Care of Creation

This is a homily I delivered in our community Mass when we went for an overnight outing in Batangas.

What better place to celebrate a Mass for the Care of Creation than right here by the sea? We don’t need stained glass windows today—the gentle waves, the wind, the horizon, and even the sand under our feet are our cathedral. God’s creation is our altar and our choir, reminding us that everything we see and hear points us back to Him.

The Book of Wisdom in the first reading tells us that the beauty of creation points us to its Creator. But the danger is that we can stop at the beauty itself. When we look at the stars, the seas, or even a small flower, we are supposed to say, “This comes from God!” Creation is meant to lift our eyes to God, not to ourselves.

This is why creation can move us so profoundly. They speak of God’s grandeur. They reflect the artistry of the Creator.

When I was a novice, we went to Dumaguete for our discernment retreat. After the retreat, we headed to Apo Island. I was able to swim with a school of little fish. There were thousands of them, and for a moment, I felt so small, and yet, in that littleness, I also felt God’s greatness. 

I remember looking at the corals there in Apo Island—so colorful that I couldn’t even recognize some of the shades. It was already satisfying just to see them as if I were swimming in one huge aquarium. But then came one small fish. It swam just an inch before my eyes, almost as if it were there just for me. It somersaulted and entertained me. In that moment, it felt like God was using one little fish to bring me joy. Creation is not only beautiful, it is also personal. Through creation, Christ speaks to us, sometimes in very simple ways.

And this is exactly what Jesus points out in the Gospel: “Look at the birds… look at the lilies.” Just as that little fish preached to me in its own way, Jesus says all of creation is preaching to us if we only stop and pay attention. The birds tell us, “God will provide.” The flowers whisper, “God knows beauty.” Creation is a daily reminder to trust the Father, to live simply, and not to worry too much.

For us Salesians, this is very close to our hearts. Don Bosco taught us to see God in the ordinary: in our studies, in the manual work, in our community games, in spending time with the young in our apostolate, or even just beholding the grandeur of the mabolo trees in front of our community. 

Pope Francis in Laudato Si’ is asking us to rediscover this spirit. To let creation awaken in us—and in the young—a sense of wonder, responsibility, and care, especially for those most affected by ecological harm: the poor and the young.

That’s why the Collect of today’s Mass is so important. We prayed: “In Christ, the firstborn of all creation, called all things into being, grant, we pray, that docile to the life-giving breath of your Spirit, we may lovingly care for the work of your hands.”

That prayer challenges us to see Christ not only in the faces of the young but also in creation. It invites us to let the Spirit form us and the young entrusted to us into people who lovingly care for God’s handiwork.

This is not something extra to our youth ministry; it is youth ministry. When young people learn to respect creation, they also learn to respect themselves and one another. When they discover the beauty of the world, they also discover the beauty of God. And when they care for creation, they are practicing what it means to be upright citizens and good Christians.

So let us make this prayer our mission: in Christ, to recognize all things as God’s gift; with the Spirit, to care for them with love; and with Don Bosco, to pass this way of life on to the young.

Exploring our desires

A humongous dandelion(?) I picked as I strolled in Don Bosco Batulao.

Recently, I’ve been reading Susan Cain’s book Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole.

It’s not a religious book, but it touches on something deeply spiritual. Published in 2022, she reflects on why we are drawn to sadness, longing, and even melancholy, what she calls the “bittersweet” side of life.

Let me share three takeaways:

1. Bittersweetness reveals our longing for connection. Our tears, our sense of incompleteness, show that we were made for relationship, not isolation.
   
2. Longing awakens creativity. Many of the most beautiful works of art, music, or even acts of compassion were born from a heart that ached for something more.
   
3. The bittersweet ache points us beyond this world. It reminds us that life here is beautiful but incomplete; that we are reaching for something we do not fully hold.

Cain notes how this longing is almost universal, and how nearly every religion interprets it as the soul reaching out for the divine.

