I can’t imagine my life without Christ. And the more aware I become of the circumstances around me, the deeper the dive.

Being a content creator comes with both advantages and disadvantages. To amplify the Word of God using Jesus as the model is a bit challenging — because the human aspect always takes precedence, inserting thoughts that are not Jesus’ style.

More than anything, I want to emulate Him. His tender mercies and special graces seem far-reaching in this world, but nonetheless, endurance is my education.

It Starts With Prayer

We all have it! This wonderful gift from God is so very simple: Jesus, help me! Jesus, open my mind to receive You! Jesus, guide my everyday thoughts and pour Your holy wisdom over me. But when incorporating the Rosary or the Divine Mercy Chaplet into your daily prayer, the doors to heaven are opened wider. Do you want to grow in your walk? Talk to your Maker, and He will see you through your journey.

Living in Southern California, we know our freeways. We never speak in miles — only in minutes. So if you’re traveling to Los Angeles, there are many different routes available. It’s a journey. Taking surface streets could delay your arrival. If there is an accident on the freeway, slowing down will cost you time. In the same way, when you start your journey with God, you will experience many roadblocks. But if you continue to trust God, even the biggest obstacles will be removed.

The Destination

Let this be stated plainly: this journey has a final destination. Heaven or Hell. The choice belongs to each soul.

So how does one get to Heaven? The answer is not as hidden as it seems — because deep within the human spirit, the signs are already there. The coworker who has been quietly witnessing. The mother whose prayers, like Saint Monica’s, never giving up. These are not coincidences. They are signposts, placed by a God who does not abandon anyone without first sending them a guide.

But the will — now that is where it becomes complicated. The will is a merciful and extraordinary gift from God. And it is precisely what the enemy targets. The mass confusion generated by social media, by competing voices, by a culture that mistakes lies for truth — all of it presses against the will, distorting it, dulling it, pulling it away from what it was made for.

The Boundary That Becomes a Prison

The boundaries human beings set will become a hindrance whenever they seek to limit God. When a trial enters a believer’s life, the instinct to turn toward God often rises naturally — crying out for His comfort, pleading that the pain of brokenness would pass. This is good. This is grace at work.

But the trial is not the whole of the lesson.

Yet for some, once the trial fades, the soul retreats. They tell themselves God is in my heart — and then quietly step back from the sacraments, from the community of the Church, from the regular rhythm of prayer and confession. The fear remains. The emotional wound lingers, just beneath the surface. And in pride, or weariness, or confusion, the soul convinces itself it can manage alone.

This is where the enemy finds his opening.

At this point of vulnerability, the mind — like clockwork — returns to the incident. The emotion that once drove the soul to its knees is still present, still active, still unresolved — not because God failed to answer, but because the soul chose to go around God rather than through Him. Relief was mistaken for healing. Survival was mistaken for transformation. And the wound that was never fully surrendered continues to speak, quietly and persistently, it will not leave until a full surrender.

The lesson of every trial, then, is not merely endurance. It is deeper dependence — dependence that does not end when the pain ends, but matures into a daily, chosen surrender to the One who holds all things.

Be Transformed

Saul of Tarsus was not a passive sinner — he was an aggressive one. He traveled to Damascus with papers in hand, authorized to arrest and destroy those who belonged to the Way. He was moved by his harden heart, that only God could stop.

And then — the light.

In an instant, the persecutor was on the ground. The voice that spoke was not a vision or a feeling or an impression. It was Christ Himself: “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” (Acts 9:4). Three days of blindness followed. No food. No water. Only darkness — and the slow, devastating realization that everything he had been certain of was wrong. Humbleness that stood the test of time.

The blindness was not punishment. It was preparation.

When Ananias laid hands on him and the scales fell from his eyes, what emerged was not merely a changed man — it was a new creation. So total was the transformation that even his name was changed. Saul became Paul. The transformation immediate, the destroyer became the one who would suffer all things for the sake of the very Gospel he had once tried to extinguish.

