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St. Monica: Carrying the Family Cross

The canonized women who are mothers add to our altars a special kind of incense – a two-fold fragrance of motherhood, both natural and spiritual. The very definition of their sainthood reveals that the life of the soul was sacrosanct to them and that while they nurtured the physical life of their children, it was eternal life which they desired to impart above all.

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Living the Hidden Years

Liturgically, we’re taking a brief breath in ordinary time.  We’ve lived the long wait of Advent, and Christmas has been celebrated and it’s trappings stored away – nativity sets snuggled in attic alcoves and ornaments stacked in garage bins.

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Live in the Moment or Go Crazy

We have never needed the message in this video (below) more.

Our nation-and the world-are slowly grinding to a standstill in the wake of a virus we were barely aware of a few weeks ago. How quickly things change…it wasn’t part of my ‘plan’ this year to have my kids doing all schoolwork at home, my college son’s commencement canceled, all public Masses halted. I don’t even think it has totally sunk in, honestly. I’ve been wandering around in a daze, trying to figure out what to do next and where to get Lysol wipes and eggs.

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St. Monica: Carrying the Family Cross

The canonized women who are mothers add to our altars a special kind of incense – a two-fold fragrance of motherhood, both natural and spiritual. The very definition of their sainthood reveals that the life of the soul was sacrosanct to them and that while they nurtured the physical life of their children, it was eternal life which they desired to impart above all.

Read the rest

My Father's House: On the Sacredness of Our Places and Spaces

We pulled up to my childhood home in the middle of the night, the Wisconsin green shrouded in darkness. I immediately sensed all the summers of my childhood in the dim stillness as the screen door squeaked shut behind us. Whispering, I led five of my desert-dwelling children upstairs to the bedrooms, each step groaning with a familiar creak in the century-old bungalow.

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