My family and I attend St. Francis Catholic Church in my hometown of Brainerd, Minnesota. This is where I went to church with my parents when I was growing up. We used to sit near my grandparents, informally in the same basic area of the church as we sit today. I remember my great-grandparents being present when I was younger. It was their generation that built the church, which replaces a smaller one up the street.

The loft in the back of the church houses a beautiful organ. The parish was fundraising for it when I was in high school. I remember pledging to donate $100, which was a huge sum of money for teenage me back then. It might be silly given my modest contribution to the effort, but I’ve always felt a sense of pride when the organ plays that I helped make it happen.

Part of that pride comes from my certainty that these gorgeous pipes in this beautiful cathedral will be heard for generations to come, not just by my descendants, but by the descendants of those who sit around me during weekly mass, as well as many newcomers I will never meet. Their services, their weddings, their solemn and their joyous days, will be more memorable because of how I humbly joined with many others to get the organ.

How conceited my certainty is.