This is what genuine conversion looks like. It is not self-improvement. It is death and resurrection. It’s a feeling of wholeness.

The world today is suffering its own form of blindness — not like the dramatic blindness of the Damascus road, but something slower and more insidious. A blindness that accumulates quietly, fed by pride, distraction, and a culture that has mistaken noise for wisdom, suddenly only their beliefs is all that matters. Many cannot see what they have lost because they do not allow God into their harden hearts.

But the same God who stopped Saul on the road to Damascus has not changed. He is still the healer of harden hearts and the One who gives vision to the spiritually blind.

The only question is whether the soul, when it finds itself on the ground, will stay there long enough to hear the voice — or whether it will rise too quickly, brush off the dust, and continue in the direction it was already headed.

Transformation is for the rest of a life.

The Saint Who Was Chosen Before I Knew

At Confirmation, the choosing of a saint’s name can feel intimidating.  At the time, I did not fully understand the full weight of choosing a saint. With my mother’s gentle guidance, the name was chosen: Saint Margaret of Hungary. The reason was simple and human — my grandmother’s name is Margarita. A family thread. A name that felt familiar.

God was already at work in what looked like sentiment.

It was not until recently, when that saint’s name was required for the Sacrament of Marriage in the parish, that the full picture began to come into focus. Saint Margaret of Hungary — a princess who renounced privilege, and poured her life out in service to the poor — was not a random selection. She was a signpost placed long before the road was visible.

For twenty years, that same road led me to Skid Row in Los Angeles — one of the most concentrated epicenters of human suffering in the country. There, the pattern of Margaret’s life became flesh in me. Once a month, with 300 packed lunches, the homeless were served. But more than meals were distributed: prayer was offered. Dignity was restored. The princess who renounced a throne was living again through me—not symbolically, but actually.

God Knew

He knew before the name was chosen. He knew before the work began. He had already written the connection between a Hungarian princess who died in 1270 and a soul who would one day kneel beside the broken on the streets of Los Angeles. The saints intercede. They are our companions. They are given to us not by accident but by divine intention.

This is what the Church means when she speaks of the Communion of Saints — a mystical solidarity that crosses centuries, transcends death, and binds every baptized soul to one another and to Christ who is their Head.

The name chosen in ignorance was chosen in grace.

My Prayer

Lord continue to gently move on the lost souls of the world. As You did for Saint Paul, remove the scales from their eyes. Amen

At the Edge of the World: Reflections From the Nepal-Tibet Border 

The Nepalese people are hungry — and that hunger is not only for bread. This nation is ready for a great spiritual harvest, and the fruit it will bear is already becoming visible to those with eyes to see. With every obstacle thrown their way, their resilience will stand the test of time.

Others are already at work in this region — faithful, tireless servants of the Kingdom. Among them is Ruben Rai, along with fellow pastors who pour themselves out day after day spreading the Word of God across Nepal. They carry the work. They need the support.

Another Day Another Church

Our driver arrived to pick us up in a midsize van — seating for perhaps eight. We were eleven.

Through some miracle, there was room for all of us: eleven team members plus Brian, our host pastor; Simon, the interpreter; the driver; and two of his friends. Sixteen souls in a van built for eight. The math made no sense. Neither does most of what God does.

Turning around to see how we all fit was not an option — my arms were locked firmly against my roommate. We were the world’s most cheerful can of sardines.

The window seat was both a blessing and a curse. The view was glorious. The range of motion was not. Arms pinned like a T-Rex, the task of capturing the moment — on my own iPhone, then on everyone else’s device — became something between an act of service and a feat of endurance.

A City Veiled in Powder

As the van pressed through the streets of Kathmandu, the dust rose thick with the movement of every vehicle around us — a constant, swirling cloud of powdery haze that swallowed the city whole, my lungs ached.

The infrastructure was something of a mystery. Every road appeared to be one way — until a bus full of passengers came barreling toward you head-on. Logic gave way to instinct. Instinct gave way to prayer.

