As the years pass, I find myself thinking more often about my own failings: feeling shame and sorrow for what I have done and what I have failed to do. Confession is a great blessing.

Anyone who examines his conscience frequently finds, I think, that more and more sins pop up on the radar screen. It’s not that we become worse sinners (although that’s always a possibility); it’s that a conscience becomes more sensitive when it’s in regular use. One starts noticing faults that wouldn’t even have caused a second thought in the past. So great saints think of themselves as wretched sinners, while hardened criminals think they’re pretty good guys.

On the other hand, with advancing age I also find myself more inclined to see the good in other people. Not that I’m uncritical; far from it. But I’m more likely to concede that the man who annoys me is trying to be helpful, the gabby woman I carefully avoid has a good heart, and the online critic who disagrees with me has a legitimate point of view (although of course he’s wrong). More to the point I notice signs of virtue— sometimes small, sometimes not small at all— in the people I meet.

At times, in fact, I realize something about a friend or acquaintance that stirs my admiration: something they have done quietly, even secretly— perhaps not even thinking it’s a big deal— that I consider heroic. Their secrets are safe with me; I won’t expose them. Maybe, if I can put my thoughts together properly, I’ll explain what I mean tomorrow.

For now, I’ll confine myself to two conclusions that I have reached: 1) There are living saints among us. 2) I’m not one of them.