The Martyr’s Staircase
There’s a door in Paris that I want to see. It’s not the grand door of a cathedral, and it doesn’t lead to a museum, but it has a story to tell.
There’s a door in Paris that I want to see. It’s not the grand door of a cathedral, and it doesn’t lead to a museum, but it has a story to tell.
We’ve been kicked out and denied access to many services over the years – daycares, music programs, counselors, you name it.
Never before have I considered that cross to be my own, waiting to be adorned with my suffering, my sacrifices.
Throughout Scripture, the idea of labor pain is used to describe the human experience of suffering and yearning in expectation.
These are the last words that Christ utters from the cross. May they help us, this day, to enter more profoundly into His passion and death.
My grief consumed me even though I knew in Christ there was soon to come rebirth in His Resurrection. Also during that Holy Week, my thoughts were focused on my son who was to celebrate his first Easter Triduum as a priest.
I had a wonderfully serendipitous experience recently. I had two different projects, one that began two years ago and one that began four years ago, that both came to completion on the same day.
No matter what “new normal” the world might throw my way, I’m reminded that Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.
In 2011, our 13-month-old son had an anaphylactic reaction to milk. Further testing would determine that he was severely allergic to all nuts, dairy, and eggs. I recall walking out of the appointment overwhelmed and discouraged. Food, the means by which we provide physical sustenance for our bodies, just became one of the greatest dangers to my child’s life.
I often have wondered how a heart loves. Is it born with the desire? Does God program every heart to love? Why do some hearts love more than others?