From where I’m standing, I can’t see you in full.
Yet I know that you’re prepared to walk away. Like you’ve done most other days.
It’s not that I don’t try to understand.
But even your most predictable assurances have grown feckless and stale
I was sitting in the nave of the church near the sanctuary. My friend’s final words, “allow yourself to be loved,” were printed on the front of her funeral leaflet. Just below is a picture of her on a trip she took to India, between scheduled bouts of chemotherapy. The photo shows her hugging her … Continue reading The Stark Contrast of Imperfect LovePlease visit The Catholic Gardener to read the full post.
Heavenly Father, Today, once more, sow your words in the hearts of our Sisters and Nuns. Till patiently the soil of their souls so they may continue to be fruitful and bring to you a rich harvest. Let their nourished souls bring the Holy Spirit to nourish our lives. We ask all this in Jesus … Continue reading Seeding the Holy Spirit, Tuesday’s Prayer for Sisters and NunsPlease visit The Catholic Gardener to read the full post.
Staring out the window of my back porch.
I’d guess that the washed out wooden fence separating neighbor from neighbor would be easier to breach than its metal-framed gate. The one with the concrete stumps and rusted, broken latches.
What if only the gate were left standing?
A defined place from which to enter, when even the physical barriers between us no longer really mattered. An explicit demarcation of personality and self-interest
I have been remiss, quite completely remiss, in not recording the on-going story of Madame Truc and Jacques-le-Souris. Not that you care, of course; but myself, in the future, I will want to remember the details.
Looking back, I see that it was almost a month ago that I suggested to Jacques that perhaps Madame Truc had been waiting for him to declare himself. He did, I gather, in his fumble-fingered way; and there followed a week of searching gazes and pondering expressions (and much less banter and badinage than I am used to from them). Amelie and I pretended not to notice, of course, and it was by mere chance that I happened to overhear the denouement, as it were
Listen for them.
The messages that follow us from birth. The ones demanding our full attention.
Life’s first light carries us out of the watery shadows. Introducing us – sometimes hesitantly, sometimes not – to tyranny’s darkness and ordinary death
Whenever I thought of the devil of the Garden of Eden, or told the story to my children, I saw him as a small green fellow. First a lizard like the ones in my garden, and then a skinny grass snake with a sneaky smile – small, cunning, wheedling. Adam and Eve I imagined to be beguiled, talked into eating that apple the same way a slick used car salesman talks you into buying a lemon. Slimy and smarmy, and slick.
It was a dive into medieval art that turned my notions on their ear
In this week’s episode of “Everyday Spirituality,” I muse about being an author on a book’s release day (like having a baby), explain the background for my new book, “My Queen, My Mother: A Living Novena,” give examples of our rich US Catholic history and heritage, talk miracles, the essence of Marian pilgrimage places and why we’re in danger of losing them. Continue readingPlease visit Marge Steinhage Fenelon to read the full post.
Misdirection and deceit are formidable players.
Especially where logic bows to madness, and haggard voices hush idle screams. Here, even the wildflowers are bridled and every thought stands ready to exchange itself for another similarly deranged.
Yet here I remain amid the chaos, as if looking down from the sky above. Listening for whispers in the night, trusting that they’ll soon reveal some maiden way forward