A few years ago, after a terrible earthquake in central Italy, rescue workers found a dog named Leo alive under the rubble of a collapsed house. He had been trapped for days. The rescuers called his name, and from somewhere beneath the stones they heard a faint bark.
They kept digging, one stone at a time, one piece of debris at a time. Finally, they reached him, pulled him out, and gave him water. The most moving part of the story is not only that Leo survived. It is that even under the rubble, he was not forgotten. Someone was listening. Someone came for him.
That image helps us enter the Gospel today. Jesus is speaking to his disciples at the Last Supper. He knows what is coming. Judas has gone out. The cross is near. The disciples do not yet understand how frightened and scattered they will become. And in that moment, Jesus says, “I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you.”
That is a tender promise. Jesus does not say, “You will never suffer.” He does not say, “You will always understand.” He does not even say, “You will feel strong every day.” He says, “I will not leave you orphans.” In other words, you may pass through fear, loss, confusion, and weakness, but you will not pass through them alone.
That promise is fulfilled through the Holy Spirit. Jesus calls him “another Advocate.” The word has the sense of someone called to your side: a helper, a defender, a comforter, one who stands with you. The Holy Spirit is not an idea. He is not a religious mood. He is God’s own presence given to the Church and poured into our hearts.
We see this in the first reading from the Acts of the Apostles. Philip goes down to Samaria and proclaims Christ. Samaria was not an easy place for a Jewish preacher to go. Jews and Samaritans had a long and painful history between them. There was suspicion, separation, and old resentment. Yet Philip goes there with the Gospel, and something beautiful happens. People listen. The sick are healed. Evil is driven out. And the reading says, “There was great joy in that city.”
Then Peter and John come from Jerusalem and pray that the Samaritans may receive the Holy Spirit. Notice what is happening here. The Gospel is not staying inside one familiar circle. The risen Lord is gathering people who had been separated. The Spirit is making one family out of people who had every human reason to avoid each other.
That is still what the Holy Spirit does. He brings Christ into the places we thought were too divided, too wounded, or too far gone. He comes into families where people barely speak. He comes into parishes where people carry quiet hurts. He comes into hearts that have grown tired, guarded, or disappointed.
He does not always arrive with noise. Often, he begins quietly: by softening one heart, giving someone courage to forgive, moving someone to pray again, or helping someone speak with kindness when anger would be easier.
Jesus also says, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” That can sound heavy at first, as if love for God were proven by checking off a list. But Jesus is saying something deeper. Love becomes visible. Love takes shape in the way we live.
A husband who says he loves his wife but never listens to her has not understood love. A parent who loves a child shows it in meals cooked, rides given, bills paid, patience offered, and prayers whispered at night. A friend who loves shows up. Love is not less real because it becomes practical. It becomes more real.
So when Jesus says, “If you love me, keep my commandments,” he is inviting us to let our faith take flesh in ordinary life. Not dramatically. Not falsely. But honestly. In patience. In mercy. In purity of heart. In Sunday worship. In care for the poor. In the way we speak about people who are not in the room. In the way we treat the person who cannot do anything for us.
And on this Mother’s Day, we also recognize how often this kind of love is first taught quietly in the home. A mother’s love is often not loud or dramatic. It is seen in small sacrifices, in meals prepared, worries carried, prayers whispered, forgiveness offered, and strength given when no one else sees it. For many, a mother’s love becomes one of the first ways we learn that love is not only a feeling, but a daily gift of self.
We also remember that this day can be tender for many people: for mothers who are tired, for those who miss their mothers, for those who carry grief, for women who desired motherhood and experienced pain, and for families where relationships are complicated. The promise of Jesus speaks to all of them too: “I will not leave you orphans.” No one is forgotten by God.
Saint Peter says something similar in the second reading: “Always be ready to give an explanation to anyone who asks you for a reason for your hope, but do it with gentleness and reverence.” That is a needed word for our time. Peter does not say, “Win every argument.” He does not say, “Embarrass the other person.” He says, be ready to give a reason for your hope, and do it gently.
Many people today are not first persuaded by religious arguments. They are watching lives. They are asking, often silently: Does faith make this person more patient? More truthful? More forgiving? More peaceful? Does this person carry hope in a way that feels real?
That does not mean we hide what we believe. It means we speak from a life that is trying to follow Christ. Sometimes the strongest explanation for our hope is a calm word in a tense moment. Sometimes it is refusing to return insult for insult. Sometimes it is staying faithful when life is painful. Sometimes it is simply saying, “I am still praying. I still trust God. I do not understand everything, but I know I am not alone.”
“I will not leave you orphans.”
That promise is for the grieving. It is for the person facing an uncertain diagnosis. It is for the parent worried about a child. It is for the young person trying to find direction. It is for the spouse who feels lonely. It is for the parishioner who comes to Mass carrying a burden no one else can see.
The Lord has not forgotten you under the rubble. He hears even the faint cry. He comes to you. And he sends the Holy Spirit, the Advocate, to stand beside you and within you.
So this week, perhaps we can each ask for one grace: “Come, Holy Spirit, make my love for Jesus visible.” Let it be seen in my home, in the way I speak, in the forgiveness I choose to offer, in the honest conversation I stop avoiding, and in the quiet decision to do what is right when no one else may notice.
And today, we ask the Holy Spirit to bless all mothers, living and deceased, and all women whose love, care, and sacrifice have reflected something of God’s own tenderness.
The risen Lord does not leave us as orphans. He gives us his Spirit. He draws divided people into one family. He teaches us to love not only with words, but with our lives. And when that happens, even in wounded places, there can be great joy.