To add to the beautiful mayhem, hundreds of thousands of motorbikes wove through every gap, every corner, every impossible space. They did not wait for openings. They created them.

The Bravest Man on the Street

Stop signs were few. Traffic signals fewer still. And yet, amid the chaos, one figure stood his ground — a lone police officer, arms extended, attempting to bring order to the beautiful storm. The thought arrived quietly and without irony: what a dangerous occupation.

Many times the urge to scream rose up — and more than once, it was answered not with noise, but with closed eyes and a quiet prayer. Sometimes that is the only navigation available.

The Church

After a ride through the beautiful chaos of Kathmandu, the van finally delivered us to one of the churches. Up the steps, into the upper meeting room — and the air was thick with the warm smell of curry and the quiet hush of expectation.

The converts who gathered were eager — some of them having traveled for days on foot just to be present. That kind of hunger is not manufactured. It is given.

For over four hours, praise rose to the Lord. These beautiful people listened with deep attention — taking notes, receiving, growing — each one at their own pace, each one being drawn deeper into the mystery of a God who had found them in the most unlikely of places.

The Cost of the Cross in Nepal

Nepal is a country where 80% of the population is Hindu and most of the remainder Buddhist. To accept Christ as Savior in this context is not a private decision — it is a public rupture. It begins, most often, with being cast out by one’s own family. These precious, gentle people paid that price willingly.

Seeds Planted Before the Storm

None of us knew then what was coming. In April 2015, a 7.9 magnitude earthquake would tear through Nepal, and these same people — these same gentle, steadfast souls — would be among those who had to endure it. What was spoken in that upper room was not wasted. It became, in ways no one planned, a small part of what held them together.

A Road Shared With All Creation

The streets of Kathmandu belong to everyone — and everything. Stray dogs wandered with quiet authority. Chickens darted between wheels and feet. And moving through it all, unhurried and untouchable, the cows — sacred in the Hindu tradition, treated as demi-gods, owning the road with a serenity no human driver could match.

The Mountains That Watch

And above it all, surrounding the valley on every side, the Himalayas. Ominous. Silent. Ancient. For a group of wide-eyed Americans, there were no adequate words — only the instinct to stop, look up, and feel very small in this part of the world.

The day ended quietly. Back at the hotel, we returned to the small comfort of our rooms. A cup of soup. Four walls. The stomach still negotiating a peace treaty with the native flavors. Sometimes the holiest response to an overwhelming day is simply to rest.

Tibet Border

Two jeeps were needed to transport our group on a five-hour journey to the Tibet border for a three-day excursion into the Himalayan Mountains, where we would minister to more than 25 pastors and their families. We paid drivers to take us up one way and trusted God that vehicles and drivers would be available for the return — no Hertz reservations, just faith.

Our driver spoke no English, and though he was a seasoned coachman, he thought nothing of passing buses on dangerous curves — buses packed with passengers, goats, and chickens, every inch of space used, including the roof-mounted luggage racks carrying additional travelers. Along the way, we passed countless natural waterfalls, rushing rivers, and clusters of homes built just feet from the main road.

Zero Star Hotel

Brian, our host pastor, had informed us that we would be staying in a Zero Star Hotel. My first thought: kind of like camping? Once we arrived and settled in, Brian was proven right — no towels, no toilet paper, a bucket-flush latrine, windows without screens, and — best of all — a padlock on the outside of our door. We were also provided one pair of communal flip-flops to share, a concession to the perpetually wet bathroom floors. As night fell, the temperature dropped sharply; we slept in turtlenecks and pulled our heavy coats over us as extra blankets.

The Bhotekoshi River, which had been a steady companion by day, shifted its tune after dark — sounding more like air conditioner in desperate need of repair. But the morning more than made up for it. Perfectly pitched birdsong, accompanied by what can only be described as nature’s own guitars, serenaded us with melodies that belong on no streaming service — only on God’s playlist.

Joanne, our director, informed us that we would be treating the pastors and their families to every meal. When I asked what that would cost, the answer came without hesitation: “Don’t worry about it — God will provide.” We took up an offering among our own group and covered every meal. It would not be the last lesson in humility on this journey.

