This homily was recorded at our 2PM Traditional Latin Mass 

A few days ago, I was called to the home of a parishioner to administer the Anointing of the Sick and bring Holy Communion—those sacred prayers we often refer to as the “Last Rites,” which prepare the soul to stand before the judgment seat of God. As I left that home, a single thought lingered in my heart: I think I may have just anointed a saint.

I rang the doorbell, and her husband greeted me warmly. “Thank you for coming,” he said, extending his hand. “She’ll be so happy to see you.” Because of her fragile immune system, we both put on our masks. He led me down the hallway, and as I walked, my eyes were drawn to the family photographs lining the walls, faces radiant with wide, joyful smiles. This was clearly a family that knew how to love, and how to rejoice.

Yet as we approached the bedroom, a familiar weight settled in my chest. I have walked this path many times as a priest, and still, it never becomes easier. Behind that door, one never knows what awaits—sorrow, anger, tears… or perhaps all three at once.

I stepped inside. The curtains were drawn, and a soft, diffused light filled the room, casting a quiet warmth over everything. On the nightstand stood a wooden statue of the Blessed Mother, watching gently over her.

She greeted me with a reverence that was both humbling and profound. “Father!” she said, her voice trembling as her teeth chattered uncontrollably. The effects of her medication left her alternating between fever and chilling cold. Her husband tenderly draped another blanket over her, layering warmth upon warmth. The cancer had weakened her, yes but it seemed the treatment itself had exacted an even harsher toll.

We spoke briefly about a pilgrimage she and her husband had made to Lourdes the year before, where they had begged the Blessed Mother for a miracle. That miracle had not come; at least, not in the way they had hoped.

She lifted her eyes heavenward and said softly, “My only hope is that I’m ready, Father. I don’t want to be separated…”

At first, I thought she meant her children. But she continued, “I don’t want to be separated from Our Lord. I cannot bear even the thought of Purgatory. I just want to see Him… at last.”

Her teeth trembled again, yet somehow she managed a smile, fragile, but radiant. “You’re always in my prayers, Father.”

I found myself in awe of souls like hers. While the world rushes on in all its noise and urgency, there are hidden lives—quiet, unseen—bearing their own Calvary. Right here, in Vacaville.

She is like Lazarus from the Gospel, a figure of suffering in the eyes of the world. To many, a life like hers seems only tragic, stripped of purpose. But they do not see what lies beneath. They do not see the mysterious power of God at work even here, even within suffering. Yes, there is a hidden power in the cross she carries.

In the end, when we stand before Jesus Christ, it will not be appearances that matter, but the life we have truly lived.

And so I ask myself—and you: which one do you wish to be?

As for me, I pray that I may be like that beautiful soul I encountered—lying in that bed, shivering beneath her blankets, her body wasting away… yet her heart wholly fixed on God.