A Reflection on Returning to Daily Mass

It happened quietly. No thunder. No sign in the sky.

Just morning light streaming through stained glass on a Thursday.

After months away, I found myself returning to daily Mass.

It had been a couple of months, maybe more, since I last stepped into that quiet church before most of the world stirred awake. I told myself I was taking a sabbatical. I had stepped away from the rhythm of early mornings and weekday liturgies to care for my family. My son needed me at home. There were struggles we needed to face together. I don’t regret that time. But I’ve come to realize how much I needed the Church, too.

It was Ascension Thursday. I had to go, yes, but that wasn’t the reason. I went because something in me was begging to return. That voice inside kept saying, go back.

And the moment I walked in, I remembered why I ever started going in the first place.

The light was soft and golden. The regulars were there, smiling like always. My lips moved through the prayers like I had never missed a day. There was no dramatic revelation. Just peace.

And just like that, it felt like my roots were drinking deep again.

There’s a Psalm that’s been stuck in my heart lately. A verse I keep returning to, tucked into the very first Psalm:

“He is like a tree planted near streams of water,
that yields its fruit in season;
Its leaves never wither;
whatever he does prospers.”

That verse has always meant something to me. But right now, it’s hitting differently.

I’ve been asking myself if I’m really planted near the water. Or if I’ve wandered. If my roots have drifted toward shallow puddles — something that dried up and couldn’t sustain me.

Back when I was going to daily Mass, I was filled with life. I was joyful. I volunteered. People could see the Spirit in me. I felt Him moving in me. Not because I was doing anything special. It was just that I was close to the water.

The church became my stream. And Jesus, truly present in the Eucharist, was the source of that living water.

But when I stepped away, something shifted.

I didn’t feel it right away. But over time, it caught up with me. My screen time went through the roof. My prayer life coasted. I was tired more often. Lazy in the mornings. I started giving in more. Nothing major. Just those little things that slowly pull your heart away without you even noticing.

And the voice kept coming back. Go back.

But it was always easier to say, not today. Too tired. Too busy. Not feeling it.

Until I finally listened.

There was no powerful homily that morning. No particular reading that stood out. Just the simple act of showing up. Kneeling. Listening. Being seen. And realizing that it wasn’t God who moved. It was me.

And the closer I came, the more my roots soaked in what I had been missing.

I still don’t know what all of this means. But I keep coming back to one question.

Is God calling me to work for the Church in some way?

The thought unsettles me. I’ve worked in my current job for over 22 years. It’s stable. It’s familiar. People rely on me. I know the rhythms, the people, the weight of responsibility.

But there’s a pull I can’t ignore.

A holy restlessness. I’ve done many jobs over the years. I’ve picked up skills that, looking back, seem like they could’ve been preparing me for something more. I don’t have a degree. I don’t have impressive credentials. But I know how to serve. I know how to show up, work hard, and love people along the way.

Because when I’m in the church, when I’m near Jesus, I feel more like me. I feel like I’m where I belong.

Like that tree in Psalm 1. No longer withered. No longer wandering. Planted.

Then on Sunday, we heard about Stephen. The first martyr. A man so full of the Spirit that his face reflected heaven. His witness reminds me that walking close to Jesus is not always easy. Sometimes it costs everything.

I don’t know if God is asking me to walk away from my job, to use my retirement to pay off debt, and live a simpler life like Saint Francis. Maybe it’s not that extreme. Maybe all of this is just stirring because I’ve finally come back to the stream.

But I can’t ignore the question anymore.

Was all this writing for something? Has He been leading me to this moment the whole time?

St. Ignatius has a rule that’s been hitting me lately.

Rule Five: In a time of desolation, never make a change.

And I see it clearly now. I made a change. I stopped going to daily Mass. And ever since, a slow desolation crept in.

Now, with prayer, writing, and worship once again in my life, I feel a return to consolation. Like God is reminding me who I really am, and maybe who He’s been preparing me to be.

Maybe the fruit He wants from me right now is to walk with others. To invite them back to the Church. Back to the stream. Back to the source of peace. Back to Jesus.

Maybe I had to wander a little so I could learn how to find my way back. And help someone else do the same.

Would you pray for me?

Not for clear answers. But for the wisdom of Solomon. No more, no less. To know what’s from God and what isn’t.

To know whether I should stay or go. To trust that even if I uproot everything, God will still water me where I land.

And maybe, just maybe, He’ll plant me right where I can help others grow too.

Because we’re all called to be saints.

But we won’t get there on our own.

We need the stream. We need the Church.

We need Jesus.