Dear Father Michael,

It has been a while since I've written to you, and even longer since we've spoken. I can't recall now how many years you've been away, and I can't bring myself to count them. I promise, I understand that you're in a place free from pain, and I suppose nothing could bring me greater joy, but there is still a pain surrounding the topic of your departure from this world.

I can't approach that easily. Maybe that's why I hadn't been to St. Barnabas in such a long time.

Last Sunday, for the first time in forever, I returned home to our parish: St. Barnabas. Would you believe me if I told you it was as beautiful as ever as if frozen in time? I saw the familiar faces of my childhood, I heard their immortal voices, and I felt the breath of God on my skin.

My throat tightened as I stared at the stained glass windows, willing myself to try to remember every detail of the place so I could carry it with me until I could return. Everything looked very much the same as it had before; everything even felt so much the same that I almost expected to see you walk up to the altar.

The priest was talking about how it was the happiest day for the children who were making their First Communion, and I wanted so badly to take part in that joy. After mass, after catching up with the people who have known me since I was a child, I stood in front of that fountain where you first reached out to me.

Before you, I had never known a person who walked around with fish food in their pockets. I had never before seen anyone feed the fish in the fountain. I had never before seen anyone so joyful.

It's hard to recall those days without feeling that knot in my chest. I'm mostly writing to tell you that I finally finished writing that book I told you I would write. Also, I wanted to let you know that I don't consider you in the past tense. After visiting St. Barnabas, I realized that I never can. Everything you taught me is very much a part of my life present tense. Thank you for showing me a love that can transcend space and time, a love truly reflective of God's.

I promise I won't hide my light under a bushel basket.