Every December, the priests of my diocese gather for a Christmas dinner with our bishop. Nearly 200 of us in one room: newly ordained and long retired, pastors of large parishes and quiet confessors, men full of energy and others moving more slowly. Some carry visible success; others bear hidden wounds. It is a tapestry of vocations and lives. When the bishop thanks us, I am always moved. For a moment, none of our differences matter. What matters is that we belong to one another.

In my parish, there was once a new employee who frequently told me she was sorry for various imperfections in her work. It could be a little tiring. I finally told her, “You know, you don’t have to say ‘sorry’ so often.” She looked me right in the eyes and said, “Father, you’re right. I’m sorry.” Her ear-to-ear grin betrayed that she enjoyed the irony — and that she would keep asking for forgiveness as often as she needed it.

A few summers ago, my family had a big reunion. It included my parents, my four siblings, and all their many children. One of my favorite moments was simply watching my parents’ contented faces as they took in all of us together, laughing, sharing food, singing, telling stories. They loved seeing their children happily together with each other.