Growing up, I always knew Dad’s side of the family was Polish. I knew we had a special affinity for sausages and cabbage, that we…read more
Lately, I’ve been considering teaching my son Matthew about the saints. At the big-boy age of 5, he’s surely old enough to become captivated by their stories. But then I realized that when you talk about the lives of the saints, you also have to talk about their deaths.
Therein lies the problem.
Not every saint had a gruesome death, of course, but quite a few of them did. And for a kid whose imaginative diet consists of nothing more sinister than the dragon that Harold draws with his magic purple crayon, I can hardly fathom telling him about St. Agnes, whose head was cut off, or St. Lawrence, who was literally grilled alive. My child already has an innate fear of the dark; I don’t need to tell him stories that will encourage it.read more
I accepted an internship with the hopes that it would turn into a full-time job. In March, I discovered it wouldn’t, so I started the…read more
I started taking personal retreats at Benedictine monasteries when I was a student at a Protestant seminary in Portland, Oregon. I was curious about…read more
Last week, I paused to look out the front window of my apartment just long enough to see a middle-aged woman briskly get in her…read more
Somehow — don’t ask me how — the conversation turned to Catholic iconography. Seven or eight of us denizens of graduate school were gathered around…read more