Serving with my hands. Reflecting with my heart. Led by His Body.

Last week, I had every intention of posting a blog. I had ideas. I had time set aside. I was ready to sit down and reflect. Then something happened.

A trailer had been stolen and left out in California. My boss mentioned earlier in the week that he wanted someone to go get it. But by Friday, no one was available to do this. Dispatch said they were already stretched thin. Everyone was needed where they were. I had been helping coordinate the disposal of the spoiled product on that trailer, and since I was already in the system from my father and son road trip, I figured I could help out.

So, I sent a message to the boss. I told him I could go. He thanked me and gave me the OK.

And just like that, my weekend plans changed.

I printed the paperwork, packed some things, and early Saturday morning after kissing my wife and son goodbye, I hit the road heading west.

I didn’t think much about it at the time. It felt like the right thing to do. I wasn’t looking for recognition. I just saw a need and filled it.

But later, as I was driving west, it hit me. This wasn’t just any weekend. It was Father’s Day Weekend.

A weekend that usually means time with family. A meal together. Maybe a card or a small gift. A hug from my son. A quiet moment with my wife. It’s a day where I’m usually the one being celebrated. But this time, I was gone.

Not only was I away from them, I was also back on the road again. Just like I was years ago, the very same weekend as my own dad passed away. That Father’s Day years ago, I was far from home. I was driving then too. Alone. And grieving.

So here I was again. On Father’s Day. On the road. Alone in the truck. And missing my family.

It made the trip feel heavier. But also, holier.

Because sometimes, the call to serve doesn’t wait for a convenient time. And real love means showing up when it costs something.

The truck I drove was different than usual. A manual transmission. I hadn’t driven one in nearly 20 years. But like they say, it’s like riding a bike. A few gear grinds early on, but then muscle memory took over. I was back in the groove.

Driving west, I found myself looking at the wide-open land and thinking about the old pioneers. I pictured the feeling of reaching the top of a hill and seeing nothing but dry, empty distance ahead. No gas stations. No comfort. No promises. Just the next hill in the distance.

And still, they pressed on.

I imagine that kind of journey was filled with second guesses and sleepless nights. But they kept going. Not because the road was easy, but because the destination was worth it.

That’s how I’ve felt lately. In life. In ministry. Even in my writing. There’s this pull to just keep going. Even when it’s quiet. Even when I feel small. Even when the road stretches too far ahead to see the end.

I’m learning something about myself. That when the task is hard and the pressure is high, I don’t shut down. I push harder. I focus. And I pray. The Lord is always beside me when I do.

That brings me to this past Sunday’s feast: Corpus Christi. The Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ.

I know I missed a blog last week. But in many ways, this road trip became my reflection. It gave me something real to sit with. Something that ties directly into what Corpus Christi is all about.

The feast of Corpus Christi reminds us that Jesus didn’t just preach love. He gave it. Completely. He offered His own Body to feed us. And then He told us to do the same.

I’ve said before that the Eucharist sustains me. And it’s still true. When I’m hungry, it feeds me. When I’m lost, it centers me. When I’m weak, it strengthens me. The Eucharist reminds me I am never alone. And it gives me the grace to serve, even when that service feels hidden or unnoticed.

When I think about the Body of Christ, I see myself as part of it. Not a spotlight part. Not the face or the voice. But maybe a cog deep in the machine. Turning quietly. Helping the Church move forward. I’m just one piece, but I know I belong.

And I think this trip was a small way of giving my own body. I gave my time. My sleep. My strength. I let go of a weekend where I could have been celebrated, and instead I spent it helping solve a problem. In the big picture, maybe it wasn’t much. But in my heart, it felt like the right kind of sacrifice.

That’s what Jesus did. He gave Himself. He didn’t just say, “I love you.” He said, “Take this. This is my body, given up for you.”

We’re supposed to echo that in our own lives. Not just with words. But with action.

These blogs are a kind of action for me too. A kind of giving. I never thought I’d have anything to say worth writing down. But somehow, in this season, the words keep coming. I know they won’t always. Grace comes and goes like the wind. But while I have it, I want to use it.

There’s a reason this has stirred in my heart. A reason why, right now, I feel called to share these reflections. They’re not fancy. They’re not polished. But they are real. And I hope they carry some good.

Even though I missed a week, I’m not giving up. These words are seeds. And I pray they find good soil. Maybe something in one of these posts will help someone. Maybe it will draw a heart closer to Jesus. That’s up to God.

What I know is this: You matter. You are part of the Body of Christ too. You are needed. And when you receive Him in the Eucharist, He becomes part of you.

So, keep going. Keep serving. Keep showing up, even when it costs something.

Even when you feel like a pioneer, staring at an empty road ahead, know this.

He is with you.

He is in you.

And you belong.