She writes: “It’s because of longing that Romeo loved Juliet, that Shakespeare wrote their story, that we still perform it centuries later. … Whether you long for the partner who broke up with you, or the one you dream of meeting; whether you hunger for the happy childhood you’ll never have, or for the divine; whether you yearn for a creative life, or the country of your birth, or a more perfect union… whether you yearn for a lost person, an unborn child, the fountain of youth, or unconditional love: These are all manifestations of the same great ache. I call this place, this state that we’re longing for, ‘the perfect and beautiful world.’ In the Judeo-Christian tradition, it’s the Garden of Eden and the Kingdom of Heaven… C.S. Lewis called it ‘the place where all the beauty came from.’ They’re all the same thing. They’re the deepest desire of every human heart.”

Cain is telling us what the saints have always known: our longing is not weakness but the deepest truth of our humanity. And no one expressed it more clearly than today’s Saint, Augustine: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You.”

Longing is not a flaw. It is a compass pointing us back to God.

Just the other day, I received a message from an alumnus of DB Bacolor. I gave his batch a retreat and the year-end recollection.  

He wrote:

i stated before that i was agnostic during retreat and recollection. randomly in my mind while in bed, i had the sudden urge to go to visit the church alone. it was really random because i never got that feeling before as it never crossed my mind. i thought about it for a while and decided that i’ll go.

As I knelt down, I just burst into tears. My mind was blank but I was crying. … then I cried again some minutes later. Stronger this time, and I did not stop myself. It felt like the right time to let go of what was inside my chest. It was a great experience…

This is Augustine’s longing alive in the heart of the young. Even without fully naming it, even without planning it, grace broke in.

Longing is not something to be afraid of or to suppress. It is the holy ache that points us home. We see it in Augustine’s restlessness, in Susan Cain’s reflections, in the tears of this young man searching for God, and even in Don Bosco’s burning zeal for souls.

I think our task is to welcome this longing, both in ourselves and in the young, as sacred ground. Because in the end, longing is love in disguise: love reaching out for its true home in God.

St. Ignatius reminded us in the Spiritual Exercises that “God meets us in our desires.” 

If this is so, may we allow our longing to lead us, and the longing of the young to guide us, into the only place where our restless hearts find peace: Christ Himself.

Da Mihi Animas Cetera Tolle

Image by Perplexity.AI: A rendered image of a 26-year-old John Bosco.

Here’s my good evening talk to my DB Postnov community.

Today is special because we’re marking the 210th birthday of Don Bosco. If we ask ourselves, “What gift can we give Don Bosco?” I think the best gift is not a cake, not balloons, but to remember his life program, his motto: “Da mihi animas, cetera tolle” (Give me souls, take away everything else.)

This motto guided him, but it was not just a phrase. It was something he translated into resolutions at the very start of his priesthood.

I am sharing with you some early notes I have gathered for you to remember the VDBs tomorrow.

My primary source is an article titled “Da Mihi Animas in Don Bosco: Don Bosco’s Life and Work for the Salvation of Souls,” which appeared in the Fall issue of the Journal of Salesian Studies in 2007, penned by Fr. Arthur Lenti, SDB, a Salesian historian who studied Don Bosco’s writings in depth.

Don Bosco was ordained a priest at just 26 years old. What he did in his retreat leading to his ordination was to sit down and write his resolutions for life. Imagine a 26-year-old, fresh from ordination, and already thinking: “How do I give everything to God?”

Here they are, in his own words:
1. I will dedicate all my words and works to the greater glory of God and to the salvation of souls.
2. I will avoid as much as possible useless conversations, visits, and entertainments.
3. I will not waste time but make good use of it.
4. I will suffer, act, and humble myself in all things, whenever the salvation of souls is at stake.
5. The charity and kindness of St. Francis de Sales will guide me.
6. I will always be glad to accept advice and correction.
7. I will keep the practice of spiritual reading and meditation.
8. I will be devout to the Blessed Virgin Mary.
9. I will not omit my spiritual retreat each year.

