Every September 14, the Church pauses to celebrate something that at first glance seems strange: the Exaltation of the Cross. The word exaltation means “lifting up” or “glorifying.” It’s a reminder that the instrument once used for shame and execution now stands as the very sign of salvation and hope. We do not merely remember the crucifixion on this feast — we rejoice in the triumph of Christ’s love poured out on the wood of the Cross.
The Cross is not only an event in history; it is the key that unlocks the whole Christian mystery. To exalt the Cross is to recognize that in this sign of suffering, God has revealed His deepest love. As St. John Vianney once said, “Everything is a reminder of the Cross. We ourselves are made in the shape of a cross.” The Cross is imprinted not only on the Church’s liturgy, but in the very design of our bodies and our lives.
It’s easy to box Catholicism into a Sunday morning affair. We dress up, sing, shake hands at the sign of peace, and check the Mass off the to-do list. But that kind of compartmentalized faith crumbles the moment suffering shows up unannounced, dragging its baggage into our Monday mornings, our family dinners, and hospital waiting rooms. Catholicism isn’t a weekend religion. It’s a daily, lived reality—especially in suffering. And if we’re honest, suffering isn’t just something we endure individually. It binds us together in a communion deeper than coffee hour after Mass. There is a fellowship of suffering. And it is holy.
When Suffering Isn’t Just Yours
I used to think suffering was something you white-knuckled alone. I imagined Job in isolation, scraping his sores and waiting for God to speak. But as I’ve grown—both in age and in my walk with Christ—I’ve come to see that suffering has a communal dimension. When my son was abused at daycare, I thought the pain would crush me. When my daughter faced medical complications and we walked through miscarriage, it felt like the cross would splinter my soul. But in those dark valleys, I didn’t walk alone. People prayed. Some brought meals. Others sat in silence with us. I received texts that simply said, “Offering my Mass today for your family.” Those gestures weren’t small. They were sacrificial. They were holy.
Catholic camaraderie in suffering is the Church at its best. That’s what the Body of Christ does. When one part aches, the rest compensates. And more than anything, I started praying something strange: “Jesus, send me more suffering if it is a means to glorify You and bring relief to the rest of the Body of Christ.”
The Cross is Communal
Our society prizes self-sufficiency. So it’s no wonder suffering gets treated like a private shame. But Christianity flips that script. Our Lord did not suffer in secret. He suffered publicly, on a hill, before friend and foe alike. He was lifted up—not just to save us individually but to draw all people to Himself.
St. Teresa of Avila once said, “God knows how to draw good from evil. And the good is all the greater in the measure that we diligently strive that He not be offended in anything.”
That striving isn’t done alone. It’s communal. Suffering shared in love becomes redemptive. To love is to suffer. To suffer is to open your heart to the suffering of others. And when we offer up our afflictions—especially those we didn’t choose—for the sake of others, we participate in the apostolate of suffering.
Offering It All
Padre Pio once said, “Love Jesus, love Him very much, but to do this, be ready to love sacrifice more.”
There’s a prayer I’ve started saying more often lately: “Lord, I will offer my present sufferings in atonement for this person’s soul.” It’s not easy. Especially when that person is someone who’s caused harm, someone who’s part of the injustice. But that’s where the Gospel gets real. The Cross wasn’t offered for the righteous. It was for sinners. That includes me. That includes them.
To suffer in union with Christ is not a resignation to pain. It’s an act of rebellion against despair. It is choosing to love in the furnace of affliction. And it is a powerful witness.
When someone embraces suffering with patience, gentleness, and joy, it is undeniable proof that the Holy Spirit is alive in them. That kind of suffering transforms you. It sanctifies. It makes you beautiful when united to the Cross. As I often say, “Suffering is truly sanctifying when you look to Love.”
Job as Our Model
St. Josemaria Escriva put it beautifully: “Those who pray and suffer, leaving action for others, will not shine here on earth; but what a radiant crown they will wear in the kingdom of life! Blessed be the apostolate of suffering!”
Our job as Catholics is to act like Job when faced with suffering. Not to deny the pain. Not to pretend we have all the answers. But to remain faithful. To hold on to God when everything else is stripped away. And to look around and realize: we’re not alone.
