Sunday Night as our weekly Holy Hour started, when I was kneeling to chant O Salutaris Hostia, I could see a bird flying around the window above the sanctuary.

Not frantically. Not trapped. Dancing, it seemed - moving through the evening light with the kind of freedom that comes from not knowing where the next meal will come from and not worrying about it.

I was reminded of my anchor Gospel passage for this year, Matthew 6:33 and the verses around it:

"Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? ... But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you."

The bird didn't know I was watching. But there it was, dancing in the window while I knelt before the Blessed Sacrament, and its sermon was clear enough.

This has been a week of thresholds.

On Sunday, Matthew graduated from high school. Four years of early mornings and late nights, of friendships forged and tested, of becoming whoever he is becoming. He walked across a stage and received a diploma and stepped into whatever comes next.

Last night, Andrew graduated from St. Elizabeth School. Eighth grade. The last of our four boys to finish Catholic grade school. After tonight, we are firmly in Catholic high school and college territory. No more elementary school concerts. No more grade school graduations. A chapter closes that has been open for decades.

And ten days ago, I walked out of Adobe for the last time after eighteen years.

Three thresholds. Three endings that are also beginnings. Three moments of stepping into something you cannot fully see.

I am putting in the work on Domus and Ad Alta. I want to be clear about that. This is not passive waiting. The content is being created. The systems are being built. The conversations are happening. I am showing up every day to do what I believe I have been called to do.

But I am also trusting entirely in God's Providence.

These are not contradictions. The bird in the window works - it flies, it searches, it builds nests and feeds its young. It does not sit on a branch and wait for worms to crawl into its mouth. But it also does not worry. It does what birds do, and it trusts that the God who made it will continue to provide what it needs.

That is the invitation of Matthew 6. Not passivity or anxiety, but something in between - something that looks like faithful work held loosely, offered daily, released into the hands of the One who feeds the birds and clothes the lilies.

I cannot control whether Domus succeeds. I can build it faithfully.

I cannot control what Matthew does with his life after high school. I can love him and pray for him and trust that the God who has been forming him for eighteen years is not finished.

I cannot control what Andrew becomes as he steps into high school. I can watch him grow and release him into the next thing and believe that the same Providence that has held our family this long will hold us still.

Seek first the kingdom. The rest will be added.

The bird flew away before the Holy Hour ended. I don't know where it went. It was doing what birds do, somewhere out in the evening, trusting without knowing it is trusting.

I knelt there a while longer, watching the empty window, thinking about thresholds and Providence and the strange freedom that comes from working hard at something and then releasing it.

Matthew graduated Sunday. Andrew graduated last night. The last days at Adobe are behind me. The next chapter is underway.

And somewhere, a bird is flying - not worrying about tomorrow, because tomorrow will worry about itself.

I am trying to learn from that bird.