Reflection by fr. JLucas. Jan 27, 2026

I wrote this blog on Tuesday evening as I nursed my flu. I missed her care while I was a sick little boy. Now a big man, a priest living alone, I can care for myself. 

a pic that was taken during my dowry by the diocese of Kitui, Mother was blessing me traditionally.

My mother is aged now. She nags. She repeats herself. She worries too much. In other words, she is like many other aged parents. And yet, before I ever heard the call to religious life or priesthood, I first learned vocation through her.

She carried me into the world. She carried me through childhood. For nineteen years, she formed me—often without realizing it—into someone capable of leaving home. Even when I became a missionary, she never stopped watching over me. Distance did not reduce her care; it only deepened her prayer. From millions of miles away, she still had one eye on me. Sometimes both. She became my unseen companion in ministry—my prayer warrior, my anchor, my quiet strength.

Near the end of my seminary formation, when I encountered a rector who was manipulative and emotionally abusive, I was broken. I was ready to walk away from the priesthood. I had reached the edge of myself. When I called my mother, she did not rush to fix the situation. She listened. And then, in her simple wisdom, she said something I would never find in a theology book:
“Learn to kiss ass until you can kick it.”

pic was taken during my ordination, 19th Feb 2023

Crude? Perhaps. But beneath it was a deeper truth: sometimes fidelity looks like endurance. Then she added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “Pray more.”

That was her theology. Stay. Pray. Trust. I did. And grace carried me through.

Last month, she asked me for money for her upkeep. I had already bought groceries and paid for medication, and I felt stretched. I reminded her that I am a diocesan priest—that I live on a stipend, not a salary. Ministry, I explained, does not make one wealthy.

She murmured something, and I snapped back half-jokingly,
“Mommy, do you think I am a millionaire?”

Her answer came quietly, without hesitation:
“You are my millionaire.”

In that moment, I realized something profound: vocation does not cancel family; it transfigures it. To her, my worth is not measured by what I earn, but by who I have become. I am her investment, her offering, her answered prayer.

Families often make silent sacrifices so that vocations can live. Mothers give sons. Fathers give daughters. Parents learn to love from a distance. And priests, missionaries, and religious are formed not only by seminaries and novitiates, but by kitchens, prayers, tears, and sacrifices made long before vows were ever pronounced.

She nags because she loves.
She worries because she prays.
She asks because she trusts.

And perhaps this is what vocation truly demands—not the abandonment of family, but a deeper fidelity to love in new forms. She is my mother.
She is my first vocation. I am her Millionaire son!
And in her eyes, I will always be rich