Those were not just nice words. They became Don Bosco’s way of living.

I grasp in these resolutions a young man who wanted to guard his time and energy for souls, a young priest who knew that his life was for others, a son of Mary who trusted her as a guide and protector.

And what about us today?

We are called to the same focus on souls, the young people entrusted to us.

We need the same discipline and detachment, especially from “cetera,” the distractions of our own time.

We need the same Marian devotion because Don Bosco never walked alone, and neither should we.

“Da mihi animas, cetera tolle” is Don Bosco’s heartbeat. I hope and pray that this becomes my heartbeat as well.

Good night, and happy birthday, Don Bosco!

+Fr. George Schwarz

Last night, during our community vespers, I heard a familiar name in the obituary: Fr. George Schwarz. After dinner, I found myself praying the rosary alone (I had Mass earlier, so I missed the community rosary).

I was just a first-year aspirant, 25 years ago, when I became his room cleaner. On his desk, from day one, sat a little note: “For my room cleaner,” beside a small pile of candies. When we visited him at the Physics Lab for confession, we’d always leave with a few more candies and the same gentle words: “To keep you sweet.”

Even the birds were recipients of his goodness. After breakfast, on his way to the Physics Lab, he would carry a bread or two, break them into pieces, and scatter them to the waiting flock. It was their little morning feast, courtesy of a kind priest.

For the Don Bosco Press, Inc. Jubilee calendar this past June, Reg Silva Art rendered his likeness from old photos we had unearthed online. Seeing his face there, framed in art, felt like a small way of keeping his gentle presence alive in our memory.

Some people leave behind outstanding achievements; others leave behind small, steady kindness that lingers in the heart—and even in the flutter of wings, long after they’re gone.

I revisited an obituary that beautifully recounts the life of this great German Salesian missionary, first to China, and later to the Philippines. It was penned by our Provincial Superior at the time, Fr. Eli Cruz, SDB, who now, providentially, is my Rector.

Sharing here the poignant personal note of Fr. Eli’s encounter with Fr. George.

One may access the entire letter from https://sdb.org.ph/2010/08/10/fr-george-schwarz/

===

Danke, dear Fr. George Schwarz

On a personal note, Fr. George saved my life. One day, when we were seminarians, we had an experiment in the physics laboratory using his new electronic testers. While I was still holding the positive and negative poles of the tester, my experiment partner plugged it into the socket.

I instantly felt the whole 220 volts surge through my body. I fell from the stool where I was seated. I prayed that my partner would have the presence of mind to unplug it, but he was in shock and didn’t move at all.

Then Fr. George came rushing to my rescue. He unplugged the tester and picked me up from the floor. I was saved from electrocution. Once I had regained my composure, he looked at me and said, “Donkey.”

And to you, too, Fr. George, I say, “Danke.” Thank you.

Thank you, Fr. George, on behalf of the whole Philippines, where you served from your productive midlife to your ripe old age. You were one of the few remaining pioneers of Salesian work in the country. As such, you showed us how to draw every apostolic advantage from each season of life and from any situation.

You never allowed fundraising activities, construction projects, or organizational restructuring to take precedence over meeting children and forming educators. You taught us how to link austerity of life with the joy of building communities. Most of all, you modeled for us how we could slip into the chapel—even during moments of intense work—and spend a mystic moment before Christ and His Mother Mary.

If ever you had one problem, it was this: you just didn’t have enough time to catch up with the fast and furious changes of today. Yet your genius lay in your ability to see possibilities everywhere and to respond with fertile imagination and mounting enthusiasm.

Fr. George, it is now our turn. Help us from above to be as creative and inventive as you were, so that we, too, can experience a “new Pentecost” in tune with the Gospel of Christ and the patrimony of Don Bosco.

When the Master Knocks

A door in a church in Batanes, ca 2019

Homily for the 19th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Year C
Reflection from Luke 12:32–48 | Hebrews 11:1–2, 8–19

If God told you exactly what day and hour you’d die… how differently would you live?

