Held Along the Way

This weekend, we're sending Leland off for his fifth summer at overnight camp: two weeks up in Big Bear. He knows the drill: no screens, sleeping bag rolled tight, sunscreen somewhere he swears he’ll use, a thousand reminders to wear deodorant, and a letter we’ll write even if he never opens it. He knows the campfire songs probably better than the Mass parts—and pretends to forget how many showers he’s supposed to take. He's shot up five inches since Thanksgiving. But still, as the bus pulls away, there’s that flicker in my chest. Not worry, exactly. Just a reminder that I can’t go with him.

Maybe it’s because of the news out of Texas—the floods, the devastation, the unimaginable loss. Or maybe it’s just the truth of being a parent. We prepare, we release, we trust. We love, and we let go.

This weekend’s gospel offers us the familiar story of the Good Samaritan—a story not about fixing the world, but about stopping long enough to notice who’s bleeding beside us. It’s a story about being held along the way. The Samaritan doesn’t offer certainty or resolution. He offers presence. He interrupts his own journey to carry someone else for a while.

That’s why we gather for Mass. Not because we have answers or we’re unshaken. Rather, every week, word and sacrament remind us that we’re not traveling this road alone. When we gather, we take the time to see each other—to offer mercy, gratitude, and rest for the journey. We meet our God who meets us in our need, and we carry that presence into the week ahead.

We can’t always go with the ones we love. But we can trust that someone will. And we can practice becoming the kind of people who cross the road, kneel down, and stay.