There is a fellowship of suffering in the Church. It’s seen in the parishioner who lights a candle for a grieving mother. It’s seen in the teenager fasting for a friend with cancer. And it’s seen in the weary dad kneeling before the crucifix saying, “Jesus, I trust in You.”
The suffering of the Cross is a necessary harbinger of union with God in Heaven. That’s not just theology. That’s lived reality. And while we wait for that final union, we suffer together, in communion, so that the light of Christ is not hidden under a bushel basket but shared with the world.
Suffering is inescapable. But it is not meaningless. In the Body of Christ, suffering becomes a channel of grace—for us, and for others.
So let us embrace it, not as punishment, but as participation. Not as isolation, but as invitation. To love. To serve. Become like Christ.
Lord Jesus Christ, I come before You—broken yet hopeful, wounded yet seeking, fallen yet rising once more.
Through the waters of Baptism, I am Your servant. Through the gift of Your grace, I am Your child. Through the mystery of Your love, I am Yours.
When anxiety floods my heart, when doubt clouds my mind, when despair threatens my soul, I turn to Your Cross.
The Enemy whispers of failure. The Enemy stirs my self-loathing. The Enemy plants seeds of despair. But at the foot of Your Cross, these burdens grow lighter.
Saint Catherine of Sienna wrote, “Every great burden becomes light beneath this most holy yoke of the sweet will of God.” Pour forth Your Holy Spirit upon me:
That I might love myself as Your creation
That I might seek Your will with confidence
That I might offer myself wholly to You
My sins have wounded me deeply. My sins have damaged my earthly relationships. My sins have separated me from You, Most Holy Trinity.
Yet I lift my eyes to Golgotha. I behold You crucified. I witness Love poured out completely.
May Mary Intercede for Us
“It is through the atmosphere of Mary that we truly are able to receive the light of the Son.”
At Calvary’s darkest hour, You spoke words of eternal comfort: “Woman, behold, your son.” “Behold, your mother.”
In Your suffering, You gave us Your mother. In Your pain, You secured our adoption. In Your death, You ensured we would never journey alone.
When failures overwhelm me, I look to Your Cross. When trials surround me, I remember Your suffering. When doubts assail me, I unite myself to Your passion.
This pilgrim journey toward holiness is not walked alone. We stumble together. We rise together. We move toward You together—finding unexpected joy and surpassing peace even in our suffering.
Life’s journey often resembles a winding pilgrimage, with steep climbs of joy and deep valleys of sorrow. My path as The Simple Catholic began in 2015, emerging from a crucible of intense suffering and anchored by an unwavering faith. Today, I invite you to join me in revisiting this pilgrimage, understanding the mission that drives The Simple Catholic, and exploring how faith, humor, and neurodiversity have shaped this unique ministry.
The Seed of Suffering
The year leading up to 2015 was marked by a series of profound challenges. My wife and I experienced the heart-wrenching loss of our unborn child to miscarriage. This loss was compounded by medical issues, the stress of new jobs, and the diagnosis of our son with autism spectrum disorder. In 2017, we faced yet another miscarriage, deepening our acquaintance with grief.
It was during this “Dark Night of the Soul” that my Catholic faith became more than just a set of beliefs—it transformed into a lifeline, an anchor keeping me tethered to God amidst the tempest of life. Like St. John of the Cross, I found that the darkness, rather than separating me from God, was paradoxically drawing me closer to Him.
The Healing Power of Words
As I grappled with the loss of our son Jeremiah, I turned to writing as a form of therapy. What began as a personal healing balm soon blossomed into something greater. Armed with a Master’s degree in theology from Franciscan University of Steubenville and a background in teaching, I found myself with a wealth of knowledge and a burning desire to share it, even as personal circumstances led me away from formal education.
Thus, The Simple Catholic was born—a mission to inform others about the Catholic faith and to demonstrate how joy can be found in daily life, even amidst suffering. Like St. Francis of Assisi, who found God’s presence in all of creation, I sought to reveal the divine in the ordinary moments of life.