Would you pray more? Call your family? Forgive the person you’ve been avoiding? Or would you still say, “I’ll get to it later”?
Today’s Gospel doesn’t give us the date. Instead, Jesus says: “Be dressed for action… be like servants waiting for their master to return.”

Yesterday, an old man asked to see me for the Anointing of the Sick. When we met, he said: “Father, please pray for me.”
I asked, “For what intention?”
He answered: “That God may take me now. As in today.”
So I asked, “Are you ready?”
Without hesitation, he said: “I am.”
And when I asked for his name, he said: “Abraham.”

In the second reading from the Letter to the Hebrews, Abraham is called the father of faith, the man who obeyed when God called, not knowing where he was going, ready to leave everything behind because he trusted God’s promise.

The Letter to the Hebrews today opens with one of the most beautiful definitions in all of Scripture: “Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen.”
It’s saying that faith is not just wishful thinking, it’s a way of living now as if God’s promises are already true, even before we see them.

Then the reading zeroes in on Abraham. God told him to leave his homeland, his security, his comfort, and go “to a place that he was to receive as an inheritance.” The remarkable thing? Abraham obeyed, even though he did not know where he was going. He lived in tents, a stranger in the land, because he was looking forward to “the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God.”

The second reading even points out that Abraham and Sarah, though old and childless, trusted God’s promise of descendants “as countless as the stars.” And here’s the part that links perfectly with the Gospel’s call to be ready. The reading says all these heroes of faith “died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them.” They were ready to go whenever God called because their true homeland was not here.

That’s precisely the kind of readiness Jesus is talking about in our Gospel today, and it’s the same readiness I saw yesterday in the old man named Abraham. Like the patriarch, he could say, “I am ready,” not because he had all the answers, but because he trusted the One who was calling him.

That old man yesterday? He had Abraham’s faith—no fear, no loose ends, just the quiet readiness to return the life he knew had only been lent to him.

Our Gospel this Sunday follows Jesus’ teaching on storing up treasure in heaven. He begins today by calling His disciples “little flock.” These are words of tenderness, not threat: “Your Father is pleased to give you the Kingdom.” The vigilance He asks is not paranoia; it’s living with such faith and love that we can welcome Him anytime, like Abraham did.

And here’s the surprise: in the parable, when the Master returns, He serves the servants. He makes them sit down and waits on them. Imagine that: the Lord of all, delighting to care for His faithful ones.
It’s striking, then, that the things we most often regret at life’s end aren’t about achievements, money, or fame, but about love given or withheld.

In her book The Top Five Regrets of the Dying, Bronnie Ware worked as a nurse in palliative care, providing care to individuals in their last 12 weeks of life. She found that the deepest regrets of the dying are about love and relationships. These are about the very things the Master Himself comes to give us in full. These are the top five regrets of the dying:

1. I wish I’d lived true to myself.
2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.
3. I wish I’d expressed my feelings.
4. I wish I’d stayed close to friends.
5. I wish I’d let myself be happier.

Not one person said, “I wish I had put things off longer.” Regret is almost always about the good we delayed doing, love we never expressed, forgiveness we never offered, kindness we kept for “another time.”
And that’s exactly how the enemy works.

There’s a story about a young devil eager to ruin souls. He told his master:
“I’ll tell people there’s no God.”
The master shook his head: “Won’t work.”
“I’ll tell them there’s no hell.”
“Some won’t believe you.”
Finally, the young devil said: “I’ll tell them: Love one another… later. Forgive your enemies… later. Live the Gospel… later. Work to end world poverty… later. Get oil for your lamps… later. Not now. Not today. Later.”
The master smiled: “That will ruin millions.”

The old man named Abraham reminded me yesterday: readiness is possible.
If there’s love to give, give it now.
If there’s forgiveness to offer, offer it now.
If there’s a step toward Christ you’ve been delaying. Take it now.
When the Master knocks, may He find us like Abraham: faithful, expectant, ready.
No fear. No regrets.
Only joy.

