Bags are packed
and stacked by the doorway,
the threshold of our lives,
our loves entering new spaces.

May they be held by your graces
May we trust the next stages
blurry and masked by our doubts
are no less imbued with your love than what was.

More likely, more than we imagined.
Unlock our limited conceptions
to hold the vastness
only you can see.

Give us faith that
the cloudiness of now
and the brightness of what came before
do not block the emerging path that lies ahead.

What is around the corner
can only be stepped into in faith.
Even when we can’t see,
may your presence ignite the fire of trust in us.

Bless the ones we love
as they traverse uncharted grounds
wrapped in a garment stitched
with a thousand tear-stained threads.

Tears of joy! And hope!
And worry,
and sorrow.
Each stitch, a prayer.

Bless the ones who love them,
who hold their tender hearts open to
the unknown
in this slippery space between.

The steadiness we crave comes from you -
found in silence, in whispering sounds,
in companionship with others whose hearts
are broken open by the one constant we call change.

Protect them,
bless them,
walk with them
each day.

And remember those of us
waving in the rear view mirror,
growing, stretching and
becoming something new, too.

Yet, always holding a flame of welcome
at their return,
transformed beings, each of us,
reunited in love.

Amen.

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What else is growing?

• For this mother’s heart, going through oh so many growing pains (see above prayer), what a treat it has been to get a chance to preview Colleen Pressprich’s new book Discover Mary published by Our Sunday Visitor. I 10/10 recommend this book to any age, not just OSV kids as it says on the cover. We all have something to learn from Discover Mary. It is beautifully broken into sections on Mary, the person; Mary in Scripture; Marion Apparitions; and Mary and the Church. Each one is bursting with information and artwork. It is so gorgeously laid out, with images of paintings and statues of Mary throughout history. Definitely consider getting this book for your family or as a gift wherever you buy books. Couldn’t we all use a little more time with Mary?

• St. Phoebe, a deacon in the early church, has a feast day coming up on September 3rd. The organization, Discerning Deacons has a website brimming with ideas for how to celebrate her feast day and how to bring her story to the parish level through prayer services, reflections, and conversations for St. Phoebe fall. Check it out! And share it with others. So many people don’t know about St. Phoebe. It’s time to change that.

• More about the upcoming Season of Creation kicking off on September 1st can be found at Catholic Climate Covenant. The theme is Living Waters. From their website:

  • “The Biblical text for this year is drawn from Ezekiel 47:9- 12, which portrays God’s life-giving water flowing from the temple of God. The river grows deeper and deeper restoring barren land, reviving waters, and sustaining flourishing ecosystems. The vision invites human responsibility: recognising ecological damage, embracing interconnectedness, we are called to immerse ourselves in the water, and actively safeguarding and working for the renewal of creation so that environmental healing and human well-being may flourish together.”

“The very first thing I tell my new students on the first day of a workshop is that good writing is about telling the truth. We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason they write so very little. But we do. We have so much we want to say and figure out.”
― Anne Lamott

For many writers, getting work out into the world in this era of technology means having an online ‘presence’. Every few months or so, I try that out. And within a few weeks, I want to throw my phone into a dumpster (for e-waste and recycling, of course). I don’t want to follow the ‘tips’ that Instagram gives me to beat the algorithm. ‘You have 3 seconds to stop the scroll and catch the viewer,’ or ‘make reels with a hook’ or ‘add more top 5s for boosting views’. I don’t think like that and I don’t want to train my brain to start seeing through the lens of chasing clicks and likes.

It seems that much of my reflecting and writing lately has brought me back to presence. Not online ‘presence’ for maximum gain but presence with seemingly no ‘gain’ or ‘value.’ No information onslaught. No dopamine hits. No one noticing. For a writer, or anyone who posts on social media in effort to share their creations with the world, pulling away from that space brings a risk. A risk that perhaps reflects a deep and foreboding fear that we all carry - irrelevance. The fear of being forgotten. Of not being seen.

I recently got that letter that no writer wants but all writers eventually get - the thanks but no thanks letter. We loved your proposal but…someone else was a ‘better fit’. Road closed. Seek a new route. No detour offered.

After simmering in a stew of disappointment for an amount of time that felt right for what I poured into this hoped-for opportunity, I brushed myself off. I read some as a balm for my wounds. (If you are a writer, are thinking about writing, or want to share your writing with others, yet have some trepidation at how the world will receive it, read Anne’s books. Start with Bird by Bird. She has that marvelously gifted way of tapping into universal vulnerabilities, taking you to the brink with her, then leaving you snorting out loud at her witticism and wisecracks. And in all of that, finding hope.)