A Detour and a Lesson

Before our meetings, my roommate Alida and I decided to take in the scenery. For a small stipend, we visited the Tatopani Hot Springs — walking along the roaring Bhotekoshi River, snapping photos, and losing ourselves in a paradise that awakened nearly every sense. Meanwhile, back at the Zero Star Hotel, the rest of the team was in prayer, preparing for the meetings ahead.

As Alida and I made our way back, I cracked the door open to find the entire group staring at us — wide-eyed and waiting for an explanation. Conviction set in immediately. I apologized for letting worldly distractions pull me away, a stern reprimand followed, and I quietly ordered myself a larger slice of humble pie for lunch.

Unlikely Friendships, Lasting Bonds

It was here that I met people who would become lifelong friends: our interpreter Bigyang, and Pastor Indra and his wife Jyoti Shrestha. Pastor Indra and Jyoti oversee an orphanage in the region and shepherd a local church as well. Bigyang is a pastor who travels village to village carrying the Good News to some of the most remote communities imaginable — and remote is an understatement. On foot, with minimal provisions, he and his team traverse this majestic mountain range with the faithfulness of a postman: rain or shine, they deliver.

Sessions of Grace and a Painful Return

The sessions were powerful — encouragement and faith poured forth in abundance, with each person receiving prayer. These were precious people who wanted us to stay longer. We promised to return soon.

Many living near the Tibet border lost loved ones in the devastating 7.9 earthquake of April 2015. Entire villages were destroyed by boulders and mudslides — and what the great tremor did not annihilate, the Bhotekoshi River returned to finish this past summer. Some of these people have no means to relocate to Kathmandu and continue to bear the consequences of life in a paradoxical paradise.

Among those displaced: Pastor Indra and Jyoti lost both their home and their orphanage, and were forced to move to Kathmandu, where they are still working to rebuild a semblance of normal life.

The road we once traveled is now nearly impassable. It is on foot that these faithful pastors make their way up into the mountains — because God’s work does not wait. The river claimed most of their electrical infrastructure, and generators are now essential for survival. If this stirs something in your heart and you would like to donate, please reach out directly.

These words are written with deep pain for our Christian family in Nepal. The devastation left by the glacial floods and landslides of August 26th is beyond words — the official death toll has climbed to 919, and nearly 4,800 people remain missing. Aid workers have reported that entire settlements were “wiped out.” The scale of suffering defies easy description, and the road to recovery rests ultimately in the hands of a merciful God.

The Catholic Church in Nepal — a small minority of about 10,000 faithful — is committed to aiding all those affected by this disaster. Through prayer and generous support, God will open a path forward for these souls who have given their lives to serving and proclaiming His Word.

As rescue operations continue amid the risk of additional landslides and flooding, aid workers are already flagging a second looming emergency: winter. Displaced families sheltering in high-altitude areas will require thermal gear and winter-proof shelter within weeks.

The need is urgent. The time to act is now. Let us respond as members of one Body in Christ — with our prayers, our resources, and our solidarity — so that our brothers and sisters in Nepal may know they are not forgotten.

I write these words with great pain in my heart for my Christian family in Nepal. The aid that is needed is beyond explanation, with the landslide on August 26th many lives were lost and the recovery is in the hands of God. With our prayers and support God will clear a path for these poor souls to continue their journey serving and spreading the Word of God.

A Visit to the Slum Church

Getting there required leaving the road entirely. No pavement. No signs. Just dust, determination, and the sense that something worth finding was waiting at the end of the trail.

A Community Held Together by Stones and Tires

More than 1,000 families call this place home. The most polluted river in the region winds around their dwellings like a slow, indifferent boundary. Rooftops of corrugated metal are pinned down by large rocks and discarded tires — nothing engineered, everything improvised. No preparation could have prepared my eyes for poverty like this. And the dust, thicker here than anywhere else because the roads are entirely unpaved, left me quietly wondering what monsoon season must do to what little these families have.

