Hope you had a blessed Sunday! 🙏✝️
Time for another Catholic Meme Monday.
That’s all I have this week. Stay tuned for next week’s Catholic Meme Monday. Receive updates straight to your email inbox by subscribing to The Simple Catholic blog.
P.S. If you prefer receiving quality Catholic humor in daily doses follow me on Instagram @thesimplecatholic.
Sponsored: This article is made possible by The Elijah Institute, supporting quality and engaging Catholic content.
When we think of biblical heroes, we often picture prophets thundering truths before kings, parting clouds with miracles, and walking through fire with unwavering faith. Elijah fits that image—at least, at first glance. But Scripture doesn’t give us glossy, airbrushed Saints. It gives us real people. And Elijah? Elijah broke down.
His story is one of the clearest in the Bible about what we today would recognize as emotional collapse: anxiety, burnout, despair, even suicidal thoughts. He shows us that holiness and mental struggle are not opposites. They’re often companions.
And his story, now more than ever, speaks directly to those on the front lines of healing—doctors, nurses, counselors, first responders—those who bear others’ pain while quietly carrying their own.
Elijah’s public high point comes on Mount Carmel. In a head-to-head showdown with 450 prophets of Baal, Elijah calls down fire from heaven—and God answers. It’s the kind of moment you’d expect to come with a lifetime supply of spiritual confidence. But it doesn’t.
The very next chapter opens with Elijah running. Queen Jezebel threatens his life, and he flees into the desert, overwhelmed and undone. No followers. No plan. Just a prophet unraveling under the weight of everything.
He prays, “It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my fathers” (1 Kings 19:4). It’s one of the rawest prayers in all of Scripture.
Elijah had done everything right—and still, he hit a wall. It wasn’t a weakness. It was the human cost of doing the will of God in a broken world.
Here’s where things get profoundly beautiful. God doesn’t scold Elijah. He doesn’t give him a pep talk or demand that he pull himself together. He sends an angel. With a snack.
“Arise and eat,” the angel says, “or the journey will be too much for you” (1 Kings 19:7).
God tends to Elijah’s physical needs first: food, water, rest. Then again. And again. Only after Elijah’s body and spirit are gently restored does God speak—on Mount Horeb—not in fire or thunder, but in “a still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12).
This is a pattern worth noticing. God understands that healing the whole person—body, mind, and soul—takes time, nourishment, and silence.
Elijah’s breakdown wasn’t just about fear. It was about exhaustion, conscience, and the weight of standing alone in truth. Today, we might call this moral injury —a term used to describe the trauma experienced not just from violence or stress, but from the deeper wounds that come when we carry burdens of conscience.
This kind of injury often shows up in those who work in healing ministries: doctors, nurses, first responders, therapists, clergy. These are the people who run toward pain. And like Elijah, they often find themselves emptied out after doing everything “right.”
Moral injury, at its root, is spiritual. It’s the aching question: Did I do enough? Did I do the right thing? Sacred moral injury goes even further—it touches the conscience. It’s a wound that doesn’t just need therapy; it needs forgiveness, reconciliation, and grace.
As one contributor to The Elijah Institute’s work shared in a recent conversation, many of the therapists they train encounter clients (and sometimes themselves) dealing with this very wound. It’s not just burnout. It’s soul-weariness.
The Elijah Institute’s model—what they call BPSS-M: Biopsychosocial-Spiritual-Moral—is a Catholic approach to mental health that sees the person as a unity of body, mind, soul, and relationships. It acknowledges that some pain is physical, some emotional, some spiritual—and some moral.
This matters, especially for Catholic therapists. Because not every trauma heals through clinical work alone. Some needs must be named before God. Some wounds require absolution, or a return to the sacraments, or the courage to ask forgiveness.
Elijah’s story echoes this reality. His despair wasn’t irrational—it made sense given what he’d been through. But it also needed God’s personal response. A whisper. A call. A mission renewed.
St. Augustine, whose own conversion was marked by interior struggle, wrote, “You have made us for Yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You.”
That restlessness shows up in our modern world in the form of anxiety, perfectionism, and relentless overcommitment. We chase success, affirmation, control—only to find ourselves under our own version of the broom tree, like Elijah, crying out in quiet despair.
But healing—true healing—comes when we let God into the silence. When we accept that therapy, nutrition, community, and prayer are not separate tools, but part of one great invitation: Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest (Matt. 11:28).