It takes time to grow something meaningful. While ‘breaks’ in writing happen and the luck of being at the right place at the right time does exist (with the right publisher reading, wooed by your work with a contract in hand - hint to any kind publishers reading this), it is not usually before a lot of work and thought and energy has been expended. A lot has happened underground.

In this era of hot takes - being ready with a quippy remark, a perfect quote, or a spot-on analysis of any given headline, usually in 150 characters or less - I am thinking of plants. A hot take is sudden and swift. A plant’s growth is quiet and slow. I sit quite comfortably with the latter. I am that person at a party that thinks of the best thing to say (whether funny or smart or both) on the ride home. Or a week later. By that point, it is definitely too late to be remotely witty. But not too late to be thoughtful and worthy of reflection after the heightened energy of the moment has waned. What stirs in my heart usually needs a fair amount of time to germinate beneath the rich and silent soil.

I marvel at the perennial wildflowers of July. Roadsides bursting with their fragrance and their persistent presence. The Queen Anne’s lace, chicory, knapweed, thistle, the last blooms of St. John’s wort, the first glimpses of goldenrod, and so many others that adorn the undisrupted meadows and wild spaces this season.

Their seeds fell last autumn and survived the harsh winter cold, snow and ice. They waited patiently for their springtime friends to have their moment in the sun. Slowly they grew taller as earlier season blooms faded. And now, as we inch toward late summer, they are revealing themselves to us in all their glory. They were always there, but they didn’t push past any other plant’s life cycle to be seen. In time. All things in time.

The path forward may be not be direct. Not much of life is. There is a reason Thomas Merton’s prayer is so cherished. He speaks to the lack of clarity we all carry, but ends with a deep and abiding trust in the faithfulness of a loving God. Sometimes, the path seems shrouded by shrubs, overgrown and woven closed by vines. We may be called to sit and listen at the entrance of the forest. We may be called to presence - to a calm state of wonder. Something is always growing, even when we can’t see it. Slowing down can make space for noticing that growth, using all of our senses. Waiting, not alone, but waiting with the Divine in us and all around us.

“If you are writing the clearest, truest words you can find and doing the best you can to understand and communicate, this will shine on paper like its own little lighthouse. Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.”

“Tell the truth as you understand it. If you’re a writer, you have a moral obligation to do this. And it is a revolutionary act – truth is always subversive.”
― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

In my writing, I strive to tell the truth, as I understand it, and as Anne urges her students. To be a lighthouse, to take what I have to offer and give it as an act of love. Always first asking the Holy Spirit to move through me, to guide me in speaking what needs to be spoken. Veni Sancti Spiritus. Come Holy Spirit. From that place, guided by Love, my words may stir something in your heart, and they might create just the right amount of discomfort. Truth-telling isn’t usually consoling, as Dorothy Day reminds us in the often repeated quote, “Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.”

Empire is busy trampling the planet and her people. There are stories that are buried that need to be told. Those who are in power and abusing power won’t stop unless people speak up and join together to resist or reimagine an alternative. It may take time. Like wildflower seeds which undergo cold stratification in the winter before they take center stage in the fullness of summer. But if it is worth doing, it is worth waiting for.

Some of my writing might be like the tender dropping of a seed to soil, some may invite the sharp cold of winter to break through the outer coating of the seeds, and some of it, too, may inspire the hope of standing strong together, beautifully, peacefully, and nonviolently in the face of an oppressive system of power, and wealth accumulation by a few.

I do hope that you will join me in this writing journey and share how you are finding ways to face the road closures of your life. Share with me how you are pausing in a quiet presence to listen to what new path might be opening up for you. How can you use your voice to share what’s alive in you and to speak up for the least of these? How are you learning resilience from the natural world around you?

May we let St. Ignatius, on his feast day, center and guide us with his prayer:

What else is growing?

• In honor of St. Ignatius of Loyola’s feast day on July 31st, an exciting new series on the Autobiography of St. Ignatius just launched on the AMDG Podcast. I got a chance to listen in today and it is wonderful. You don’t want to miss it. As if learning about the origin of this work of St. Ignatius isn’t enough, what a delight to hear fellow writer featured on it, sharing her reflections and guiding us through the work with Fr. Jack Bentz, SJ. Listen to it on the link above or wherever you listen to podcasts.

