The table has grown smaller.

There are no longer children hiding beneath the tablecloth or extra plates set out. There are only a few of us now. And, for the first time in years, we have time to spare.

At first, it feels unsettling. Then, little by little, peace finds its way in.

Those who travel toward a sure destination learn to choose what they carry. They cannot take everything with them.

Some things must be left behind: the position we once held, the pace we once kept, the things that weighed us down but no longer serve us. Letting go is also a task. A discipline we must learn to practice.

And what is essential is lovingly safeguarded. It does not remain simply out of habit. It is cared for, protected, and chosen each day: our children, fidelity, friends, faith, and the heart’s memory, which is gratitude.

To care for something is not to cling to it.

It is to choose it.

SZ

Pope Leo XIV spoke these words: “God loves you as you are, but dreams of you as something better,” on June 10, 2026, during his visit to Brians 1 Prison in Barcelona, Spain.

And we know where we are headed. Saint Augustine said it beautifully: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.”

We take in the landscape without hurry, with the joy of those who walk lightly and the silence of those who have let go of what they no longer need to carry.

Today, we share with our grandchildren stories that, sometimes, our own children do not know or have forgotten. There is a story we tell again and again: how we met, what was hardest for us, where we went wrong, and how we tried to make things right.

Grandchildren are not looking for lessons.

They listen to life as it is told through the love of their family.

What will remain of this music when the musical staff can no longer hold the notes? What will be lost in the rushing currents of life?

And then there are our friends. The ones we managed to nurture, even when life was busy. Companions through presence and absence: those with whom we have shared the table and the bread.

Those who have friends do not walk the road alone.

The mother, watching her children move swiftly through life, respects their need to be nourished by other embraces.

The sharing of the cake becomes a rainbow, changing with the light of each hour of the day, and yet there is enough for everyone.

And the cake becomes BREAD.

Nourishment for another journey.

At the altar, Christ gives Himself to us. It is not a memory. It is not a metaphor.

It is Christ Himself, present under the Eucharistic species. It looks like bread and tastes like bread, yet it is Christ Himself who becomes our food. It looks like wine and tastes like wine, yet His poured-out Blood becomes the very life of our life.

And here the great revolution takes place!

We do not turn Him into our own flesh and blood. He takes us into His divinity.

Food, when it enters our bodies, ordinarily becomes part of us. This Bread does the opposite: it transforms us into Him. It unites us to Christ and, without taking away our individual identity, makes us members of His Body.

He does not devour: He gives Himself.

He does not absorb: He lifts us up.

“I could kiss you to pieces!” says the mother.

God makes this possible. He shares His life with us. He makes us divine.

And Saint Paul says it plainly: “Because there is one bread, we, who are many, are one body, for we all partake of the one bread.”

Many.

One Bread.

One Body. One Destiny.

And then, the LIGHT.

It does not come from outside.

It was always there.

The first caress: light.

Every kiss, given at just the right moment: light.

The table where the cake was shared: light.

The friend who called for no particular reason: light.

The Bread: light.

It all came from there.

For twenty centuries, humanity has been asking how we can be one without ceasing to be many.

The answer was not an idea.

It was a Family.

The Father.

The Son.

The Holy Spirit.

Three, and yet undivided. Distinct, yet never confused.

Light of Light.

“That they may all be one, as you, Father, are in me and I in you.”

And our little table, with its silences and empty chairs, is an image of that light. Not a copy, but a reflection.

Whenever someone gives themselves without devouring another, and someone else receives without losing themselves, that light shines through the home.

Today, just as yesterday, in a room filled with people praying and weeping, one of our own walked in, bewildered, not knowing whom to look at.

And then, quietly, a phrase made its way through:

“I could kiss you to pieces!”

He sat down beside us, just as he always had, and, as always, kissed us on the cheek.

No one noticed.

It was no coincidence. That kiss had been lovingly preserved for fifty years.

Now we see as in a mirror, dimly; then, face to face. Everything will be seen just as it truly is.

And at the table, no one will be missing.

Everything will be light.