Elijah didn’t walk away from Mount Horeb with all his problems solved. He still had to walk his road, face kings, mentor Elisha, and trust again. But he wasn’t the same.
His story reminds us that even prophets cry out in exhaustion. Even saints feel despair. And the God who calls fire from Heaven is also the God who whispers in the dark.
If you or someone you love is walking through burnout, moral injury, or spiritual exhaustion, know this: you’re not alone. And you don’t have to figure it out by yourself.
Catholic therapists formed in integrated care, like those trained by The Elijah Institute, are helping men and women reconnect the dots between psychology and spirituality—between moral wounds and Divine Mercy. Healing isn’t always fast, but it’s always possible.
Elijah’s life is not just a tale from long ago. It’s a mirror for us. For those doing God’s work and wondering why it hurts so much. For those exhausted by goodness. For those who pray, “Lord, I’ve had enough.”
God hears. God feeds. God speaks.
And He still says to you today:
Arise and eat. The journey is long. But I am with you.
Thanks again to today’s article sponsor, The Elijah Institute! Learn more about how they’re equipping Catholic mental health professionals to care for the whole person—body, mind, and soul—through integrated, faith-filled training at The Elijah Institute.
Guest Post by: David Tonaszuck
As we gather here today, surrounded by the gentle presence of our Lord Jesus, I invite you to settle your hearts and simply listen; not just with your ears, but with the quiet spaces inside you where God loves to whisper. Today we reflect on a Gospel that feels almost like a scene from our own lives: Luke 10:38–42, the story of Martha and Mary.
Picture it. Jesus comes to visit Martha, Mary, and Lazarus in their home near Jerusalem; a home filled with love, laughter, and, on this day, a little bit of tension. Martha is hustling, doing all the things a good host does: cooking, cleaning, making sure everything is just right for their honored guest. Meanwhile, Mary sits at the feet of Jesus, soaking in every word. And Martha, overwhelmed and maybe feeling a little alone in her service, finally speaks up: “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me.”
If you’re anything like me, you’ve felt like Martha before. Maybe more often than you’d like to admit. There’s always something that needs doing: at home, at work, in our families, even in our parishes. The world demands so much from us. But Jesus, with a gentleness that cuts right through the noise, answers: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things, but there is only one thing that matters. Mary has chosen the better part, and it will not be taken from her.”
This isn’t Jesus scolding Martha, or telling us to stop working, or to ignore our responsibilities. Far from it. Jesus is inviting Martha – inviting all of us – to step out of our anxious busyness and into the peace of his presence. He’s saying, “Let me be your center. Let me be your peace. Come, sit with me; let your heart rest in me.”
St. Ignatius of Antioch wrote about two “coinages”: one of God, one of the world; each stamped with a different image, a different set of priorities. The question for us is simple, but not easy: When we look at our own lives, which coin do we spend? Which side do we show the world? Is our life marked by frantic activity, or by a deep trust that God’s love is enough?
The truth is, we are called to be both Martha and Mary. We are called to serve, to work, to love our families and our neighbors. But before all that, we are called to be with Jesus. To listen. To pray. To let ourselves be loved by God so that everything we do flows from that love. Because when we put God first, when we let the Holy Spirit fill our hearts, our work becomes more than just busyness; it becomes worship.
And why do we place God first? Because of what Jesus has done for us in the Paschal Mystery: his suffering, death, and resurrection. Through his sacrifice, he opened the way for us to be reconciled with our Father, to receive forgiveness, and to share in the very life of God. Every time we sit at Jesus’ feet in prayer, every time we choose love over anxiety, we are living out the gift of new life he won for us. It’s not just our own strength that lets us choose the better part – it’s Christ living in us, through the Holy Spirit, because of the cross and the empty tomb.
How do we do this? We start by asking the Holy Spirit for help. We ask for the grace to put God first, to let him shape our priorities, our days, our hearts. And when we stumble – and we all do – we remember that God’s mercy is endless. There’s always a place for us at Jesus’ feet.
Every day is a new chance to choose “the better part.” It might be as simple as a moment of silence before the day begins. A whispered prayer in the car. A few verses of Scripture before bed. Or, if you’re overwhelmed, maybe just a deep breath and a simple, “Jesus, I need you.” Every act of turning toward Jesus, no matter how small, draws us closer to the heart of God.
And here’s the real miracle: When we let ourselves rest in Jesus, we find that we are not alone in our work. He works with us. He gives us the strength to serve, to love, to carry the burdens of life with a peace the world can’t give. And he invites us to share that peace with everyone we meet.
