
Three Dreamy Reads
I didn’t know what I wanted to “do” when I “grew up,” but I knew one constant in my life had been a love of reading and writing, so I chose English Literature.
I didn’t know what I wanted to “do” when I “grew up,” but I knew one constant in my life had been a love of reading and writing, so I chose English Literature.
As Advent dawns, I can feel my stress level rising. It’s easy to get caught up in the busyness and to forget the reason for the season.
The shout of “I see the steeples!” brings more than a silly adrenaline rush now; it brings the nostalgia of feeling entirely safe and known.
My home parish is located in a small town in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It wasn’t one that is obviously aesthetically beautiful. Its community life wasn’t notably stellar. Growing up, I would have never described myself as particularly attached.
St. Catherine of Alexandria is a beautiful witness for each of us in her example of total surrender and complete devotion to her faith.
We assumed we would hold our heads over the font and he would trickle a little water over our heads. No. That’s not good enough.
Christ the King is the name of the parish where I grew up in Des Moines, IA. It’s actually a fairly simple church with a brick exterior and a wooden beam interior.
Sometimes I am disgusted at the rope I bring to her, the rope of my life, full of more huge knots than I care to count.
To a three-year-old little boy, the “big church” is the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception.
While visiting her hometown of Little Rock, AR, my mom would often bring me back to her childhood church, St. Edward, which was inhabited by German immigrants in the late 1800s.