Living your Faith

You and I live by faith more than we realize.

Think about how you spend your time. You pour in effort, care, attention, whether it’s in your work, relationships, home, community, or simply to keep the days full and life moving.

You can’t hold trust. You can’t show patience. You can’t bottle the love or encouragement you offer to others.

But you trust it matters.

You believe your time and effort add up to something real, even though the most important parts of it can’t be displayed or proven on command.

Or think about love. You can’t see love under a microscope. You can’t weigh it on a scale. But you know when it’s present and you know when it’s missing.

Or even your own spirit. You can’t point to it on an X-ray. But it animates everything about your life: your thoughts, your relationships, your hopes, and when that spark is gone, everything is different.

Believing in the Trinity is like that.

We’re invited to trust in something we can’t fully see or explain, but which shapes everything. The life of God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—moves in us and through us, calling us to live with greater love, courage, and hope.

And I’m here to remind you of the good news: you’re already practicing this kind of trust, every single day.

My invitation to you is as you move through this week, notice the ways you’re already living by trust: in your relationships, in the choices you make, in simply how you show up each day.

Then take a quiet moment to pray: God, help me lean into that same trust with You. Give me courage, patience, and openness, especially when life feels uncertain or unclear.

God bless,
FF

Remember that scene in Bruce Almighty where Bruce gets swamped by millions of prayers?

“Please let me win the lottery.”
“Please get me that promotion.”
“Please make my ex call me back.”

So what does he do? He panics and hits “YES to all” just to make the requests go away. Chaos ensues.

It’s funny… and a little familiar.

Most of us—myself included—tend to pray for outcomes.

“Please let this conversation go well.”
“Please don’t let me mess this up.”
“Please let them forgive me.”

And hey, there’s nothing wrong with wanting good outcomes. Of course we do. But here’s something I’ve learned (and re-learned, even as a priest): it’s usually more helpful to pray for what I can actually receive: clarity, courage, grace, patience.

A friend of mine was wrestling with this not long ago. She had a friendship that had gone sideways. She wanted to reach out, but every time she sat down to write the message or attempt a phone call, she froze.

Her first instinct was to pray: “Please let this go well. Please let her respond kindly.”

When we talked, I gently suggested: “What if, instead of trying to steer the outcome, you asked the Holy Spirit to help you with how you show up in the conversation?”

She paused, nodded, and prayed: “Holy Spirit, help me be clear. Help me be kind. Help me listen well. Help me stay steady even if it’s awkward.”

When I spoke with her again, she recounted that the conversation wasn’t flawless, but it was honest and moved things forward. And she left it feeling lighter because she’d shown up with grace.
That’s one of the beautiful things about Pentecost–it reminds us the Holy Spirit is still with us, helping us in the middle of real life, everyday stuff.

So here’s my invitation for the week: Think of one situation you’ve been worrying about or overthinking. A conversation, a decision, whatever it is but something you’ve been putting off.

Before you take the next step, pause. Pray: “Holy Spirit, help me show up with grace, courage, and clarity—whatever happens.”

Then go forward.

You don’t have to do it alone.

God Bless.
FF

There’s a moment when you’re teaching a kid to ride a bike when you stop holding the seat.You’re still running behind them, just in case, but you’re not steering anymore.
They don’t always notice right away. And when they do, there’s usually a second of panic… followed by joy–because now they know they can do it.
That’s a little what this Sunday feels like.
Jesus has spent years walking with the disciples, patiently teaching them, even when they didn’t quite get it. And now, He’s leaving, but before He does, He gives them one last direction: go, preach repentance, tell people they’re forgiven. Then He blesses them and is gone.
They walk back to Jerusalem full of joy.
Because now it all makes sense. They understand Him and they understand themselves. They’re not just students anymore. They’re part of the mission.
It’s not always that clear for us. Most of us are somewhere between feeling like we should be doing something, and not knowing exactly what that is. We show up at Mass, we pray, we try to be decent human beings. But we’re not always sure if we’re really living the mission—or just circling the block with training wheels still on.
For today, that’s ok.
But this week I invite you to look at what Jesus has already told you to do and actually do it. Like making that phone call, breaking that bad habit, forgive that difficult neighbor.
God is already running behind you.
And just let go of the seat.
You’re more ready than you think.

God Bless.
FF

I knew the dishwasher was full. I just didn’t want to deal with it.

You know the kind of day. Nothing huge goes wrong, but everything feels like a bit much. And there it is—the blinking light, reminding me that someone has to step up. I stood there for a moment, hoping it wouldn’t have to be me.

That’s when I remembered something Jesus said: “If you love me, you’ll keep my commands.”

Not just when it’s easy. Not just when we’re feeling inspired. But in the ordinary, overlooked, frustrating moments. Love, in the way Jesus talks about it, looks a lot like quiet obedience.

