By Dean Sebastian
Just recently, during the Sede Vacante period, my sister shared a video in our family group chat. It was about a Eucharistic miracle that happened in Argentina—back when Pope Francis was still an auxiliary bishop. The video told the story of how a consecrated host had turned into human flesh and how a cardiologist, allegedly an atheist, was converted to Catholicism because of it.
Uncharacteristically, I commented something like, “Some miracles don’t change crowds… sometimes they’re just meant to change one, or two, or a few.”
I didn’t realize then that a small miracle was on its way to change me too:
(Context: I am a military personnel)
It was a Friday night in May. After our All Men Light Group gathering, I asked the brothers to pray for my son Lucio—his birthday was the next day. I was at Villamor Air Base. My family was all the way in Butuan. And I wanted nothing more than to be with them.
I could’ve booked a flight. But the reality was—we didn’t have the budget for it. So I held on to the possibility of a military flight to either CDO or Butuan. I waited. Checked daily. Nothing was scheduled. That night’s flight schedule was my last hope.
After LG, I felt it in my heart to take one more step of trust. I opened a few airline websites. Just in case. Maybe—just maybe—one seat might be on sale for tomorrow. I know, it sounds like a long shot. Honestly, not the most rational thing I’ve done. But here’s the thing: I’ve always believed that if there’s one mission God’s clearly entrusted to me, it’s to show up for my family.
So for me, checking the flights wasn’t just about hope—it was about trust. I wasn’t testing God. I was just choosing to believe that, somehow, if it was His will, He’d make a way. But if not, I was ready to accept that too.
And as expected, the fares were sky-high. Even more expensive than before. I sighed, messaged my wife, and told her: “I won’t be able to come home.”
That was it. Or so I thought.
Then my phone buzzed.
A new military flight had just been arranged—last minute, well after all the flights for the next day had already been finalized. And the destination? CDO.
I laughed. Not because it was funny—but because, of course, that’s how God moves. Quiet when I want Him loud. Loud when I least expect Him.
Long story short—I made it. I got on that flight. I showed up. I was there for Lucio on his birthday.
You see, Lucio has autism. I don’t know exactly when it hit me, but somewhere along the way, I came to deeply understand this: I love my kids. I love Lucio. But God loves him even more. That little miracle—me being able to show up for his birthday—reminded me that God sees. God hears. He noticed when I dared to believe just a little more.
Then came Corpus Christi Sunday. After I received Jesus in the Eucharist, I found myself quietly crying. A question formed in my heart: How will Lucio ever receive Jesus too?
There was no answer. Just silence. But not the kind that feels cold. It was the kind of silence that feels like someone is listening.
So, I prayed the question instead. Not out of doubt—but out of trust. Because if there’s one thing I know about God, it’s this: 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.
And so now, I’ll say it boldly. Not as a test—but as a declaration of faith:
𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐉𝐞𝐬𝐮𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭.
So, I’m putting autism on notice:
𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙅𝙚𝙨𝙪𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙮 𝙨𝙤𝙣.
#GOTO #GodOfTheOrdinary #WFALoveConnects