God Turned My Head

In June, we took two trips.

One to Lake Tahoe.

One to Washington, D.C.

If you had asked me beforehand which one would draw me closer to God,

I wouldn’t have hesitated.

Tahoe.

The mountains.

The crystal blue water.

The towering pines.

Nature has always restored my soul.

And I defer to it often for that very restoration.

Washington, D.C.?

To me, it represented work.

For years, I traveled there with a suitcase full of business attire.

Every trip centered around meetings, projects, funding requests, and advocating for the communities I represented.

I enjoyed the work, and I believed in what I was doing.

But the work naturally directed my attention toward legislators, agency heads, and decision-makers.

When I left politics, I knew I wanted to go back.

Not as someone with an agenda.

Not as someone trying to influence decisions.

Just as a civilian.

I thought I was planning a vacation.

I had no idea God was planning something else.

One thing Paul and I always do when we travel is go to Mass.

Non-Catholics may not understand the beauty of attending church away from home.

As Catholics, wherever we are in the world,

we’re still home.

The language may be different.

The church architecture may be different.

The music may be different.

But the Mass is the Mass.

The same readings.

The same prayers.

The same Eucharist.

The same Christ.

In a world that seems to change by the hour, there is something profoundly comforting about walking into a Catholic church hundreds of miles from home and immediately knowing exactly where you are.

Again.

Home.

My soul begins to settle long before the Gospel is proclaimed.

Sunday morning, we climbed into an Uber for the thirty-minute ride to the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception.

I wanted to attend Mass at the largest Catholic church in North America.

Instead, I experienced one of the most beautiful Masses of my life.

It sounded and felt heavenly.

Otherworldly.

Afterward, we wandered through chapel after chapel.

We lingered.

We prayed.

We confessed.

Hours slipped away without either of us noticing.

Looking back, I think that’s where the trip changed.

No.

That’s where I changed.

Because after leaving the Basilica, it was as if God gently turned my head.

And once He did, I never looked at Washington the same way again.

The Washington I had known for decades began to fade into the background.

The monuments were still there.

The Capitol was still there.

The museums were still there.

But they were no longer commanding my attention.

Instead, I began noticing something else.

The people.

Those bearing the burden.

Then there was Arlington National Cemetery.

Standing among row after row of white markers is impossible to describe.

The changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier had been on my bucket list for years, but on previous trips, I was too “busy” to make it.

Nothing prepared me for it.

Nothing.

Just...

The precision.

The silence.

The reverence.

The sacrifice.

Suddenly, the monuments became the backdrop to the people who had made them possible.

Power gave way to service.

Recognition gave way to sacrifice.

Two days later, we chose to attend another Mass, this time at St. Matthew’s Cathedral, because this church was steps from our hotel.

We didn’t realize its significance.

This was the cathedral where President John F. Kennedy’s funeral Mass was celebrated.

It had also welcomed Pope John Paul II, Pope Francis, and Mother Teresa.

It was exquisite.

It was also home.

Again, I found myself overwhelmed, not by history itself, but by the faith that had quietly endured through it.

By then, I realized something.

God was not only changing the way I saw the city.

He was changing what I saw.

Changing who I saw.

And I couldn’t stop noticing the people who quietly held the world together.

Everywhere I turned, I found myself captivated by people who had willingly subordinated themselves to something greater than themselves.

The soldier standing watch.

The priests patiently hearing confessions from a line of the faithful that seemed endless.

The hotel staff caring for visitors with extraordinary attentiveness.

The museum attendants kindly directing the crowds.

Restaurant waitstaff anticipating every need.

Different callings.

The same posture.

Service. 

I had spent years visiting Washington with my attention dutifully drawn toward people with influence.

This time, my attention settled on the people quietly carrying the weight.

The people who serve.

The people who sacrifice.

The people who quietly keep the world going while the rest of us too often fail to notice.

And that’s when I finally understood what God had been showing me all week.

He was reminding me what true greatness looks like.

Not power.

Not influence.

Not recognition.

Service. 

He was showing me Himself.

After all, Christ came not to be served, but to serve.

Perhaps that’s why these people affected me so deeply.

In each of them, I caught a glimpse of Him.

I returned home thinking I had discovered a different Washington.

The truth is, Washington hadn’t changed.

I had.

The world is sustained by people who serve.

The ones quietly carrying the weight.

God, please never let me stop noticing You in them.