We don’t always think of faith in those terms. We like the idea of loving God with our hearts, our songs, our good intentions. But Jesus ties love to action. Real love shows up in what we choose to do, especially when it costs us something.

It’s easy to say we love Jesus – it’s harder to love Him in the middle of a tired moment, or when we’d rather run with our own plans, or when what He asks of us costs more than we want to give.

But He doesn’t leave room for shortcuts. If we love Him, we follow Him. We don’t get to rewrite His words to suit our preferences or schedule. We’re called to obey, not just when it’s convenient.

If you’ve been feeling stretched thin, or like prayer’s turned into a one-sided conversation, you’re not alone. Sometimes we’re not really asking for God’s will—we’re asking Him to bless our version of it. But God leads us back to what Jesus actually said and then He helps us live it.

So if you’ve been waiting on a big spiritual sign, maybe take another look at the dishwasher. Or the apology that’s overdue. Or the quiet task no one sees but you. That’s often where obedience starts.

Your invitation this week: don’t ask God for a new direction. Ask for the grace to follow the one He’s already given.

God bless,
-FF

Some people are just hard to love.Not because they’re unkind. Sometimes it’s just personality.
Or timing.
Or history.
Maybe they talk over you. Maybe they never say thank you. Maybe they always seem to see the world in the most frustrating way possible.
And still, we’re called to love them.
Not in big, dramatic gestures. Most of the time, it’s quieter than that. It might look like holding your response when you’d rather make a sharp comment, or making space for someone who’s been drifting, or choosing to check in, even if they’ve been distant for a while.
Those moments don’t draw much attention, but they do something important.
They set the table for something significant, and this is what I’m asking of you this week.
The truth is, we all have our off days. We all have moments when we’re difficult to love. And still, we hope someone will meet us with a little patience, a little understanding, maybe even a little grace.
So that’s the invitation this week.
I’m not asking you to fix anyone, or force something that isn’t there. But to pay attention to one place in your life where love could be a little more present. A relationship that’s felt tense. A conversation you’ve been avoiding. Someone you’ve quietly written off.
Start there.
It won’t be easy, but that’s where love has a chance to do its quiet, steady and unglamorous work.
And you won’t get it right every time, but showing up with a willing heart counts for more than we realize and has a butterfly effect that reaches far beyond what we can see.
So try. Not perfectly, just honestly.
Love someone a little better this week.
God Bless.
FF

Life is busy for all of us.

We hustle.

We over-plan.

We refresh our inbox like it’s going to change our life.

We go into overdrive fixing problems, managing people, trying to get everything just right.

But there are still days when nothing seems to work out like we want.

It’s frustrating. But this week’s gospel suggests that maybe we need to shift direction.

That’s what Peter did. After everything, he goes back to what he knows: fishing. Something familiar and something that used to work. But even this is not working for him. Until a voice from the shore says, “Try the other side.”

Small shift. Whole new outcome.

Maybe “the other side” this week isn’t dramatic. Maybe it’s: picking up the phone instead of texting; choosing a quiet walk instead of more screen time; saying “not today” to that one obligation that always drains you.

You don’t have to fix everything. Just try to move differently. Slower and with intention.

The part that really gets me is when they get to shore and Jesus already has breakfast going, has a fire is lit, and the bread and fish ready. He’s not waiting for them to prove anything. He just says, Bring what you’ve got. Let’s eat.

That’s the invitation.

Not to perform, just to pause. To show up. To let go of the pressure to carry it all yourself, and trust that something good is already being prepared.

So if the usual rhythm isn’t working this week—try the other side. Bring what you’ve got—even if it’s not much—and come sit down.

You’re still invited.

God bless,
-FF

There’s a moment in this week’s Gospel that feels uncomfortably familiar.

A group of religious leaders drag a woman out in front of a crowd–they say she was caught in the act of adultery, and according to the law, she should be stoned.

But instead of acting, they turn to Jesus and ask, “So what do you say?”

It’s not about justice. And really, it’s not about her.

They’re trying to trap Him—either into contradicting the law, or contradicting His message of mercy.

Jesus doesn’t answer right away. He kneels down, draws in the dirt, and lets the silence do some of the work.

Then He stands and says one line: “Let the one among you who is without sin cast the first stone.”

Well.

We’re not so different.

Most of us aren’t walking around with literal stones in our hands.

But look at our words. Our posts. Our conversations.

How quick we are to call people out, shut people down, or decide who’s worth writing off. These days, throwing stones looks a lot like scrolling with judgment—or snapping back with a comment that sounds righteous, but lands like a bruise.

At the end of the Gospel, the woman is still there. The accusers are gone. Jesus asks, “Has no one condemned you?” And when she says no, He responds with mercy—but also with a call: “Go, and do not sin again.”

He doesn’t ignore what happened. He just leads with grace.