• Season of Creation is coming up, beginning on September 1st. This ecumenical celebration of our call to care for the natural world (of which we humans are a part) was initiated by the Orthodox Patriarch of Constantinople and was then joined by the World Council of Churches and the Catholic Church. The Season was extended from September 1st until October 4th, the feast of St. Francis, patron saint of the environment. There are free guides and prayer services available to lead your community through this season. This year’s theme is Living Water. It couldn’t be more apt as we have been experiencing massive flooding in the northeast US while every inhabited continent on earth has regions that have declared droughts or severe water crises.

“We know that all creation is groaning in labor pains even until now.” Romans 8:22

An unexpected yet pleasant surprise this summer has been the experience of our family coming together to watch the World Cup. We are not big sports fans in this family. We enjoy playing sports or cheering our kids on from the sidelines but sitting down to watch a game on a screen? Not so much.

It hasn’t always been this way for me. I grew up in Syracuse, NY in the 80s and 90s and most everyone in our little corner of the world ate, slept and breathed Syracuse University basketball. Orange and blue everything all the time. No one dared to call anyone’s house (yes, a landline phone) during an SU game, unless it was half-time and a friend wanted to vent about the bad ref or Georgetown players (our chief rival). You could hear neighbors cheering (or swearing!) during games, if it wasn’t drowned out by your own family’s eruptions of joy (or expletives). Parties were held for the tournament games. Brackets were filled out and studied carefully/argued fervently over with friends. March in Central New York is cold, dark and still very, very snowy. While outside might have been blustery and blanketed in another fresh foot of lake-effect snow, inside was buzzing with energy waiting for tip-off.

After moving out of the area, which aligned with the unfortunate acceleration in the monetization of college sports, I saw very little SU ball. The early 2000s saw the birth of massive TV contracts for the NCAA tournaments and the movement more toward profit than people and community. Plus, for me now living in another city meant games weren’t on local (free) TV channels but moved to cable on ESPN. Add a new baby into the mix and keeping up with the home team began to lose its appeal. (I hear it has only gotten worse with players now traded or drafted early into the NBA and receiving payment for play.)

I have never really had a love of professional level sports. It always seemed dominated by profit-driven global business empires and that was a huge turn-off for me. The disparity of wealth amassed by athletes compared to the meager amount paid to teachers, nurses, and people that keep communities thriving makes absolutely no sense. (For reference, my income as a social worker in 2002 couldn’t cover the repayment of the student loans I needed to take out to get the graduate degree to do said work. I do not easily reconcile blatant injustices. I am not sure any of us do.)

This is why I did not foresee myself enjoying what, in all respects, is a rather obscene embarrassment of riches. There is no need to go into the corruption of these national and international sports organizations here. Rather I intend to convey that through the interest of two of my kids who have a genuine love of soccer - or football as the rest of the world knows it - I found myself discovering joy in an unexpected place.

Why go on talking about sports (with a heavy dollop of critique portioned on top)? Because of an experience I want to highlight, alluded to in the memories of SU fandom. That feeling when the team you and the people around you have been rooting for finally wins - bringing an explosion of joy that seems to rise up from nowhere, uncontained and overflowing, uniting people across their differences. Since the Knicks recently won the NBA Championship and New Yorkers across the city erupted in celebration, some have been resurfacing the term first coined by French sociologist Émile Durkheim - collective effervescence.

Collective effervescence can be described as “a group experience of intense affect, being ‘swept away,’ ‘becoming one with the crowd,’ and often includes a sensation of awe… (and) is often tied to an experience of ‘the sacred.’”1 Collective effervescence brings about a “temporary dissolution of individual boundaries and a merging of their self-experience with the collective.”2 And through this “is the experience of human beings undergoing high degrees of self-organization in a crowd.”3

I was introduced to Durkheim and this term when I was an undergraduate sociology major at Le Moyne College, but it didn’t strike a lasting chord with me until hearing it again recently. It immediately got me dreaming of what it would look like if we allowed the experience of collective effervescence to move us into collective stewardship - my less than exciting term, but still! Just imagine!

Since their first World Cup appearance in 1998, fans of Japan’s football team have been spotted cleaning up after the game, whether their team won or not. Many reporting on this have said that shared responsibility is deeply ingrained in Japanese cultural and moral values. Many Japanese schools don’t have janitors and instead students are involved in cleaning up and caring for the spaces they inhabit. “A bird leaves nothing behind” is a Japanese proverb which conveys this point. This is one example, I believe, of collective stewardship stemming from collective effervescence. Born, perhaps, of social norms that make this leap from emotion to action fairly seamless.