So today, as we go out into the world, let’s remember Jesus’ invitation: “I love you, my son. I love you, my daughter. Come, be by my side. Let our hearts become one.” Let’s choose the better part. Let’s place our trust in God, and let his love flow from us: in our work, in our families, in every act of kindness and service.
May we be a people marked not by anxiety, but by love. Not by busyness, but by presence. And may we always remember: Jesus is with us, now and always, loving us into the fullness of life.
Amen.
Blessed Carlo Acutis once said, “Not me, but God.” His words echo deeply in my own spiritual life. This blog is not about me, but about the work of the Holy Spirit. I choose to remain anonymous because the voice behind these reflections isn’t what matters — the One speaking through them is.
I am a lifelong Catholic with a deep love for Scripture, the sacraments, and the quiet ways God speaks through everyday life. Live the Eucharist was born from my desire to share how the Gospel and the Eucharist shape not just my Sundays, but every step of the journey.
My hope is that these reflections bless you, challenge you, and draw you closer to Jesus — truly present in the Eucharist and profoundly present in your daily life.
Sponsored: This article is made possible by Catholic Card Game, supporting quality and engaging Catholic content.
“Joy is the net of love by which we catch souls.”
—Saint Teresa of Calcutta
Let’s be honest: no one wants to join a movement that looks miserable. The early Christians didn’t spread the Gospel by groaning through Galilee. They were known for their joy. Their laughter echoed off prison walls. Their eyes shone even in persecution. Joy wasn’t just a bonus. It was the proof that the Good News was actually good.
Too often today, evangelization is reduced to debates, dour sermons, or social media posts that read like divine cease-and-desist letters. But what if the most powerful tool for evangelization isn’t argument, but amusement? What if, instead of trying to be taken seriously all the time, we followed the advice of Saint Philip Neri: “Let us make fools of ourselves from time to time, and thus see ourselves, for a moment, as the all-wise God sees us.”
Saint Philip Neri, the patron saint of joy and humor, didn’t see laughter as a distraction from holiness. He saw it as a highway. He once shaved half his beard before a meeting—on purpose. When someone asked him if they could wear a hairshirt as penance, he replied, “Only inside out and over your cassock.” Why? Because holiness isn’t a performance. It’s not for show. Joy keeps us real. And being real is where conversion starts.
Neri understood a basic truth: solemnity is not the same as sanctity. Joy is contagious. Humor is disarming. If you want to open someone’s heart to Christ, a well-timed joke might work better than a lecture.
I’ve found this to be true even in my own life. I started The Simple Catholic blog not just to catechize, but to reconnect with joy—mine and yours. In a world that takes itself too seriously, Philip Neri reminded me that sanctity often looks like someone who doesn’t need to prove anything. Someone who knows they are loved.
Joy doesn’t have to be a solo act either. Sometimes, it looks like sitting around the table with friends or youth group teens, playing The Catholic Card Game and belly-laughing at absurdly holy prompt-answer combos. It’s in those moments of lightness that hearts open naturally to something deeper. Evangelization often starts with connection, and joy is one of the strongest bridges.
G.K. Chesterton said it best: “Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly.” That’s not a cute metaphor. It’s spiritual physics. When we cling to our pride, our reputation, our need to look “put together,” we sink. But when we surrender all that heaviness and laugh—even at ourselves—we rise. We fly.
Laughter is a leap of faith. It says, “I’m not afraid.” I’m not afraid to be silly, to be wrong, to be humbled. Why? Because I trust that God is good, and that He delights in me, even when I look ridiculous. That kind of joy is attractive. It evangelizes without preaching.
Chesterton warns us that “pride is the downward drag of all things into an easy solemnity.” It’s easy to be heavy. It’s much harder to be light. But that’s exactly what Jesus calls us to: “My yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:30). When we carry that lightness—spiritual joy—we become walking invitations to the Gospel.
I recently experienced this with my own family during a game night. We cracked open Council at Daybreak, a fast-paced Catholic twist on the classic Mafia-style social deduction game. Within minutes, we were laughing, accusing, defending, and yes, trying to uncover the heretic in our midst. What struck me wasn’t just how fun and easy it was to learn, but how naturally it brought out joy, discussion, and connection across generations. Games like this are a subtle but powerful way to build community. And in doing so, evangelize with joy.
Somewhere along the way, many Christians bought into the idea that the holier you get, the more serious you must become. As if heaven is a long staff meeting where nobody laughs, and all the saints just nod solemnly at one another over harp music.