When Midnight Comes

Homily for the 18th Sunday in Ordinary Time – C
Reflection from Luke 12:13-21

Yesterday, we received some heartbreaking news.

Jimly Lantaya, a two-time NCAA champion from Letran and currently playing for the Gensan Warriors, passed away. He was only 24.
People knew him as cheerful, full of life. He just had a medical procedure recently, but his family said he seemed totally okay. Then suddenly, last Friday, he had another attack… and yesterday, he was gone.
Just like that.
That fast, everything can be taken away.

You would never expect that someone so full of energy, dreams, and potential would have an ending like that.

And today’s Gospel is one big reminder: We don’t own our breath.
Life is borrowed.
And we never know when we’ll be asked to return what we were only lent.

We have dreams of a nice house, a successful career, finding stable love, or saving enough for the family.
And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.
In fact, those are blessings! God wants your life to flourish.

But I hope we never forget what really matters:
The things you can’t buy.
The things you can’t replace.
And the things you can’t get back once they’re lost.
Like time.
Like your soul.
Like your relationship with God.
Like your readiness to face death.

That’s actually the real tragedy of the rich man in the Gospel.
Not that he was rich, but that he was so distracted.
He spent so much time building “barns,” storage for his wealth, but never had time to prepare his soul.
He spoke to himself, but never spoke to God.
He made plans for everything—except surrender.

Ecclesiastes, our First Reading, puts it bluntly:
Everything you worked hard for? One day, it will all be left behind.
No matter how smart, gifted, or hardworking you are.
One day, someone else will take your place.

So if your life isn’t rooted in God, all your effort is like smoke.
Like puffing a vape, may hit sa simula, pero nawawala rin agad.

There’s an old tradition in the Church called Memento mori “Remember that you will die.”
But it’s not meant to scare you. It’s intended to wake you up.
“Live each day as if it were your last.”

In today’s world, the “barn” has become a metaphor for all our illusions of security:
Money. Status. Likes. Followers. Achievements.
None of those are bad, unless they’re the only things filling your heart.
Because you could have a full barn… and still have an empty heart.

And sometimes, it actually happens.

This year, I met an elderly man, wealthy, successful, but sad.
It was Father’s Day.
But he wasn’t with any of his children.
Why? They were fighting over inheritance.
Imagine that, rich in assets, but broke in relationships.
Full bank account, but empty joy.

So here’s the question:
If your life were demanded tonight, would you be ready?
Is your heart full? Or have you just built barns?

Life isn’t about storing up for yourself. It’s about offering your life for others.

True wealth isn’t measured by how much you’ve saved, but by how much you’ve shared.

And a heart rooted in God? That’s a heart that’s always ready.

Memento mori. Remember, you will die.
But more than that, Memento vivere. Remember to live. Truly live.

Amen.

How’s Your Love Life?

Homily on the 17th Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year C)
Based on Genesis 18:20–32 and Luke 11:1–13

When I was still a seminarian, one day I bumped into my rector in the corridor. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and then he suddenly asked, “Donnie, how’s your love life?”

I froze.

I thought to myself, “Love life? In the seminary?”

Perhaps he noticed I was stammering, so he quickly clarified:

“What I mean is your prayer life.”

That made me stop and think.

And he was right: Our prayer life, that’s our real love life.

It shows who truly matters to us, where we put our trust, and how close we are to God.

Prayer is not just something we do. It’s who we are.

From this perspective, prayer is not just another “activity” on our schedule, not just another checklist item.

As St. Titus Brandsma, a Carmelite priest and martyr during World War II whose feast day is celebrated today, July 27, once said: “Prayer is life… it is not merely an oasis in the desert of life… Prayer is life.”

Prayer was essential for Titus, especially when he was taken to the concentration camp. Despite hardship and hunger, that is where he clung to God. And so it is true: prayer is not a side trip in life, prayer is life itself.

It is the breath of the soul.

It is our lifeline to God.