As I write this, I have seven kids/young adults in my home - five of my own and two visiting from out of state. This visiting family is dear to us and for months, planning has been underway to have them spend the month of July with us. While hanging out has definitely been part of the agenda, these creative and thoughtful humans have also designed plans to work on this homestead - improving it and making it even more sustainable. Rethinking old systems and making the land and what we do here more resilient and regenerative. Their innovation continues to astound me, especially as this is a low/no budget operation. Their energy abounds. It is exciting, motivating and inspiring.

Yet at this moment, we are all inside. Orange light filters in from wildfires raging in Canada and the smoke blowing into the state has made the air quality concerning. Windows closed. Heat and humidity from the 95 plus degree day yesterday trapped inside. Energy drained. Excitement waned. Potential projects stalled. Stuck. Trapped. Worried. This is not just a routine summer inside day due to rain or a July thunderstorm. This is life in 2026.

And yet, after recalibrating to this new reality, they shifted gears. Time inside, out of the scorching sun and toxic air, now means time to research and plan, not to despair and be brought down. Brimming with ideas, they have set to work - self-organizing! - to not waste a moment of their precious time together. Nor a moment of their precious lives. Designs for better composting systems have been created; videos on how to restore and use a long-forgotten tool of the past left behind in our 19th century barn - a scythe - have been studied; goals for scything hay for our goats have been set; Hügelkultur gardens have been planned; lists of salvaged materials needed for building a farmstand have been assembled. I could go on. They have an impressive spreadsheet of prioritized tasks.

Their actions remind us - we can all do something. We are not powerless. But the business as usual approach, as Joanna Macy described carrying on with our lives as if nothing has changed must stop. We have to take action. In times of heartache and challenge I often find myself calling out as the Psalmist did, ‘How long O Lord?’ How long will it take for justice to reign? How long until the ones in power are pulled from their insular world of luxury and see the faces of the suffering? How long will the oppressor threaten and stifle the people? But now I find myself asking, ‘How long O people of this planet?’ How long can we stand by and watch? How long can we shrug and say, ‘What can be done?’ How long until we chart a new course? How long until we rise up and shout, enough!?

In his teaching on Care for our Common Home, Pope Francis wrote:

We have come to see ourselves as her [Mother Earth’s] lords and masters, entitled to plunder her at will. The violence present in our hearts, wounded by sin, is also reflected in the symptoms of sickness evident in the soil, in the water, in the air and in all forms of life.

This is why the earth herself, burdened and laid waste, is among the most abandoned and maltreated of our poor; she “groans in travail” (Rom 8:22). We have forgotten that we ourselves are dust of the earth (cf. Gen 2:7); our very bodies are made up of her elements, we breathe her air and we receive life and refreshment from her waters.4

Our planet is on fire. Her people are in pain. The words of the poet John Roedel have been circulating and couldn’t be more salient to the moment. He says, “I have no patience for people who can watch the world burn and never wonder: How do I become rain?”

Rain puts out fires. (Rain also melts ice.5)

The Catholic Church is calling all people of goodwill to an ecological conversion. We have a summons to move from business as usual (treating the planet as disposable) to collective stewardship (acting on our shared responsibility to tend this earth with care).

We are called to be rain. Cheer on the team, but be the rain. Raise your family, but be the rain. Live your lives, but be the rain. I know of seven kids who are pouring their hearts into being rain. And countless examples exist of people faced with fire and seeking solutions instead of sinking into despair. Those who are harnessing their collective effervescence and working together to grow gardens, go zero waste, fight for climate legislation, and so much more. I want to hear those stories. Share with me your experiences of how you or people you know are tending and watering this one beautiful planet we all call home.

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Time is on my mind during almost every waking moment and possibly entering my dreams as well. There is a mystery to time that as far as we know, no human has been able to grasp. For the sensitive of heart - the empaths who feel everything deeply, then feel it a little bit more - time, and the fleeting nature of it, can compel us to sit down on the side of a country road and ponder every facet of it.

I am entering terrain I have heard countless mothers before me discuss - sometimes spoken to me with words of warning, other times with words of relief. But every time with something in their eyes that I did not quite understand, until now. The hidden grief that comes with the passage of time. It is a good and joyful thing to celebrate the milestones of aging, and a beautiful thing when children get to experience them. We knew in our hearts, from that first positive pregnancy test, that growth was wonderful and necessary.

