years ago, they thought they’d be “dog-free.” Their two aging Weimaraners were nearing the end. But their daughter and future son-in-law had dogs they couldn’t manage-and suddenly, two young, energetic pups entered their home. The husband committed to walking them every day, and he did it, morning and night. Four to six miles…every-day-for-three-years.

He believes-without question-that those dogs changed his life(he saw that this morning) That they brought him into the best physical shape he’s ever been in. That his doctors are stunned at how record-quickly his blood counts recover now.
‘Preparation, disguised as inconvenience’

Then I told them about where I live-near the SpaceX launch sites-and how I often watch Falcon 9 rockets arc across the sky.
One night, this past July, it struck me. We think life is made of sharp peaks and deep valleys-violent ups and downs, the chaos of our lives, stitched together.

When you step back far enough…when you look over time…it isn’t a jagged line at all - It’s an arc, BEAUTIFUL, INTENTIONAL, UNBROKEN.
Good, bad, joy, suffering, strength and collapse - all of it forming a single trajectory.

We cried and smiled and thanked each other. I gave them a two copies of Formed to Serve - told them they’d recognize themselves in it, immediately. That ten days after I published it, my son got leukemia again. That this isn’t wasted: IT-CAN’T-BE. That this is why I sit in lobbies early on weekend mornings-because what we’ve lived HAS TO be used for more than just surviving it.

This image-the arc across the sky-isn’t just a rocket trail. It’s proof - that even when we can’t see the whole path-we are not moving randomly…there is an unexpected perfection at work. If you’re willing to slow down long enough to notice it, you’ll see it too.

That instinct is right.
This one doesn’t need a call-to-action. It needs a single, quiet turn of the head at the end—an invitation, not an instruction.

Here’s the only addition I’d make. Nothing more.

REFLECTION

Take a few quiet minutes today. Look back and name one moment-an inconvenience, a detour or hardship-you can now see prepared you for something difficult you later faced.

If you sit in that kind of silence each day,
you won’t stop at one.
You’ll start to see the arc, everywhere-and you can’t unsee it.

WWB 028 — ADVENT: THE ORIGIN STORY OF EVERY MAN’S RETURN

Advent is always the beginning - not because we’re lighting candles or counting days, but because God always begins His greatest works in the dark.

I did not understand that for most of my life. I thought light came to the strong and successful - the ones who pushed themselves to performance: the self-reliant.
I thought joy belonged to/ men who had their act together, who never let anyone make them a fool, who could always “bang it out”, “delivered results” and who believed the worst sin was being seen as weak, or dropping the ball.

Until the day I couldn’t…I wasn’t…I didn’t.
When the life I built on my own strength started collapsing under its own weight.

That’s when I reached the end of myself - and that’s where God began.

That is Advent.

Advent is the season when God steps into the cold reality of our limits, our fears, our unfinished stories,
and says the one thing every man longs to hear:

“I am coming for you - ALL of you.”

He doesn’t wait for you to get it together, when you finally become the man you pretend to be. He doesn’t wait for the stress to lift or until the pressure eases, or the fear dies down.

He comes NOW - into the mess, the uncertainty,
into the quiet desperation and into the place you don’t know how to fix.

The first Advent didn’t happen in a cathedral.
It happened in a barn -
in filth, ache, exhaustion, poverty and fear - In REAL LIFE, where men ACTUALLY LIVE.

Right now, many of us are walking into December with a private battle:
• your body’s tired
• your marriage is stretched
• your kids are hurting
• your faith feels thin
• your habits are cracking
• your work is demanding more than you have
• you can’t stop thinking “There has to be more than this…”

ADVENT SAYS:

There is, and He’s coming.

This is the origin story of Formed to Serve -
a book written in the tension between suffering and hope; sleepless nights and answered prayer,
between my son’s hospital room and my own spiritual rebirth.

I didn’t set out to write a book. God set out to remake a man. Writing became the overflow.

THAT’s the invitation of Advent:

To clear a small space in the chaos of your life
and say:

“Lord, if You are coming, then here - RIGHT HERE -
is where I need You.”

This weekend, walk into the darkness with HOPE - I know, it’s still getting darker,
but the Light is on His way.

This is Advent, THE Origin story….This is The Way.

Reflection
1. Where in my life am I pretending to be strong when I’m actually exhausted?
(Name the exact spot where you need God to come.)
2. What darkness or uncertainty am I walking into this weekend that I’ve been trying to handle alone?
(Bring it into the light with honesty.)
3. If God were to come right into the center of my life today, what would I want Him to see?
(This is the doorway to real preparation.)

Homework (One Simple Act of Advent Preparation)

Make one small clearing for God.
Tonight or tomorrow morning, carve out 30 quiet minutes when no one else is awake - no phone, no noise - and say out loud:

“Lord, if You are coming, come here. I am ready to begin again.”

That’s it - just clear the space. Advent begins the moment a man makes room.

WEEKEND AT THE WORKBENCH 027: 🎁 THE GIFT WE RECEIVED

Last year, right before Christmas, we were out delivering beds.

It was already dark. We were downtown — which, if I’m honest, is where we do our best work. Regular old tract homes from the 60s, tired lawns, busted fences. We were looking for a Unit #, so I already knew what that meant: something cramped, tucked behind something else, not meant for as many people as were actually living there.

We find the house. From the street it just looks like a small two-bedroom with a tiny backyard. Tenant answers the door:

“No hay ninguna Esmeralda aquí, prueba la puerta al costado de la casa.”