It is the home of our heart when we are tired, confused, or on the verge of giving up.

That is why in today’s Gospel, the disciples didn’t ask, “Lord, teach us how to preach” or “teach us how to work miracles.”

They asked, “Lord, teach us how to pray.”

In the First Reading, Abraham pleads with God for the people of Sodom and Gomorrah. They weren’t even his relatives, but he still bargained boldly, “Lord, if there are 50 righteous people, will you spare the city? What if 45? 30? 20? Even 10?”

Abraham pleaded so persistently because of his deep concern for others! That is something worth imitating.

But even more important, the First Reading highlights how good God is. He listened to Abraham—not because Abraham was perfect, but because God’s goodness and compassion overflow for His people.

And so in the Gospel, Jesus deepens the Father’s invitation:

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.”

God is never stingy. He always gives what is truly good for us.

But let’s be honest: sometimes we ask, “Why doesn’t God always answer our prayers the way we want?”

Maybe because our expectations are too shallow.

Too often, we trust more in our own abilities. We put too much confidence in worldly measures. We forget that we are created beings, and He is the Author of our very existence.

We forget that He knows what is best for us. We fail to listen to Jesus’ clear invitation: believe, trust, and keep praying.

Sometimes we’re afraid to pray because we fear the answer might not be what we want. But remember this: God is a Father.

And even if He doesn’t always give what we want, He always gives what we need.

Two Sundays ago, I led a prayer workshop for DBYC leaders. Afterward, I asked them to write down what they experienced.

I’d like to share the reflection of one young person: “On this long path I was walking, there were so many twists and turns. I almost gave up… but when I reached the end, Jesus was there, waiting for me—ready to embrace me. I ran toward Him and cried. I felt so ashamed, afraid, and guilty. But then I was surprised by what He said. After everything I had been through, He only said two words: ‘It’s okay.’”

The youth added:

“I was so tired from all my responsibilities, but when I prayed, everything became clear: Jesus was there in the middle.”

That’s what real prayer is. That moment when you feel loved, despite being tired, guilty, or empty-handed.

I’ll end this here, and I’ll leave you with the same question my rector asked me: “How’s your love life?”

And what I mean is:

How’s your relationship with God?

Do you still talk to Him every day?

When you lose your way, do you return?

When your strength fades, do you still knock?

Ask. Seek. Knock.

And whatever burden you’re carrying today, whether tired, guilty, or lost, Jesus’ answer remains the same:

“It’s okay. I’m here.”

Maybe this Sunday is an invitation to truly trust God again, like we prayed at the start of Mass—to rely on Him alone, the Father who cares for those who have no one else but Him.

Amen.

My Life Lately

I gathered some thoughts as I wind down tonight, especially after reflecting on tomorrow’s Gospel, where Jesus sends out the 72 disciples to towns He was planning to visit. It struck a chord in me. It feels very close to my current state.

I’ve been retained at Don Bosco Press for my ministry. For context, Don Bosco Press is not just a printing press; it is also a full-fledged publishing house, with its core mission focused on developing academic textbooks for schools across the country. This year, there’s renewed energy as we’ve begun discussing the reactivation of the Don Bosco School of Printing, a technical initiative that had to shut down during the pandemic.

We are only two Salesians at Don Bosco Press. Fr. Ike serves as our Executive Director. He’s the overall head of the Press.

On the other hand, I carry the responsibilities of editor-in-chief. That means more than just editing manuscripts. It means overseeing the entire publication process. I’m tasked with gathering authors, editors, illustrators, and layout artists and managing all the moving parts to bring new titles to life.

One of my biggest responsibilities this year is ensuring that our target of new books in 2025 is met. It’s a daunting task, and I carry it with a mix of excitement, seriousness, and what I’d like to call holy pressure.

What makes it more interesting is that starting this school year, I’ve been assigned to move to the suburbs, about an hour away from the city, in a formation community.

The locations of these two ministries aren’t just apart in terms of geography; they operate in very different rhythms. I joked with one confrere that I feel more like a Visiting Professor than a Formator, dropping by for short stays, then heading back to Makati again.