But did we know how fast time would go? When my kids were all small, I had heard so many variations of ‘time flies.’ All of the sayings that you have also heard if you have kids - “the days are long but the years are short” or “time is a thief” or “you blink and it’s over.”

During the early years of parenting, with five kids under ten, those words didn’t register. I was firmly planted in the moment - complete with tantruming toddler and crying baby and the rest of the kids making forts with every single piece of furniture and fabric in the house. I found myself often sleep deprived and with that came less patience and a shorter fuse. On any given day, when the moment I was in was overwhelming for me (or them), I would say, “Let’s all turn around and start over.” The kids and I would jump up and dramatically turn around and then I would lead us all outside, away from the chaotic mess inside. Almost always, nature reset us. Nature brought us back to the peace of the moment. The earth calmed my frazzled nerves and settled their frenetic energy.

During that season, I didn’t feel time flying, I was too focused on existing. Kids have an incredible gift at keeping us in the present moment. Sometimes it’s an infuriating gift when we just want some rest and quiet! But their persistence for my presence truly was a gift. Whether that was the slow pace of a walk that could take two minutes alone but twenty with a toddler abounding with awe at every little thing in his path. Or the grabbing at my leg crying, ‘uppies, uppies!!’ when they needed the comfort of being picked up but I needed to deal with the pasta water boiling over. I wouldn’t trade those demands for my time and attention for the world, even when it was hard. Time with them taught me: here is where we are, right now. See me. Read to me. Stay with me.

My youngest is on the cusp of eleven. She still delights in so much of life. But as she is the youngest with four teenage siblings who have inherited snarky sarcasm and a healthy dose of wit, along with ample adolescent skepticism/criticism of most everything, she has already begun to move into another stage, measuring her reactions to life rather than bursting forth with them. And with that, my eyes see less of the moment and more of the sun setting on what was. I find myself grasping backwards. If my online photo album shows me a ‘memories’ collage, tears flow. Immediately and uninvited.

The stage of life now is nothing like it was ten years ago, and if I am blessed to live it, nothing like it will be ten years from now. Its difference is jarring. And my temptation is to resist it. Each time I do, though, if I am tuned to where God is in all of this, I can hear God whispering to me to breathe, and to notice the now. What is it God is asking of me now?

I think of the incredible and often elusive writing of Jesuit priest and psychotherapist Anthony de Mello who had a gift of storytelling, drawing from the well of ancient wisdom from both the East and the West. He would often write about how suffering is not caused by reality but from our attachments. I read his work in my 20s and it was too much for me. I needed to live before letting go! I read his work again in my 30s and 40s and I would nod and agree, while I am sure still missing the point. Now at 50, I read his words and feel a mixture of obnoxious indignation coming from my own place of resistance—easy for him to talk about letting go of attachments, he doesn’t have any kids!— and heartfelt recognition coming from the universal truths in his brilliant stories: ahhh, yes, these words have lessons to teach me. I am ready to listen.

"The Monk and the Precious Stone" (or "The Diamond")

There is a story about a man who runs out to meet a monk who is passing by the village. ‘Give me the stone,’ he cries, ‘the precious stone.’

The monk says, ‘What stone are you talking about?’

The man says, ‘Last night God appeared to me in a dream and said, “A monk will be passing by the village at noon tomorrow, and if he gives you a rock that he is carrying with him, you will be the richest man in the country.” So give me the stone!’

The monk reached into his sack and took out a diamond; the biggest diamond in the world, the size of a human head! And he said, ‘Is this the stone you want? I found it in the forest. Take it.’ The man seized the stone and went running home. But he couldn’t sleep that night.

Very early the next morning he went to where the monk was sleeping under a tree, woke him up, and said, ‘Here’s your diamond back. I want the kind of wealth that enables you to throw wealth away.’

Anthony de Mello,
The Song of the Bird

While possessions might be easier to give up, for some of us certain stages of life are not. Yet my faith teaches me not to live in the rear view mirror. We are reminded in the Gospel of Matthew that we cannot put new wine into old wineskins. The new wine, which will ferment and expand, needs wineskins that will stretch and grow instead of crack and burst. As de Mello writes, there is untold wealth in letting go. And Jesus invites us to always make room for what is coming. God’s grace is ever new.