But that’s not the faith we profess.
We follow a God who turned water into wine at a party. A Savior who welcomed children and praised mustard-seed faith. Jesus didn’t need to wear a sign that said “Messiah.” People were drawn to Him because He exuded something irresistible: joy.
When we share the Gospel without joy, we’re not offering the whole truth. As Venerable Fulton Sheen put it, “A divine sense of humor belongs to poets and saints.” If we truly believe in the Resurrection—if we really believe death has been defeated—then shouldn’t we be the most joyful people around?
Evangelization isn’t just about information. It’s about invitation. And no one RSVPs to a joyless dinner party.
Mother Angelica once said, “I try to laugh a lot, because life is funny, and everybody today is too serious. The only tragedy in the world, my friend, is sin.” That’s the secret. Joy doesn’t ignore suffering—it transcends it. Christians aren’t joyful because life is easy. We’re joyful because God is with us in it.
Laughter reminds us that we’re not God. That’s a relief, by the way. It grounds us in humility and reminds others that this whole Christianity thing isn’t about perfection. It’s about transformation. When we laugh at ourselves, we’re giving others permission to breathe. To be themselves. To let grace in.
Saint Teresa of Avila said it plainly: “God save us from gloomy saints!” And she was right. Gloom doesn’t glorify God. Joy does. Joy is what makes people stop scrolling and ask, “What’s different about them?”
The world has plenty of cynicism. It’s drowning in it. What it needs is light. Joy. A people who know the punchline of the story: that Love wins, and they live accordingly.
So here’s the challenge: if you want to evangelize, smile more. Tell a joke. Share a meme. Laugh at your own awkwardness. Tell the truth in love, but make sure it’s the joyful truth.
Evangelization doesn’t always mean street preaching or quoting catechism paragraphs. Sometimes it’s simply being the kind of person others want to be around. The kind of person whose laughter gives others permission to hope.
Maybe it even starts with a game night. A box of cards. A mystery heretic. A round of laughter that turns into a moment of grace.
After all, “Rejoice in the Lord always,” Paul tells us in Philippians. “Again I say, rejoice!” That’s not a suggestion. It’s a command from a man who wrote those words from a prison cell. Joy isn’t naive. It’s powerful. It’s subversive. And it’s “resurrection-colored” hope in a Good Friday world.
So go ahead. Be holy. Be honest. But for heaven’s sake, be funny too.
Thanks again to today’s article sponsor! Visit Catholic Card Game for fun Catholic games to play with your friends and family.
Hope you had a blessed Sunday! 🙏✝️
Time for another Catholic Meme Monday.
That’s all I have this week. Stay tuned for next week’s Catholic Meme Monday. Receive updates straight to your email inbox by subscribing to The Simple Catholic blog.
P.S. If you prefer receiving quality Catholic humor in daily doses follow me on Instagram @thesimplecatholic.
Welcome to another The Simple Catholic Sunday Funnies! Growing up, one of my favorite parts of Sunday was flipping to the comics section of the newspaper: a little pocket of humor, color, and light-heartedness to start the week.
Now, in that same spirit, I’m excited to share this weekly collection of wholesome, funny Catholic comic strips. Thanks to the incredible talents of artists like Father Alvaro Comics, The Catholic Cartoonist, Sam Estrada, Tomics, and Fr. Michael DeBlanc. These comics bring a joyful twist to our shared faith, reminding us that laughter is one of God’s great gifts.
Enjoy Catholic comics!
Summer Note: With many of our amazing comic artists taking some well-deserved vacation time with their families, you may notice a lighter batch of comics some weeks. Thanks for understanding!
You can follow Fr. Michael on Instagram: @patermichaeldeblanc and on Facebook Fr. Michael DeBlanc).
Follow The Catholic Cartoonist on Instagram.
Follow Father Alvaro Comics on Instagram
Find more of Sam’s work at prostrada.com!
I hope this week’s edition of The Simple Catholic Sunday Funnies brought a smile to your face and a bit of lightness to your Sunday. In a world that can often feel heavy, it’s good to pause, laugh, and see our faith reflected in simple moments of joy.
Be sure to check back next week for more Catholic humor — and as always, feel free to share with a friend who could use a laugh and a little grace.
Editor’s Note: Matthew Chicoine interviewed Jocelyn Abyad via phone call on June 26th, 2025. Some of the questions have been rearranged and edited to provide the best reader experience without losing any integrity of the answers given.
