It was a Saturday night and the restaurant’s parking lot was jammed with cars. Once inside the door, I worked my way past a stage that held a long-haired strummer and a skinny drummer.  At the back of the bar, a young couple waited for me to join them at their table.
          It had been a long time since I had seen Bill, the youngest son of a good friend of mine. Tonight I would meet his fiancé, Kate, for the first time. The two of them recently asked me to officiate at their nuptial Mass and I am quite honored to do so. As soon as I took my seat, the noise in the background faded beneath the brightness of their smiles.               Soon we were speaking about their families and scripture readings and their plans to purchase a house with a couple acres to raise chickens and goats. Kate spoke about her friends and her upcoming final exams. My spirit swelled with hope for the young couple. Yet, despite all the talk about their future, my mind kept wandering back to a table in another restaurant many years ago.
           A boy called Billy is seated across from me. He is elbowing his two brothers and he rolls his eyes when his sister tells him that his shirt is buttoned wrong. Seated at each end of the table, his parents scan the menus. When the waitress arrives, Billy’s father gestures toward his wife and children. “This is my family.”
           His voice carries an obvious note of pride. My friend doesn't know the waitress, but he wants her to know that his family is worth knowing.
           A spiritual director once urged me to be on the lookout for grace. “Paying attention to God at work,” he said, “is better than praying to God for help.”
          Tonight, inside a crowded restaurant, those words carry me to a chapel of private contemplation where, with Bill’s dad, I want to chime in and say, “Yes, this is my family. Just look at them!”
           Who am I to experience such grace?