My kids might not be as persistently demanding of my time as the three-year-old versions of them who needed to me to come here right now to see the ants carrying grains of sand or to stop everything right now to read them the story that they have heard at least 100 times. The demands on my time look different now, involving more driving, complex schedule juggling, more late night conversations and intelligent discussions, and plenty of support and advice in preparing for college applications and job interviews. But if I can listen, this season of life is still calling me to be here in this moment. No less than before, just differently. Am I allowing myself to stretch and grow, like the new wineskins, with each phase of life I find myself in? Can I trust that God is at work here and now? Not just yesterday and not in some far off day. But here in this launching stage?

I may still cry at photos of my little ones and wonder where time went. I may still grieve the passage of time and miss their tiny hands and sweet voices and the easily earned wonderstruck faces when I would show them something new and exciting, like the bubbles rising up from the soap bottle. (Especially when the necessary stages of adolescence provides more eye-rolling and deep sighing than excitement at mom’s silly jokes or attempts to plan something ‘fun’. Which is clearly not fun and not cool, I am reminded.) But I want to be present to the time I am in as it is. Different, yes, but no less significant. Time will pass no matter what I do, yet I get to choose if I am here or holding on to another time.

On a starlit June evening recently, when the air was filled with the intoxicating scent of wild roses just before they bloom, we gathered for the first bonfire of the year. Two parents - another year older and perhaps less interesting to the teens in the circle than they once were - and five kids on the cusp of their own new life stages, ready for what’s next beyond these familiar spaces. The good and necessary tension of this exact time in life, even when it stings a little, is with us each day. Just as I was thinking of the passage of time, and perhaps fighting tears, my daughter ran up to me with hands clasped delicately together. ‘Mom, look!’ she said. She gently opened her hands to reveal the brilliant light of the first firefly we have seen this year. I soaked in the scene, delighted in her joy, and smiled. I hear you, God, I thought. I am listening. And holding the moment, loosely.

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Spirit of Understanding,
transform in me
the insecurities
that diminish
the gifts You have
entrusted to me.

Spirit of Knowledge
whisper to me
Your mysteries,
enable me to perceive
and to proclaim,
to be sent by Your flame.

Spirit of Counsel
comfort in me
the troubled heart,
so easily forgetting
You are guiding my decisions
when I take the time to listen.

Spirit of Fortitude
ignite in me
a trust, a belief
that I have the courage within me
to follow Your call
wherever You lead.

Spirit of Piety
abide in me
so that I can breathe
each breath as a prayer,
each exhale an encounter
with reality as reverent.

Spirit of Awe and Wonder
illumine in me
the Divine spark of
an attentive presence,
that I may see the design of love
on all You have created.

Pentecost 2026

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Or that what’s inside
is unworthy
and must disguise,
hide,
retreat beneath
the self
we cease to recognize,
the self that
God Made.

In that hesitation,
God is patiently
waiting,
tenderly
saying
hold the gaze,
it’s ok
don’t be afraid.

Abide by
a trust
that nothing and
no one
can stand in the way1
to break God’s gaze
of everlasting
love.

It’s time to
lift our eyes.

This poem, which has lived in my journal for several months, came to mind when talking to a friend on the phone the other day. She was walking home from work on a sunny Monday in Burlington, VT and she abruptly stopped the conversation to yell, ‘Look up! Hey man, look up! I’m here.’ She was talking to a man driving, mindlessly staring down at his phone, as she was crossing the street. Despite her raised voice, she was calm, and kind. She saw his humanity in his distraction. That we are all existing in a state of distraction. But her words were meant to draw attention back to the here and the now. Look up. I’m here.

I got off the phone with my friend and sat quietly in my parked car. While the sweet conversation and her authentic sharing of her reality with me was still lingering in my heart, I felt myself automatically drawn to the device to habitually check… what was it? The weather? The news? The email? The scroll? I tossed the phone on the passenger’s seat. Look up, Meg. And I did.

And I saw the most glorious sight. A cluster of blossoms on this ornamental cherry tree next to the library parking lot. Most of them had already dropped their petals and yet this one hung on. Calling out to be seen - I’m here. Look up.

The time was ripe to bring this poem into the light.

I think often of God’s gaze. And how to be center myself to be receptive to that over the noise clamoring for my attention and my clicks. And how I/we are called to see God in one another. But if I am averting my eyes, because of distraction that keeps me preoccupied or doubt that keeps me small, how much am I missing? How am I forsaking moments of encounter with God - in others, in creation, in myself?