In 2020 and 2021 my husband and I lost three babies due to miscarriage (at 10 weeks, 6 weeks, and 15 weeks). We were blindsided and found there were not a lot of existing resources that were compatible with our faith.
My husband and I did some research on this and found our own journey of healing. I found a local grief support group called Forget Me Not (they later merged with Owl Love You Forever).
From the work we saw with Forget Me Not, we were inspired to create more Catholic resources for those experiencing loss. My mom, myself and a couple friends started We Carry You Still as a non-profit in 2024.
I am an Eastern Catholic and my mom is a Roman Catholic, so we had the East and West represented. As we brought my friends on board, they are actually Orthodox, our mission expanded. The Orthodox similarly are not providing enough support on the miscarriage issue. Our faith is an Incarnate one. When you lose a child due to miscarriage it feels like this invisible weight that people are carrying on their own. One of the beauties of our faith is that we have a physical faith. We have our Mother in Heaven. She knows how it feels to bury Her child.
Well the name of our ministry reflects that vision. We address this on several levels. First, we know that the parents and immediate family carry the baby that was lost in their hearts, even for years to come.. We offer free Memory Boxes for the women who experience the miscarriage to help them remember their child and process their grief..
Similarly, we are empowering the community to show up for the grieving family with this gift box. Sometimes the community wants to help and show up but they don’t know how. This gives them a way to do that. Everybody together is carrying each other in their grief. Mothers, fathers, living children and even parents who had miscarriages decades ago. And helping the community around them support those in grieving their loss.
We also offer healing retreats (no matter how long it has been since you lost a baby).
Our retreats are offered to women and couples. We are in the unique position that my husband is serving as a priest and father who knows the loss of a child personally.
Our box packing events are an opportunity for people to help pay if forward and put their grief to work. While we do have some people who haven’t experienced this type of loss helping with the grief boxes, it is predominantly those couples who have experienced loss themselves with miscarriages helping to prepare these boxes for those couples who are currently going through the grief of losing a child.
First off, on our website, we offer informational guides and resources. We have a guide for anyone who is touched by these losses. We have guides in both English and Spanish. On our resources page we have book recommendations for both adults and children. Everything we recommend is in line with official Church teaching.
Typically, for children it is helpful to keep them informed about the miscarriage, bring them to the funeral, visit the graves of their siblings, and invite them in prayers.
There’s this context by which the children can experience such loss through the lense of faith. There’s a hope in the Resurrection and seeing our babies (and their siblings) in Heaven.
I think that while my children were very sad at the moment, having them be a part of the grieving process in light of our Catholic faith has been impactful in the healing process.
I think number one if I speak broadly, this is the forgotten front of the pro-life movement. We do a good job of praying outside abortion clinics and pray to end abortion and euthanasia. And yet we leave faithful couples in the pew who have experienced miscarriage with little to no support.
Burying the dead is a corporal work of mercy. If women are prepared to bury their babies; if people were given these resources they would be more prepared to deal with these crises when they happen.
I think we can be more sensitive on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Use more inclusive language that acknowledges that there is a range of experiences of motherhood and fatherhood.
Providing information is a key way. In the Diocese of Phoenix, we will be participating in the annual NFP training and giving couples resources if and when they may need it. To at least give them resources in the back of their mind should they experience a miscarriage.
I would point back to the guides we have on our website. Don’t be afraid to mention the child. The parents will not forget about their child. If you can remember the child by name it can be very empowering.
I try to ask open-ended questions to see how they are feeling. And I also ask people to tell me about your family instead of how many kids you have.
Visit us at We Carry You Still and take a visual tour to learn more. You can also follow us on: Facebook and Instagram @wecarryyoustill . There are two other excellent ministries in this line of work. One is Redbird which supports child loss of any age and the other is Springs in the Desert, who supports Catholics experiencing infertility.
Jocelyn Abyad is the wife of Fr. Zyad Abyad and mother of 7 daughters on earth and 3 babies in Heaven. She holds a degree in psychology from Arizona State University and worked as a finance banker for over a decade before choosing to stay home to homeschool her children. Alongside her husband, she serves at St. John of the Desert Melkite Catholic Church in Phoenix, Arizona.Jocelyn shares insights on homeschooling and liturgical living across multiple platforms as Melkite Momma and is a regular contributor to Byzikids Magazine. Throughout her work and personal experiences, Jocelyn seeks to foster faith, family, and community.