Still, as I sit with the Gospel tonight, I find peace. Jesus sent the 72 to unfamiliar places with very little, “no purse, no bag, no sandals.” And yet, He assures them that He Himself will follow. “Be sure of this: the Kingdom of God has come near.” The Kingdom of God, as preached by the early Christians, is not just a place or a reign. It is a personification of Christ.

And that gives me hope. Maybe I’ve been assigned to this unusual arrangement not for convenience or efficiency but precisely because it is a space where Christ wants to show Himself present.

I may not be around every day with my brothers in the formation house, but I do want to be truly present, to listen, to accompany, to be part of the rhythm of this community, even with the demands of the Press. I look forward to deeper fraternity here, even as I carry the weight of publishing deadlines and editorial plans.

Lord, help me be faithful to both missions. Amen.

Habemus Papam: Leo XIV

With the election of Pope Leo XIV, it’s worth looking back at another Pope Leo—Leo XIII—and his surprising friendship with St. John Bosco.

Though Pope Leo XIII was known for being serious and reserved, he had a soft spot for Don Bosco. Their first private meeting was on March 16, 1878, and something clicked. Not only did the Pope warmly welcome the saint, he also became the very first Salesian Cooperator—a big deal for a pope!

Leo XIII didn’t just offer kind words; he backed Don Bosco’s mission in big ways. In 1884, he granted the Salesians the same privileges as the Redemptorists—benefits usually earned over many years. But Don Bosco’s work was growing so quickly that this special support helped the Salesians expand faster and further.

In fact, Leo XIII was the one who entrusted the Salesians with their first missionary territory. He created the first Salesian-run Vicariate Apostolic in 1883 and appointed Don Bosco’s close friend, Bishop Giovanni Cagliero, to lead it.

Even after Don Bosco passed away in 1888, the Pope’s support didn’t fade. When Don Rua, the new Salesian leader, visited him, Pope Leo said outright: Don Bosco was a saint. He offered advice and encouragement to help the Salesians stay strong and united.

Thanks to this unique friendship, the Salesian mission spread across the globe—bringing faith, education, and hope to countless young people.

Photo credit: New York Times

Finding Resurrection in Our Undoing

This Easter, I found myself deeply moved not by an extraordinary miracle in the headlines, but by a friend’s quiet unraveling—one that became an unexpected grace.

He turned 30 this year. There was so much pride in his voice when he told me, “Father, I have a good career. I got into the Executive MBA program. My boss said I’m next in line. His network is now my network.” He even started going to the gym, determined to make this his healthiest year yet.

Then everything stopped.

He didn’t say much at first; it was just that something shifted. But in time, the truth surfaced: he feared for his health. Something serious. And in the silence of that fear, he found himself praying—not for promotion or progress—but for mercy.

“In my prayers, I was reminded I cannot rely on my personal strengths,” he told me. “I was too proud, Father. Now I’m here… begging for mercy.” It was a confession, not of sin alone, but of surrender.

And then, light pierced the tomb.

He messaged me, voice brimming with relief and awe: “Father, all praise and glory to GOD! I have no cancer, Father! Pinakinggan tayo ng Mahal na Ina at ng Panginoon!”

In that moment, I saw the Resurrection—not just in the absence of cancer but in the transformation of the heart—from pride to humility, from self-reliance to surrender, from fear to thanksgiving.

The Resurrection isn’t just about Jesus rising from the tomb 2,000 years ago. It is about today, when someone who had it all figured out finds himself on his knees, giving thanks not for achievement, but for life, for healing, for grace.

So yes, this Easter, let us celebrate the empty tomb. But let us also celebrate the quiet resurrections—the ones that begin with, “Nahihiya ako, Father,” and end with, “All glory to God! Pinakinggan tayo ng Mahal na Ina.”

Because that, too, is how the Risen Lord appears—gently, tenderly, and exactly when we need Him most.