Once again, James Finley’s wisdom shines through:

When God gazes at us and we gaze at God we light up. . . . And God lights up with joy of being recognized by the one that God created in God’s own image and likeness for the very sake of this recognition. It’s a state of visceral, emotional, intimate communion; a tender recognition of oneness that we might rest in it, resting in us . . . resting in this communion in each other, as each other, through each other, beyond each other in this endless interconnectedness of life itself, of love. 2

Then there is this song, For I am Convinced , that so beautifully brings to life the scripture passage I reference in the poem. It is written by Cyprian Consiglio, a Camaldolese Benedictine Monk (which is a Roman Catholic monastic order founded by St. Romuald in 11th-century Italy). Nothing can separate us from the love of God.

And if that is not enough goodness, writer and translator of spiritual literature (and one incredible woman whose inspiring words and soothing voice are like a balm to a hurting heart) Mirabai Starr said:

“The more you turn inward, the more available the sacred becomes. When you sit in silence and turn your gaze toward the holy mystery you once called God, the mystery follows you back out into the world. When you walk with purposeful focus on breath and birdsong, your breathing and the twitter of the chickadee reveal themselves as miracles.”3

Poetry, music, mysticism, creation - all teaching us to look up. To notice. To look at each other and ourselves with a merciful tenderness that frees us and allows us to receive God’s loving gaze. All we need to do is look up and say, I’m here.

What else is growing?

• Today, May 1st, is the 93rd anniversary of the Catholic Worker Movement! On May Day 1933, Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin first distributed The Catholic Worker newspaper in Union Square, NYC.

• May Day Strong - May 1st, 2026 is also a nationwide boycott of no school, no work, no shopping. Workers over billionaires. Still desperately needed 140 years after the first International Workers’ Day.

• May 1st is also Bealtaine, an ancient Celtic Festival marking the beginning of summer and a time when fresh flowers and herbs are gathered and animals are let out into lush green pastures. In our home, our goats and sheep get to enjoy the bounty of spring greens. We also invite friends to come sing and dance around the May Pole as we weave the ribbons into lovely colorful patterns. We make flower crowns and have a springtime feast incorporating all the fresh greens and blossoms of this season.

• May is also the month of Mary in the Catholic Church, a tradition that possibly dates back to 17th century Italy. We will be pruning roses and planting flowers in our Mary’s garden this month and participating in the May crowning of Mary with flowers at our parish.

• For May 2026, Pope Leo has dedicated his monthly prayer intention to food security calling for action ‘that everyone might have food.’ That we shift from food waste and ‘selfish consumption’ to ‘a culture of solidarity.’

• April 30th marked the 10th anniversary of the death of anti-war activist and Christian pacifist, Fr. Daniel Berrigan. John Dear, writer, priest and peace activist wrote a fantastic piece, so rich with history and insight, into Dan’s life and work. I absolutely recommend you check it out.

• If you haven’t heard of my love of the work of this gifted writer (and now IG preacher) here’s your chance. Laura Kelly Fanucci just posted this Instagram video and her straight-to-the-heart-of-it attitude stops you in your tracks. Her reflection on Acts 13:13-25 will leave you fired up and ready to jump out of the boat (read: echo chamber) and go from harbor to harbor preaching God’s love and compassion right this very moment!

• I am thrilled to be added as a facilitator of the Work that Reconnects, a model developed by Joanna Macy for moving through the grief and pain we feel for the world and toward connection and collaboration with the earth and each other. Check out more here!

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider subscribing. It also helps a lot if you share it or like it or comment on what you liked. You know, those things that allow my work to get out there into the big, wide world. I don’t love asking, but it really does help. And if you don’t like it, well hey, thanks for reading this far and please come back. Maybe you will like the next post!

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One more little thing - I write because these words need to find a home; the grief an outlet; the hope a community. Yet, does take time to pull these ideas together to share with others. If you feel so moved to pledge a little to support my work, I would be so grateful. But also, I am happy to have you here no matter what. I hope to keep it free as long as I can! Thank you for being here and walking with me on this wild ride of being alive right now.

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“If a little flower could speak, it seems to me that it would tell us quite simply all that God has done for it, without hiding any of its gifts.”
St. Thérèse of Lisieux

As spring awakens in this corner of the world, the winter palette of browns and grays quickly fades into the background when pale-green leaves begin to unfurl, and from the sleeping grass, vibrant green blades emerge. While this transformation is taking place, another color takes the stage.

The bright yellow blooms in early spring beckon to drowsy pollinators waking from their winter slumber. They act as high-visibility “neon” signs for different species of bees, beetles, wasps and flies. When food is scarce, these yellow pigments create a sharp contrast against a brown landscape and direct them to necessary nectar and pollen.