The Slum Church — that is its real name, worn without apology — stands in the middle of it all, and it is immaculate. Laminate flooring. Ceiling fans turning slowly overhead. A space that says: this house belongs to God, and God deserves our best.

Fourteen Voices, One Thunder

Then the choir began. Fourteen voices. And when the opening notes of How Great Thou Art rose — in Nepali, from lungs that know what it costs to praise — something broke open in the room. Tears came without warning, and no one moved to stop them. These were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of recognition — the soul acknowledging that it was standing on holy ground.

The Poorest Rich People in the World

These people have little to nothing by the world’s measure. And yet they are among the most authentic examples of what it means to bear the name Christian — humble, Spirit-filled, anointed, and radiant with a joy the world did not give them and cannot take away.

Before leaving, a suitcase full of medicine was placed in their hands. A small thing, But love always finds a way to be tangible.

The President

An Unexpected Summons

Eighteen in a Van — Again

Brian, our host pastor, received an invitation from the President of Nepal. And so, naturally, there were now eighteen of us in the van. Some things about this journey defied explanation from the beginning — and the seating arrangements were never going to be one of them.

Traffic held us up for nearly two hours. By the time the van pressed through to the Palace, word had come: the President had been called into an emergency meeting. The appointment would have to wait — and so our group waited, as pilgrims often do, without certainty about what comes next.

A Palace of Quiet Dignity

The Palace was heavily guarded and modest in scale — not the grandeur one might expect from a seat of government. But the garden surrounding it was another matter entirely. Neat rows of flowers stood in careful formation, as if welcoming every visitor with silent ceremony.

A Garden That Spoke Without Words

The festoon of blooms filled the autumn air with something close to sacred — orange, magenta, and gold rising together in colors that seemed almost intentional, perfectly matched to the Palace walls, as though the earth itself had dressed for the occasion.

Welcomed by the Secretary

Our group was received by Naraine Koivola, Secretary to the President and Administrator of Foreign Affairs — a man whose warmth made the formality of the setting feel immediately secondary. He escorted everyone upstairs to a private meeting room on the second floor.

The room itself was a quiet wonder. Above the gathering, bright, vibrant orange flowers adorned the ceiling alongside what appeared to be real gold — an understated elegance that spoke of a culture unafraid to make beauty part of its official life.

Tea, Cookies, and an Hour Well Spent

Nepali tea arrived, along with delicate cookies, and what followed was not a meeting so much as a conversation. For over an hour, stories flowed between our group and this kind gentleman — an exchange that no agenda could have planned and no protocol could have produced.

Before leaving, a prayer was offered — and with it, a box of See’s Candy for the President. A small, sweet gesture from one world to another, carried across the distance with the simplicity that only genuine affection can manage.

The Day Was Not Finished

The van pulled away and the day pressed on — because on a journey like this, divine appointments do not arrive one at a time. They line up. They wait their turn. And they do not run out.

From Palace to Precinct

From the Palace to the office of the Chief of Police — and the spirit of the day carried right through the threshold. Rabindra Pratap Shah received our group with equal cordiality, a man of authority whose manner carried none of its weight against hospitality.

Called Away, Yet Still Present

As with the President before him, duty intervened. Chief Shah was summoned into a meeting before the visit could unfold fully. And yet, before excusing himself, he paused — and graciously received prayer from the team. In that small moment, something larger was happening than any scheduled appointment could have held.

God showed great favor that day. Not in the meetings that were completed, but in the doors that opened at all — in the secretaries who escorted, the officials who paused, the prayers offered in rooms built for policy and power. Grace had moved through every threshold.

The Quiet Ride Home

On the ride back to the hotel, no one needed to say much. The encounters were held quietly, close to the chest, each person turning them over in their own way. And the glory — without fanfare, without ceremony — was given back to the One who had arranged every detail of the day.

Next week’s blog will be about the visit to the Tibet Border. Please continue to pray for Nepal’s recovery and cleanup efforts.