Try the door by the side of the house.

So we go through the gate and try the next door. Same answer. This time they tell us:

“Try the garage.”

Yep. The garage.

That’s not new. It happens more than you’d think. But this time was different.

We open the garage and find Esmeralda, but I also find Hector.

I know Hector. He’s a finisher for a local concrete sub. Solid worker that’s been with him for years. He recognizes me instantly — “el jefe.”

I could see it in his eyes for a split second: surprise, maybe a little embarrassment. He’s standing there in the space where he lives, with his wife and four kids, in what all of us would just call “the garage.”

But that flash of embarrassment snapped into something else almost immediately: gratitude, then purpose.

Like, Well, we’ve got beds to build. How can I help?

Within minutes, Hector and his three older kids are unloading the trailer with us. The little ones’ eyes are huge, watching those beds come out like it’s Christmas morning — like the best Christmas morning.

Hector doesn’t need much instruction. I give him a quick rundown and he’s sinking lags like he’s on a job, with his oldest boy right beside him. The kid’s maybe seven or eight, but he already knows his way around a drill. Of course he does.

Inside, Mom is making room in the “kitchen/dining/living room” — a six-by-eight space most of us would complain about as a pantry. Kathleen is setting up mattresses and bedding with her and one of the little girls. It’s chaotic and reverent all at once.

I go to hand Hector another bed rail and that’s when I notice it:

His son’s polo.

The emblem - a local Catholic school. Same one I went to from first through eighth grade.

That’s when it hits me, takes my breath away, and I try not to tear up.

This mom and dad have sacrificed nearly everything we call “normal” — space, comfort, furniture, the SUV, all the stuff we burn our lives chasing — to send their kids to Catholic school. To anchor them in something deeper than the neighborhood and the garage door.

They’re living in a converted garage with four kids.

They’re sending at least one of them to Catholic school.

No one’s giving them a standing ovation for it. They are not posting about their hard work…and there’s no Advent wreath centerpiece on a farmhouse table with the right filter.

But I’m standing there thinking:

This… this is what a fragrant offering looks like.

This is the kind of sacrifice that rises up before God as something acceptable and pleasing.

We walked in thinking we were coming to do something kind for a struggling family.

We walked out knowing — again — that we were the ones who had been given the gift. We’d just stepped into a holy place disguised as a cluttered garage with one mattress on the floor that used to sleep six.

🐻Bear with me, this is where you come into the equation.👇

There’s an old story about St. Antony of the Desert that I love.

Antony was one of the toughest ascetics who ever lived — fasting, praying, battling demons in the desert. A true spiritual heavyweight. But in prayer, he was told to go into the city and meet a man who equaled him in holiness.

He goes expecting to find another monk or some wild hermit. Instead, he meets a physician.

The guy lives in the city, works a normal job, heals the sick, gives alms, prays constantly, and tries to do God’s will in everything. No desert cave, no famous miracles, just faithfulness in the middle of his own crazy life.

This is where God Himself points to that man and basically says:

“See him? Don’t think holiness is only found in the desert. It’s found wherever love and sacrifice are poured out.”

Standing in Hector’s garage, watching those kids build beds and watching their parents quietly choose formation over comfort, I felt the same thing Antony must’ve felt:

I was looking at saints in street clothes.

This season of Advent is about letting Christ come, again, into the real conditions of our life — the cramped rooms, the awkward family situations, the financial pressure, the bone-deep fatigue — and letting all of that become an offering.

For some of us, that offering looks like Hector’s:
• Hard work.
• Hidden sacrifice.
• Quiet, stubborn commitment to form our kids in the faith even when we can’t afford it “on paper.”

For others, it might be:
• Turning off the TV when the house finally goes quiet and giving God ten honest minutes in silence.
• Skipping one more “obligatory” party and spending that time with your wife or kids, fully present.
• Letting go of one comfort — the extra drinks, the nightly scrolling, the constant noise — and offering that hunger up for someone who’s really suffering.

Whatever it is, the same truth stands:

Your life is not about YOU.

When you live like that — when your work, your paycheck, your square footage, your tired body, your tiny “kitchen” — are all handed back to God as a gift — the whole thing becomes worship - the life we were meant to live, no matter the circumstances.

WWB 026 — THE SEASON OF HOPE

Advent starts next Sunday, and before we get buried in December, I want to hand you one of the simplest, most hopeful traditions my family ever practiced.

When I was a kid, my parents always made sure we had an Advent wreath on the table — real greens, three purple candles, one pink. Every night we’d turn the lights down, one of us kids would light the candle of the week, and we’d read by candlelight. The room literally got brighter as Christmas got closer.
Even as a kid, I could feel it: Christ is coming.
The season itself carried…hope.

This isn’t just a Catholic thing — most ancient Christian traditions have kept Advent for centuries. It’s the slow walk toward Christmas… a way to let hope grow in real time, one small flame at a time.

HOMEWORK

If you want to bring it into your home this year, it’s simple:
• Build a wreath (or grab one from the store).
• Get four candles (three purple, one rose — the dollar store normally has these).
• buy a devotional book, make a thing out of it, start your own tradition and read it with your family every night.
I found a great one this year on Amazon.  https://a.co/d/j15dc0k

REFLECTION

How do you prepare for Christmas?

Do you have an advent tradition?

Will you start one this year?