Embracing Neurodiversity
My journey has been uniquely colored by my neurodiversity. Diagnosed with ADHD as a child, I’ve come to recognize this aspect of myself not as a weakness, but as a “superpower.” It allows me to make connections between seemingly unrelated concepts, bringing a fresh perspective to age-old truths.
With the support of my wife (a special education teacher), our four children, and the guidance of the Holy Spirit, I’ve learned to harness my differences. My quirks and unique thought patterns, once seen as obstacles, have become valuable tools in communicating the richness of Catholicism.
This embrace of neurodiversity echoes the Franciscan spirituality that so deeply resonates with me. Just as St. Francis saw the divine reflected in all of creation, I’ve come to see the image of God reflected in the beautiful diversity of human minds and experiences.
Laughter as a Spiritual Practice
Humor has become a cornerstone of my spiritual life and my approach to The Simple Catholic. It serves as a stabilizing force during times when depression and anxiety threaten to overwhelm. This integration of joy and laughter into faith is reminiscent of St. Philip Neri, known as the “Laughing Saint,” who believed that humor and holiness went hand in hand.
From my love for “The Office” (Threat Level Midnight, anyone?) to my eclectic interests ranging from platypuses to board games, I’ve found that embracing life’s quirkiness can be a form of prayer and praise. After all, as G.K. Chesterton once said, “Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly.”
Saints and Traditions: My Spiritual Roots
The spiritual context of The Simple Catholic has been shaped by a diverse array of saints and traditions. The wisdom of Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross has taught me to seek God in the interior castle of the soul and to find Him even in the darkest nights. The boldness of Catherine of Siena and Athanasius of Alexandria inspires me to speak truth with courage and clarity.
The Carmelite emphasis on interior life and detachment resonates deeply with me, teaching me to seek God beyond the senses and imagination. Simultaneously, the Franciscan joy in simplicity and God’s creation informs my approach to finding the divine in everyday life.
The Mission Continues
As The Simple Catholic moves forward, the mission remains clear: to be the #1 source for funny and inspiring Catholic content. But beyond the humor and inspiration lies a deeper purpose—to walk alongside others on their spiritual journeys, offering hope, understanding, and a reminder of God’s constant presence.
Whether you’re a fellow neurodivergent soul seeking to understand your place in the Church, a parent navigating the joys and challenges of family life, or simply someone in search of a faith that engages both heart and mind, The Simple Catholic is here for you.
Together, let’s embrace the simple yet profound truths of our faith. Let’s find joy in the ordinary, strength in our differences, and hope in the promise of God’s unfailing love. For in the end, it’s not about being perfect Catholics, but about being simple, authentic followers of Christ, journeying together towards the joy that surpasses all understanding.
Welcome to The Simple Catholic. May our pilgrimage be filled with laughter, learning, and an ever-deepening love for the One who calls us each by name.
Editor’s Note: Here’ a letter I wrote to my unborn son Jeremiah who left this life on All Soul’s Day 2014.
Dear Jeremiah,
Words will never fully describe the yearning I have to see you again in heavenly bliss. I will try my best with this letter. Life was tough in the months ensuing your death. While pain set in quickly for your mother, I remained aloof from the suffering—for a time—eventually I broke down and trembled at our sudden and inexplicable loss. Though I never blamed God, our Father, for taking you away from us, I did question the good in the situation.
To be honest, I have not fully recovered from our tragedy of you passing from this life to the next, ironically on All Souls’ Day. The pain does get a little bit less each day. Your mother and I were at a crossroads on a cool summer night. You were supposed to be born in June 2015. All around us people we knew were having babies and we were only reminded of our pain and thinking what might have been. I prayed out to God “I just want something good to happen in my life!” Weeks later we discovered your mother was pregnant. Despite this amazing news, we were cautious and often thought of losing you months earlier.
Half-way through the pregnancy we learned that we were having another baby boy and we settled on a name—Josiah. Later we learned that this name means “healer”. I do not think that was a coincidence. I firmly believe God answered our prayers and used you as a powerful intercessor to keep your brother Josiah safe throughout the pregnancy.
Grief is Love that Endures
Thank you for the gift you have provided your family! I’m grateful to have heard your heartbeat before we lost you. That memory gives my daily strength and every milestone Josiah has I think of you. I ask for continually help and intercession in your union with our Heavenly Father.
