A Reflection on My Thirty-Fourth Priestly Anniversary – June 28, 2026
On the morning of my thirty-fourth anniversary of priestly ordination, I intended to pray before the Blessed Sacrament. Instead, the Spirit gently drew me elsewhere. Rather than entering the chapel, I found myself sitting quietly in my garden, beside the grassy car park, sensing that God wished to meet me there.
I did not begin with words.
I simply breathed.
I listened.
I watched.
I allowed creation to become the language through which God might speak.
The distant cooing of a dove broke the silence. Parrots flew noisily overhead. Cars passed beyond the property enclave. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the rhythmic sound of Hosay-like drumming*. Around me stood palms, flowering shrubs, fever grass, pineapple plants, grass, and trees of every size and shape. A gentle breeze caressed my face.
As I remained attentive, I became aware that God was slowly revealing my soul through the landscape before me.
I had come to pray in the garden.
Instead, the garden began to pray with me.
Before noticing the garden, however, I became aware of my own heart. I felt like a battered, wounded and exhausted animal. The image that came to mind was that of a snail wanting only to curl into the safety of its shell.
There was little energy left.
Little enthusiasm.
Little motivation.
As I spoke with God about what I was noticing, every corner of the garden became a mirror reflecting a part of my priestly journey.
The concrete landing where I parked my car first caught my eye. Once painted, it now bore the marks of time. The paint had peeled away. Dirt and stains had settled into it after years of weather and the constant turning of car wheels.
“Lord,” I whispered, “that is how I feel.”
Scarred.
Weathered.
Trampled.
Marked by years of ministry and by my own sinfulness.
Nearby, the fever grass and exotic pineapple plants appeared tired and bent over, as though carrying more than they were meant to bear.
I recognised myself immediately.
Thirty-four years of ministry have left me feeling much the same, tired, weary, and bent beneath responsibilities that never seem to cease.
The grassed car park was mostly green, yet patches of bare earth had appeared where vehicles repeatedly turned.
Those worn places reminded me of my own life. There are areas within me that have been worn thin by the constant movement of ministry, expectations, disappointments, and the relentless rhythm of serving others.
Then my gaze lifted.
Parrots crossed the morning sky as cars hurried past, oblivious to the beauty of the garden below.
I found myself saying to God,
“Sometimes I feel like this garden.”
People come.
People go.
Many receive what the garden quietly offers.
Few stop long enough to notice its beauty.
Few notice the Gardener who tends it.
Yet not everything spoke of weariness.
The tall royal palms still stood with quiet dignity. A bright yellow flowering shrub burst into vibrant colour.
These, too, belonged to my story.
They reminded me of moments when grace had borne visible fruits, times when ministry flourished, relationships deepened, lives were transformed, and unexpected affirmations reminded me that God had been quietly at work.
Then another insight emerged.
The garden nourishes countless creatures. Birds, butterflies, rats, insects, iguanas, and small animals continually come to receive what it freely offers.
So too has my priesthood become a garden.
For thirty-four years, people have come seeking nourishment, forgiveness, encouragement, hope and the Bread of Life.
Yet I confessed honestly to the Lord that morning.
“I feel as though I have very little left to give.”
I feel burdened by my weaknesses.
I feel burdened by the demands of priestly ministry.
I feel burdened by the weight of being needed.
As I continued in prayer, another image returned from my last Nineteenth Annotation Ignatian retreat.
I was again standing on the shoreline where Christ had invited me to leave the safe waters of the bay and venture into the deep.
But I also remembered the conquistadors’ ships.
Their promises remain seductive.
Hedonism.
Materialism.
Recognition.
Self-preoccupation.
How easily I have found myself boarding those passing ships.
Yet every time, Grace has come searching for me.
Not accusing.
Simply inviting.
Always leading me back to Christ and his mission to the deep.
When I asked what grace God wished to grant me on this anniversary, the answer came quietly.
The garden is still beautiful.
That simple sentence became God’s word to me.
Despite the scars.
Despite the worn patches.
Despite the tired plants.
Despite the peeling paint.
The garden is still beautiful.
Perhaps I realised, God was speaking not only about the garden.
Perhaps God was speaking about me.
All morning, I had been looking at the garden through the eyes of exhaustion.
God had been looking at it with the gentle eyes of love.
The greatest grace I received was not renewed strength.
It was a renewed sight.
I saw that beauty and brokenness can coexist.
Fruitfulness and fatigue can inhabit the same soul.
The priest who feels exhausted is not necessarily the priest whom God has finished using.
As I watched the parrots glide effortlessly across the sky, I realised they depended on a wind they could neither see nor control.
So too have I, these thirty-four years, depended upon the quiet movement of God’s grace.
I had little inclination to pray that morning.
Little motivation to write.
Little energy even to remain attentive.
Yet grace sustained me.
What challenged me most was remaining faithful to the discipline of prayer when consolation seemed absent.
The stillness of the garden stood in sharp contrast to the restlessness within me.
The garden rested.
I did not.
I recalled lying prostrate on the dusty floor of the Cathedral on the day of my ordination, 34 years ago.
Then, my body rested upon the earth in surrender.
Today, after thirty-four years of ministry, I feel once again on the ground, but now as though trampled by the very ministry to which I once joyfully gave myself.
Yet one image refused to leave me.
The greenness of the garden.
The gentle breeze moves quietly through the leaves.
The Gardener has not abandoned the garden.
He has not abandoned me either.
I left wanting to retreat once more into my shell of self-protection.
But I left knowing something more profound.
Grace had touched me.
The garden remains beautiful.
The wind still blows.
And the Gardener is still at work.
Epilogue
Throughout my priestly ministry, I have written extensively on synodality, discernment, and Caribbean theology as a lived experience. This prayer brings those themes together without naming them. I did not arrive at God through abstract ideas but through attentive listening to my lived experience. The garden becomes a place of discernment as I learn to distinguish my own gaze, which sees exhaustion and failure, from God’s gaze, which still sees beauty, pain and fruitfulness. That movement, from self-perception to God’s perception, is the heart of discernment and, I think, one of the most profound fruits of my 34th anniversary prayer. This prayerful reflection offers a theological account of how God continues to speak through creation to a weary disciple who remains open to grace.
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