So here’s this week’s invitation: between now and Easter, fast from condemnation. Not just the dramatic kind, but the quiet eye-rolls, the sarcastic comments, the moments of superiority we all slip into.

When you feel the urge to cast judgment, pause instead.

Drop the stone.

And see what happens when you stop carrying all that weight.

God bless,
-FF

There’s someone in your life who’s let you down. Maybe they disappeared when things got hard. Maybe they made choices that hurt more than they knew. And now—after all that—they want to come back.

That feeling? That mix of hesitation, resentment, and a tiny flicker of hope?

That’s exactly where this week’s Gospel meets us.

Jesus tells a story about a family who’s lived through that kind of fracture–the kind where one person walks away and the others are left picking up the pieces. And when that person finally shows up again, empty-handed, the response is… unexpected.

It’s not punishment.

It’s not even caution.

It’s joy.

Someone throws open the door. Someone else refuses to come in.

And that’s where most of us find ourselves—somewhere between those two reactions.

We’re human–we know what it feels like to long for another chance.

And we know what it feels like to watch someone else get one, while we’re still waiting, still working our way back, still wondering if anyone notices.

This parable makes is sit in the discomfort that grace can bring, especially when it lands on someone who “doesn’t deserve it.” But maybe that’s the whole point.

Do any of us?

So here’s my invitation to you this week: Where have you been distant—emotionally, spiritually, relationally—and what would it look like to take one small step home?

AND who in your life might be trying to come back, in their own way? Could you meet them halfway?

Grace doesn’t wait at the door, arms crossed. It runs down the road to meet us.

God bless,
-FF

We’ve all done it.

Caught ourselves sizing someone up without meaning to. She’s always got something going on—must bring it on herself.

He never struggles—must be nice.

This week’s Gospel starts with people bringing up a few local tragedies, hoping Jesus will confirm their quiet assumptions: Surely those people had it coming. But Jesus doesn’t bite. He shifts the focus—not toward judgment, but toward personal reflection: What about your life? Are you turning toward what matters? Are you still growing?

It’s a response that echoes the God we meet in the burning bush. When Moses stops to look, God speaks—not with threats or condemnation, but with presence: “I have seen their suffering. I’ve heard their cries. I know what they’re going through.” It’s not a voice of judgment—it’s a voice that moves closer. A God who notices. Who cares. Who acts.

Jesus reflects that same heart. He doesn’t explain the suffering away. He invites the people—and us—to turn our attention inward. Not because God is waiting to strike, but because God is already near.

Then He tells a story.

A fig tree has been standing in a vineyard for years—lots of leaves, but no fruit. The owner’s had enough. “Cut it down,” he says. “It’s just taking up space.” But the gardener steps in: “Give it one more year. Let me care for it, tend to it, help it become what it was meant to be.”

Spoiler: we’re not meant to note his gardening advice, but rather reflection–he’s holding up a mirror.

Sometimes we’re the ones quick to cut people down—not with words maybe–but with the stories we tell ourselves about them.

Sometimes, we do the same to ourselves. I should be further along by now. I should have more to show. Maybe I missed my chance.

I’m guilty of this myself sometimes.

But grace is patient. God doesn’t just see what you’re not producing—He sees what’s still possible. What could grow, if only someone slowed down long enough to tend to it.

So here’s my invitation to you this week: Where in your life have you stopped expecting growth? And who in your life might need a little more time, a little less judgment?

This week, be the one who steps in and says, “Don’t give up yet.” Even if it’s to yourself.

Because sometimes, all it takes is one more season of care—for fruit to finally appear after the messy middle.

God bless,
-FF

If you’ve ever tried a restrictive diet–like giving up coffee or sugar–you know that oftentimes by afternoon, you’re wondering if life is even worth living.

But imagine fasting for 40 days—in the desert, with no snacks, no shade, just the oppressive heat and your hunger.

Just like Jesus.

And right when He was at His weakest, the devil showed up.

This week’s gospel unfolds the temptations Jesus faced and they weren’t random–they were tailored to His situation.

He was hungry? Satan tempted Him with bread.

He was on a mission? Satan offered Him power.

He was trusting God? Satan dared Him to prove it.

Here’s the thing: none of these were real temptations for Jesus. He could already multiply food. He already was King of everything. He didn’t need to test God—He is God.

But He endured these trials not for Himself, but for us.

So, what does this mean for you and me?

It means we’re stronger than we think. We’re not as powerless as we sometimes feel. Jesus, in His weakest moment, stood firm. And because He did, we can, too.

That doesn’t mean life will be easy. Jesus still faced betrayal, suffering, and the Cross. But through it all, He showed us that with faith, we can endure—even when we feel like we can’t.

So as we walk through Lent, let’s lean into this truth.

I invite you to let me know what have you changed, added, or given up this season? And more importantly—how is it drawing you closer to God?

Reply back and share—I’d love to hear!

God bless,
-Fr. Francisco