I read an article, years ago, about an American filmmaker who decided to step away from a wildly successful film franchise that had been requiring him and his family to live abroad. It stuck in my mind because of the tongue-in-cheek reasoning he gave for the surprising decision, “My kids were starting to speak in British accents.” Sometimes, we just want to go home, don’t we?

I recently moved into a new neighborhood. On my first evening I went grocery shopping and could not find my usual favorite Greek yogurt. Strangely, my heart started to race. All the losses of my previous life hit me. So many of my old friends, habits, comforts, and predictable experiences had fallen away. There I stood, a grown man, crying like a little boy whose world was falling apart in the dairy aisle.

Once at an evening Mass as a poor college student, the collection basket was fast approaching, and I only had a ten-dollar bill. I was planning on using that to buy my favorite Chipotle burrito that night for dinner. Should I keep the money? Who would know if I did? If I gave it away, what would I eat? Would I be okay? I kissed my future burrito goodbye, dropped the money in the basket, and winced. But strangely, the rest of the Mass I felt more engaged than usual. I had skin in the game. I left the Mass excited to see how God would take care of me. And he did, in amazing ways.

Americans have long been fascinated with public debates. Farmers stood in muddy fields for hours to hear Lincoln and Douglas dispute each other in the 1860 presidential run-up. The televised debate between Kennedy and Nixon in 1960 fascinated the nation. These days, cable news outlets and social media parse every word spoken by candidates. We still love seeing public, rational disputes in the service of our nation.

Leprosy and blindness and deafness — oh, my. The disabilities cured by Jesus in his public ministry really are quite something, aren’t they? Vividly symbolic and rich food for reflection. It just wouldn’t be the same if Jesus had cured eczema or athlete’s foot or compulsive nail-biting.

Blind Bartimaeus, sitting by the side of the road, in particular captures my imagination. Because I have a confession to make, sometimes, I like to sit in the darkness, even though I know it isn’t very good for me.

I thought it often in my first year as a mother, when I was every day discovering what this new life of parenthood looked and felt like: doing anything with kids is a hundred times harder than doing it without kids. But it’s a thousand times better. From eating dinner to going to Mass to taking a walk around the block — every single outing, even the simplest ones, had an extra level of logistical complexity.

This week we hear of the man who inquires of Jesus how to obtain eternal life. He rejects Jesus’ invitation to sell his goods, give to the poor, and follow Jesus. Mark tells us this devastatingly sad line, “At this saying, his countenance fell and he went away sorrowful; for he had great possessions” (Mark 10:22).

As a young pastor years ago, I met with a middle-aged couple who had been divorced and civilly remarried. They were frustrated that an annulment had to precede a Church marriage. Sympathizing with their plight, I promised to walk with them along their journey. Once as we sat in my office, the man said to me, “Why is the Church so difficult on marriage?” I replied, “Actually, Jesus’ teaching is what’s difficult.” He furrowed his brow and asked what I meant.