Ascension: The Mystery of Presence in Absence. (John 17: 20-26)

The mystery of the Ascension is about transformation. The one who walked beside them now promises to dwell within. He does not leave to be apart from us, but to be a part of us, in every breath, in every quiet stirring of the soul. He asks them to stay - to wait, in stillness, silence, and hope, until they are “clothed with power from on high.” This waiting is the sacred pause between the known and the unknown, the seen and the unseen. In this space, something eternal unfolds. The Spirit comes as breath.

We often fear goodbyes. We resist letting go. But Jesus shows us that release is the doorway to indwelling presence. In this mystery, we echo the words of Thich Nhat Hanh: “I asked the leaf whether it was scared because it was autumn and the other leaves were falling. The leaf told me, ‘No. During the whole spring and summer I was very alive. I worked hard to help nourish the tree, and now much of me is in the tree. I am not limited by this form. I will return in the rain. I will enter the soil and become part of the tree again.’”

The Ascension is like that. It is Jesus’ whispering: I am not limited by this form. I go so I can be in you, with you, forever. It is why we believe that those who have gone before us are not gone, but transfigured. They, too, dwell in a form unseen, their love now diffused like light, their goodness soaking into the roots of our lives.

And so, we are not just waiting—we are becoming. We are the people of resurrection. We carry not merely a memory of Christ, but His breath, His peace, His Spirit. As we walk our streets and sit with silence, as we struggle and as we rejoice, we carry within us the echo of His final blessing—the God who ascended to become immanent. Let us live, then, with the same deep trust as the leaf: knowing we are part of a greater becoming. Let us wait with reverent hope, for we are already being clothed with the fire and tenderness of the Spirit. And when we lift our eyes in prayer, may we see the nearness of God in all things.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

Where God feels at home. (John 14:23-29)

What does it mean when Jesus says, "We will come to them and make our home with them"? It’s an invitation into the most intimate kind of relationship. Not a God who checks in from a distance, but a God who chooses to live with us right where we are. And let’s be honest - our hearts aren’t always peaceful places. They are often full of noise, questions, regrets, overthinking, fatigue and fears we don’t always say aloud.

And yet, this is the space God chooses to call home. Not because it’s neat or perfect, but because it’s honest and human. He doesn’t wait for us to sort everything out. He moves in with love and stays. When God makes His home in us, we don’t have to keep searching or striving to find Him. We begin to notice Him in the everyday - in the quiet moments, in conversations, in the waiting, in our tears and in our laughter, even in the breath we almost forget to take.

Then Jesus says something that feels almost impossible: "Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid." But He’s not saying that life won’t bring things that trouble us. He knows it will. He lived it too. What He offers is something even deeper - His peace. Peace that holds steady even when things don’t make sense, a peace that comes from knowing I am not alone. He is with me.

This peace doesn’t erase the storm - it sits gently in the middle of it, like a quiet presence that reminds us we’re held even when life feels too heavy. Maybe today, that’s the invitation: to stop waiting for everything to settle before we feel safe, to trust that God is already here, making Himself at home in the messy, sacred space of our hearts, and from there, letting peace rise gently.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

Loved into Loving. (John 13: 31-35 )

It was a quiet moment. Judas had just stepped into the night, and shadows still clung to the room. But Jesus, in that dim silence, speaks words soaked in light: “Love one another... as I have loved you.” Just a whisper for the soul. What if this was more than a rule? What if it’s an invitation into a way of seeing? A way of being.

Jesus isn’t asking for imitation. He’s inviting us to receive the love He has already given… to breathe it in so deeply that it becomes the rhythm of our hearts. The love that washed tired feet. That noticed those who were invisible. That lingered at wells, waited for wanderers, and wept beside graves.

This love doesn’t rush in with solutions. It stays. It listens. It gives room for someone else’s story to be held with tenderness. And perhaps this is what it means to love like Him: Not to fix, not to perform, but to become a place where others feel safe to be fully human. To look at each other, especially in our fragility, and say without words: You are still worthy of love. You are still home.

It’s not always easy. But it’s possible when we remember: we are loved first. So let’s allow that love to change us, not just to act differently, but to see differently. To see each person as someone God deeply delights in. Including ourselves. Because in the end, maybe that’s how the world will know. Not by how well we speak, but by how well we love. By the trace of peace we leave behind. By the love that lingers.

- Sr. Lilly Pushpam

 

The Shepherd’s whisper. (John 10: 27-30)

There is a voice so gentle, yet unmistakable, that rises above the noise, beyond the roles we wear and the expectations we carry. It does not summon us by our titles, our tasks, our triumphs, or our failures. It calls us by our name. This is the voice of the Shepherd, Jesus, who sees us as we truly are. In the wake of the Church’s discernment in conclave and the election of Pope Leo XIV to lead us through the times ahead—amid global unrest, war, and cries for peace—Jesus invites us to remember that vocation is first about being known and loved. Only then are we truly ready to be sent. In a time when identity is shaped by what we do or hold, when headlines are dominated by violence, including the fresh tensions and attacks between India and Pakistan, we are tempted to respond with fear.

                Yet into this fear, Jesus speaks a deeper truth. Vocation is a relationship, it is about responding to the One who first found us significant even when we were unknown, unseen, unaccomplished. When we forget this, religious life can become just another system of recognition, performance, and pressure. But Jesus overturns that system. He calls the wounded. He entrusts mission to the unlikely. He builds His Church on hearts open enough to be led. Vocation is an invitation to remember:  We are those held in His hands, called by name, called to presence, to dwell, and to bow in love.

                This is the sacred dignity of our call: To live from the deep assurance of being known, to love from the unshakable truth of being held, to lead from the quiet strength of being led by the Shepherd’s voice. In times of uncertainty, conflict, and change, may we listen again. May we remember who we are. And may we follow, not because we are strong, but because we are His.

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

The Shore where Everything begins again. (John 21: 1-19)

When the road behind us feels like a long silence, when everything falls apart, we often slip back to what is familiar, the boats, the nets, the night that promises. That’s what the disciples did. They returned to fishing because that is something they could still understand. But even there, even in the heart of what once gave them purpose, they found nothing. That silence of the sea was not just around them, maybe it echoed inside them too. They were tired, disappointed, wondering where to go next. Because once you’ve walked with Jesus, old ways no longer satisfy.

As the sky turned to gold and the darkness lifted, Jesus stood at the shore, calling out with tenderness: "Children, have you caught anything?" as if to say: You are still mine. You are still loved. Something in that word loosens their fear. When he tells them to cast the net on the right side, they don’t argue. No "Why?" No "Who are you to say? “Just a silent, trusting obedience, the kind that rises when hope is too fragile to speak. And suddenly, abundance fills the emptiness they carried all night.

It is John, the beloved, who first whispers the recognition: “It is the Lord." Peter doesn’t wait for the boat or the others or even his doubts. He puts on his outer garment hurls himself into the sea. And what did he find? A fire. Warm bread. Fish already cooking. Jesus had prepared breakfast. To remind them: “I still need you. I still delight in you.”

Sometimes, when we feel most lost, love is already waiting at the shore, with breakfast, with a quiet call: “Come, there is still love for you. There is still purpose.” where failures are fed, fears are clothed in tenderness, and the only qualifications for mission are love and longing. In our lives too we all go back to fishing sometimes. But love never leaves us there. Love stands on the shore at every grey dawn, ready to call us children again, ready to begin everything anew.

Lilly Pushpam PBVM