A Reflection on Coming Home, the Luminous Mysteries, and Seeing with New Eyes

Last week, my son and I took a trip across the country in a semi-truck. It was part work and part adventure. While planning our route, we realized we’d be passing through my hometown. With long hours ahead and time together already feeling like a gift, we decided to make a short stop. Nothing elaborate. Just enough time to stretch our legs, visit family for a cookout, and attend Mass at the parish where I grew up.

It had been decades since I attended Mass there. The last times I was in that church were for my parents’ funerals. Those days were heavy with grief, and I wasn’t really present. But this visit was different. There was no sorrow, no schedule to manage. Just me, walking back into a church that once helped shape me.

As soon as I stepped inside, it was like time folded in on itself. A wave of memories rushed over me. I saw the spot where we lined up for school programs. I could almost hear the voices from morning Mass echoing in my ears. I pictured myself in an altar server’s robe, standing near the sanctuary. Other than some fresh paint and new flooring, it was the same place. It felt like home. Like holy ground I had been meant to walk on.

When I went to find a seat, I noticed the pew where I had sat as a child during my First Communion. It was open. I quietly slid in. It wasn’t a dramatic moment, but it felt deeply personal. That pew held memories. That space held my beginning. I sat there alone, but I wasn’t lonely. There was peace in being back in that place, and a sense of gratitude for the foundation that had been laid there, even if I didn’t understand it at the time.

Back when I was growing up, our parish didn’t have deacons. It was just the priest and us altar servers. Today, I’m discerning the diaconate, and I can’t help but reflect on how God was already stirring something in me back then. Even if I didn’t recognize it. That same parish is now a mission church without a full-time priest. And yet, the Eucharist is still there. The Mass is still the Mass. And no matter where I go, anywhere in the world, I always feel at home in the Church.

Something happened during the homily that caught me off guard. The priest mentioned how some dioceses celebrate the Ascension on Sunday, while others, like the one I live in now, celebrate it on Thursday. That simple detail brought me back to a blog I had written recently about the Rosary and the Luminous Mysteries, which are prayed on Thursdays. Since we had just celebrated the Ascension the previous Thursday, I thought about how they wouldn’t be prayed here on Ascension Sunday.

My eyes wandered to the stained-glass windows, and then I saw it.

Near the front of the church was a window of the Wedding at Cana. It caught my attention and held it.

I began scanning the others. The Baptism in the Jordan. The Proclamation of the Kingdom. And there, carved beautifully into the altar itself, the Last Supper, the Institution of the Eucharist. They were all there. Scenes from the Luminous Mysteries.

This church was built in 1916. The windows are original and over a hundred years old. Yet there they were, quietly displaying the same Gospel moments that Saint Pope John Paul II formally introduced into the Rosary in 2002. The stories were not new. They had been here the whole time.

That realization filled me with awe. It was as if God had been gently placing these truths before our eyes all along, even before we had the words to name them. These scenes from Jesus’ public ministry include His baptism, His miracles, His teaching, and His gift of the Eucharist. They had always been part of the Gospel. The Rosary simply gave them a new rhythm and a fresh place to pray from.

I wish I had taken photos that day. I would have loved to include them here. But in the moment, I wasn’t thinking like a writer. I was just being present. Maybe someday I’ll go back and capture them. But maybe the fact that I didn’t is part of the grace too. Some things are meant to be experienced, not documented.

As a kid, I never really noticed those windows. I don’t remember anyone explaining them to us. They were just there, part of the background. But this time, they felt different. Like silent teachers. Like God whispering, “I’ve been here all along.”

And it made me think. How many other times has God been there when I didn’t see Him? How many blessings did I walk right past? How many prayers were said over me when I didn’t even know I needed them? How many seeds of faith were planted before I ever understood their meaning?

That’s the truth about these mysteries. They were never new. They were always there. Named later, yes. But not suddenly created. That’s how God works. Quietly. Patiently. Always placing grace within reach, even when we don’t yet understand what it is.

Looking back now, I can see that even when I thought I was drifting, God was building something in me. Even when I wasn’t paying attention. Even when I wasn’t praying. He was still faithful. The mysteries were there.

Those stained-glass windows are more than just art. They are metaphors. They are signs of how the truths of our faith are woven into the fabric of the Church. Like light passing through colored glass, they reveal more as the angle of the light shifts, as our hearts change, as our eyes open.

The Church is not just a building or a list of teachings. It is memory. It is presence. It is something living. And sometimes, it takes going home to realize how far you’ve come.

While my son didn’t join me for Mass that day, since he was having fun with his cousins and I didn’t want to interrupt that, I still found myself thinking about him as I sat there. I wished he could have seen what I saw. I wished he could have felt what I felt. And maybe one day he will. Maybe one day he’ll walk into a church and see something familiar. Something that was always there.

If I could go back and speak to the boy who once sat in that pew, I would say, “Slow down. Don’t rush. Pray more. God loves you. There is a plan for you here.”

Because there was. And there still is. I believe that now more than ever.

That day reminded me of God’s quiet faithfulness. His light is always shining, even when we don’t know to look for it. His mysteries are always near. What feels new is often something eternal that has finally come into view.

That is what I walked away with. And that is what I offer to you.

Have you ever looked at something familiar, like a stained-glass window, with new eyes after a season of growth? Maybe there is something in your past, your home parish, or your daily life that has been pointing to God all along.

Next time you’re at Mass, take a moment. Look around. Look again.

The mysteries might be right in front of you.