Poet Chris Anderson speaks of the Examen in this way: “The light of grace is always shining, it’s always pouring down, through it’s refracted and scattered and easy to miss, and so one way to pray is to look back on the moments of our day and recall when we saw the light breaking through.”Read More
Spiritual writer, Kathleen Norris, in her book, "The Cloister Walk," shares her Holy Week schedule. It includes morning prayers, choir rehearsal, evening liturgy services but what I really noticed, was right smack in the middle of her afternoons, she wrote "NAP!!!" Yes, in capital letters and extra exclamation points.Read More
“What? Oh, yeah, no problem mija.” He says as the phone rings. I would not sit on his lap that night, I never did on fight nights. “Phil here.” he answered the phone. “Uh huh, uh huh.” He grunted as he jot down a few words and numbers.Read More
Poet John O’Donohue defined beauty as “that in the presence of which we feel more alive”. But not only that, beauty is a connection, that when we experience it, we feel a sense of love, the presence of God’s love.Read More
“What’s holding you back?” she asked over a turkey sandwich.
“I not sure if I believe in Transubstantiation.” I said solemnly over a sip of tomato soup.
“Ha!” she laughed, her mouth open, revealing the unchewed bite of sandwich in the side of her cheek. “That’s not it!” she said loudly drawing a few looks from the other patrons at the bistro.Read More
He seemed to enjoy the presence it gave him, the space he took up, in our lives and in the world, as he used his size to frighten his wife, his children and anyone else who encountered him.
He would not be ignored.Read More
I think of their gifts for Christ: gold, a symbol of kingship; frankincense, a symbol of his priesthood; and myrrh, an embalming oil, a reminder of his death to come. A baby born to die.
“What gift would I give Jesus?” I wonder.Read More
Curled up with the book one evening, I listened to the sounds of my husband opening drawers and stirring pots in the kitchen. My soon to be 7-year-old, came over for a snuggle. He grasped the book from my hands as he curled into my lap. I had just started the first story and my son read to me in his little voice sounding not unlike a Peanuts character. I stroked his hair as he rubbed his foot against mine.Read More
Hushed whispers echoed around me as tourists watched through the bars of Islip Chapel in Westminster Abbey where I knelt before an Anglican priest inside. Her words of prayer dropped on me like love.Read More
Even as a Seattle Art Museum member it took me a few months to secure tickets for the Yayoi Kusama, Infinite Mirrors exhibit.
Did you get tickets? Have you gone yet? friends would ask.
The hype was palpable.Read More