The water moves gently along the Schuylkill trail while the breeze brushes against my skin. The birds chirp as the city slowly wakes. As I pick up speed, my breathing grows heavier, blending with the rhythm of my footsteps against the pavement. Early summer mornings in Philly have become one of my favorite times to run. If I am not writing or reading on these summer days, it is normal to find me lacing up my shoes for a run. It has become a place where my thoughts settle long enough for words to form clearly. After finishing my run, I quickly get dressed to make my way to the station.

The train platform buzzed softly with movement. Coffee cups rested in people’s hands as they made their way toward another workday. The sound of rolling suitcases against the floor, the muffled announcements being made overhead filled the station as I boarded the train and I took one of the window seats. As the train pulled out of Philadelphia toward DC, the city slowly faded, replaced by rivers, warehouses, and rows of trees rushing by in silence. The sound of the engine settled into a rhythm almost like a heartbeat. Train rides remind me of the season in my life when I first moved to Philly, and how I used to take the Amtrak almost every month to visit my brother and niece in Jersey. But this time, I was heading south toward DC for a Pentecost retreat. Part of me felt sad knowing that I am not in Texas celebrating the ordination of a brother from our community. Especially during Pentecost, it felt meaningful to witness someone say yes to the LORD in such a radical way. It felt like this season was overflowing with vocations, with lives quietly being offered back to God.

It was just last weekend that a deacon from my parish was ordained as part of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. I remember the church already overflowing with people when I entered. I stood in the back for most of the liturgy, occasionally sitting on the side steps to rest my legs. Families filled the pews. Young adults crowded the aisles. The scent of incense lingered heavily in the air while cream vestments moved softly near the altar.

At one point during the ordination, the eight deacons laid prostrate across the floor before the altar while the Litany of Saints echoed through the cathedral. Their bodies pressed against the marble as the choir and crowd prayed over them in unison. Priests from across Philadelphia and nearby cities filled the sanctuary beside the altar, having come to witness the ceremony. Later, the archbishop placed his hands over their heads in silence before the other priest followed behind him to do the same. The line seemed endless. Near the end of the rite, the newly ordained priests knelt before the archbishop with their hands folded together in prayer while their palms were anointed with oil and gently wrapped in white cloth.

Watching the ceremony unfold, it felt something ancient like a quiet surrender that was being passed down from generation to generation. The cathedral felt so alive with the incense rising slowly through the air, voices echoing against the wall, and silence between each prayer.

After the ceremony ended, I waited outside the main church to welcome the newly ordained priests as they came out. Excitedly, I took out my phone to capture the moment. First came the altar server carrying the cross, then the archbishop, followed by the priests and knights of Columbus, uniformed in suits with swords at their sides. The hallway suddenly filled with loud applause as the newly 8 ordained priests finally stepped through the cathedral doors.

Among them was the deacon from my parish who had gone on a mission trip with me this past lent to Peru. Filled with joy, I reached out and tapped his hand. He turned toward me for a brief moment, and we exchanged a bright smile before he continued greeting the crowd. Seeing him stand at the altar, I was taken back to my mission days in Peru. I was reminded how quietly the Holy Spirit moves through the people we journey beside and through the missions that remain with us.

Back at the retreat in DC, sitting before the Blessed Sacrament, I remember how last year around this time during adoration, I felt my vision slowly blurring. I rubbed my eyes a few times, but everything still felt unfocused. There was a longing in me I could not fully explain. I eventually stepped outside feeling lightheaded, carrying a heaviness that stayed with me long after adoration ended.

Later that evening during prayer, I came across the passage where Jesus says, “Blessed are those who have not seen me and yet believe.” The word stayed with me long after. Now that Ascension and Pentecost just passed, I keep thinking about Christ promising that we would not be left orphaned. There was a point in my life when I could only write when I am ready, feeling inspired or being led by the Holy Spirit. For years, I wrote mostly out of restlessness like fragments of thought, observations, little pieces of myself I did not know what to do with. But somewhere between adoration, silence, and long periods of waiting, writing stopped feeling like self-expression and more like prayer. 

By the time I stepped outside later that evening, rain had begun falling softly across the city while people hurried past umbrellas. I walked slowly through DC back to my friend’s apartment in silence, letting the cool rain settle against my skin like breath returning after exhaustion. The water moved through the gutters beneath the passing traffic, carrying forward the prayers from the cathedral, the hands laid in blessing and the words I once struggled to write.