I’m standing at the door. Atlanta International Airport. But my thoughts are somewhere else. Two days earlier, somewhere in the U.S. I’m waiting for an appointment. Then a message pops up on my phone: a cloistered sister from a contemplative order. A few days before, I had asked her to pray for this fundraising trip. “It came to me during prayer today,” her message reads. “I could send you the money.” I’m a bit dazzled as I begin to count the zeros after the one. “I can transfer it tomorrow.” Excuse me?

A cloistered sister? Nuns don’t have money. Contemplative, cloistered nuns even less. They have an excellent connection to heaven. But empty pockets. It’s like asking a beggar for a donation. Once again, confirmation comes from a completely unexpected corner. As if the Lord wanted to tell us: “This is my project, chillax.” This entire journey is once again a school of trust. A spontaneous prayer of gratitude rises in me. Gratitude, but also reverence for His divine direction: You always give us just enough, just in time, to take the next step. But not enough for the next five steps, not even for the next two months. Just enough for one next step: “Give us this day our daily bread.” “Father.” I’m jolted out of my thoughts.

Again through the crowd: “Excuse me, Father.” Everyone’s trying to get on the train. Finally, I match the voice to the face: „Do you have time for a confession?”

This guy isn’t someone I’d want to meet alone in a back alley at 1 a.m. Maybe 28 old. Well built. Looks like strength training is part of his routine. He smiles at me. “I’m on my way to deployment. I wanted to go to confession beforehand.” Navy SEAL? Where to? “I’m not allowed to say.” Ah, okay. We step aside from the bustle.

And the bear becomes a lamb. He’s allowed to come home to the Father’s house before he has to leave his home country. “Through the ministry of the Church, I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Go in peace.”

We move into our new home in just a month and a half. Two weeks have passed since that story. But for me, it remains a signpost for what this new John Paul II. Center is all about.

It’s about the experience of home. I deeply hope that Praterstraße will become a home. For us. For many who do not yet know the Lord. For many who are homeless—because in truth, we all are. “But our citizenship is in heaven.” (Phil 3:20) But the Church is an outpost of the heavenly homeland on earth. Or at least, it should be. Not home in a purely human sense. Not just because there are people that we like… while others remain strangers. To take up an idea from St. Edith Stein: A Christian knows no stranger. He does not divide the world into “neighbors” and “others.” His love is not dependent on whether someone is likeable, friendly, or “worthy” of love. The neighbor, for a Christian, is simply the person standing before him in need of help. And for that person, I—and all of us—want to offer a home.