When I was in seventh grade, like most boys of that age, I was constantly hungry. I could eat at any hour of the day. Then I fell head over heels for a classmate named Kristin. One evening, while lying on my bed and pondering her perfections, my mom called me to dinner. For the first time in my adolescent life, I remember thinking: "I'm not hungry." My heart longed for Kristin more than my stomach for food. Now, I wouldn't confuse adolescent infatuation with mature love. But it was an experience of how love can reorder everything in our lives.

Occasionally, I'll slip into a parish I've never visited before, pick up the bulletin, and find one of my Gospel reflections. My heart usually swells with a bit of affection for my creation. I imprint a bit of myself into my little "literary labors of love."Anyone who has created something - a piece of writing, a garden, a meal, a child - knows that feeling. We love the things into which we put ourselves. We are happy when they return to us.

Some friends invited me to one of the most famous and expensive restaurants in the country. I was grateful and eager to go. One invited friend even flew from another state for the experience. Every bite and sip was truly memorable and delicious. But my friends' teenage children spent much of the time on their phones, complained about the food, and generally ignored the once-in-a-lifetime experience. I wanted to yell, "C'mon, you guys! Look what you're missing!"

Have you ever felt likeyour attempts at prayer are а waste of time? I have. Early in my priesthood,I noticed that my prayer life was weakening.Awe and eager expectancy of contact with God had given way to routine. Igradually spent less and less time praying. Nothing dramatic had happened, but my attitude toward God had changed, and Iwas losing the desire to pray.