Your siblings and your mother deeply miss you. We hope to be united with your after our pilgrim journey in this life is completed.
With great love and gratitude,
Your father
P.S. “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I dedicated you” –Jeremiah 1:5 (New American Bible)
Editor’s Note: This post originally published on July 20, 2018.
Saint Therese of Liseux once stated, “Our Lord does not so much look at the greatness of our actions, or even at their difficulty, as at the love with which we do them.” Part of the universal appeal of the Little Flower was her simplicity and humility when approaching the greatness of God.
As a classic over thinker and a perfectionist, I tend to overanalyze sanctity. Making checklists or reminders on my phone, I try to cram a bunch of spiritual activities into a week all the while juggling a healthy work, life, and exercise routine! I am exhausted simply thinking about scheduling confession in on a Saturday around my three children’s naptime and giving my wife time to go to the medicine box as well.
At work the stress continued. The constant barrage of complaints, concerns, and questions wear down a person. I try to give myself a few seconds rest between the hustle and bustle. St. Therese taught me three important lessons this week.
Start Small
The French saint wisely stated, “Miss no single opportunity of making some small sacrifice, here by a smiling look, there by a kindly word; always doing the smallest right and doing it all for love.” I have previously written about the importance of small incremental steps to gain progress; however, it is always good to remind ourselves that great things start with doing the little things well.
Children learning to ride a bicycle do not normally go from training wheels to mountain/trail cycling overnight. Bumps, bruises, tears, and frustrations abound over the course of time when learning to ride a bike. The same is true in our pilgrim journey towards holiness. Missed opportunities of smiling at an annoying co-worker or your trouble neighbor does not help our advancement in our sojourn of sanctity. St. Mother Teresa matter-of-factly said, “You have to be holy where you are – wherever God has put you.” Following in the footsteps of both Therese/Teresa’s I hope to remember daily to start little—with baby steps—as a I grow in holiness.
Fueled by the Fire of Love
According to Genesis 3, the curse place upon Adam [and later all mankind] was work being toilsome and difficult. In fact, the day of the Fall may have well been history’s first Monday! All joking aside, we normally dread work because it takes away of play—an activity of something which we enjoy and love doing. St. Josemaria Escriva declared, “Either we learn to find the Lord in the ordinary everyday life or else we shall never find him.”
Very much in keeping with his spirituality, and likely a major influence for the Founder of Opus Dei, St. Therese reminds us that work need not be toilsome—as long as daily work is fueled by love. Watered by love—of God and neighbor—work blossoms into a sweet activity that paradoxically involves suffering but bring joy as well! “I understood that love comprises all vocations – that love is everything, and because it is eternal, embraces all times and places,” the sainted French nun declared.
Part of a Whole
The final piece wisdom the Little Flower of Lisieux imparted to me this week was the importance of seeing myself as a part of a larger whole. Now this is not to reduce myself to a small wheel in the cog of Catholicism—such as view is entirely utilitarian and reduces our relationship to other human beings as purely functional/technical.
According to the Catechism of the Catholic Church paragraph 952, when speaking about the communion of saints, “Everything the true Christian has is to be regarded as a good possessed in common with everyone else. All Christians should be ready and eager to come to the help of the needy. . . and of their neighbors in want.”487 A Christian is a steward of the Lord’s goods.” As a husband and father, I learned my will must be subordinated for the good of the other members of my family.
Easily declared from my theological armchair, I struggle mightily in the midst of family life and the bustle of raising children. Here is where the example and spiritual maturity of St. Therese again teaches me. On the subject of being a saint, Therese stated, “I realized that to become a saint one must suffer a great deal, always seek what is best, and forget oneself.”
Depend on God
The youngest of nine siblings Therese learned quickly in life that she could not always be the center of attention—although she did admit in her Diary of a Soul that her selfishness pervaded her very earliest of years. The Little Flower’s constant message in her writings about her [and our] need to have a complete dependency on God our Heavenly Father helped shift my selfish mindset toward others and the Ultimate Other.
Start small, easy your daily struggle with the fuel of love, and remember you are part of a larger whole—members of the human race. These three lessons the young, but wise French saint taught me this week.