In the book, The Language of Plants, Julia Graves writes about the meaning we give to colors, both symbolically and psychologically. She writes that yellow can be associated with that which is ‘joyful, gay, sunny, radiant, luminous, light and young.’1 I whole-heartedly agree with those adjectives when I see my children’s faces light up as they spot the first golden blossoms of the year and then rush to gather a bouquet of sunshine to decorate our table or adorn our hair. From daffodils to yellow crocuses; forsythia to yellow trout lily, these plants signal food for hungry pollinators and joy for humans as we, too, look for bright colors to lift our spirits after a long, gray winter.

I will never, ever tire of being handed bright bouquets of spring flowers clasped by tiny hands and offered to me with joy and love.

Shockingly, for some, these first rays of spring sunshine in flower form are not met with the same joy and sweet innocence a child experiences and instead are seen as a threat and a nuisance; a vile object to be exterminated. With successful industrial marketing campaigns in the mid-20th century, plants that were once seen as potent medicine, healing to the liver and the kidneys, were effectively turned into undesirable ‘invaders’. In post-WWII America, chemical companies used familiar war-time messaging as they launched their ‘war on weeds’.

The obsession with lawns has roots in English aristocracy when it was a display of wealth to have unproductive land, for show only. A monoculture of non-agricultural land. By the 1950s, with the creation of suburban communities in conjunction with the GI Bill which made home ownership accessible, a turf-green lawn became not just a standard but a bit of an idol. With the lethal chemical 2,4,D, used to kill enemy food supplies during the war, now widely available after the war, a new enemy was needed. And the dandelion was the target.

It almost sounds absurd, laughable even, that this little yellow plant became the ire and disdain of millions of people. From medicine to malignancy. From food to fiend. And yet, 75 years later, almost everywhere I drive, a more concerning golden harbinger of spring is to be found: the little yellow, plastic pesticide sign.

Seen here illogically juxtaposed with a manicured daffodil patch in front of an assisted-living community. My children will tell you (with some embarrassment) that I have also stopped to snap a picture of these danger flags in even more discordant places such as schools, hospitals and perhaps most ironic of all, funeral homes. Somehow, all these years later, the narrative of dominance and warfare still win people’s hearts. And wallets.

St. Thérèse of Lisieux, a French mystic from the late 19th century who joined the Carmelite order as a teenager and died very young from tuberculosis, has something to say to us today. In her book, The Story of a Soul, she wrote about the name she took in the monastery, the Little Flower. She had moments of feeling drawn to being ‘great’ like St. Paul and had a strong desire to be a missionary, a warrior, or a martyr for God. Yet, through her life as a cloistered nun and because of physical limitations, she could not live out these grand ambitions.

Through her faith and trust in God, she began to see her call as one of the ‘little way.’ Instead of letting her limitation sour her, she embraced the way of humility, of childlike trust and spoke of a vocation of love.2 Thérèse saw the natural world as a reflection of God’s presence and that all of God’s creation was infused with Divine love. Through her ‘little' way’ she sought to lift the small, the little, the forgotten - small actions that are holy, and small flowers that are beautiful. She said, “If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness.”

In a time in history when might and power scream for our attention, the little way can seem absurd. Trivial. Even irrelevant. But I am hard-pressed to think of anything more relevant, more needed in this moment. Attending to daily life with humility, doing tasks with love and offering small acts of sacrifice rather than seeking great deeds. Encountering the gifts of the earth with awe and a childlike trust. In three of the Gospels, Jesus says, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.”3 Thérèse, with her deep faith in God, got what so many of us miss. It is not in a show of might (dominance over nature), but a willingness to let our weakness lead us. And from there, unimaginable strength is found. We no longer need to make little flowers our enemies, but our teachers.

As much as the color yellow speaks of joy and radiance, we know by our traffic light that it is also a color of caution. A warning to pay attention and to slow down. When trying to suppress and root out the ‘weeds’, what else is being destroyed? What and who is being harmed? What does the noise of the domination culture want to silence? Who is forgotten when the language of war is roaring around us? What happens to the earth when it reduced to resources for extraction rather than gifts imbued with love from the Creator? When will human beings not be labeled as other, as alien, as illegal?

The yellow blooms will soon be joined by pinks and purples and reds. There will be a whole chorus of colors, sharing their beauty and bounty with us. May we learn from St. Thérèse of Lisieux and proceed through this spring season slowly, attentively and delighting in it as a little child with open hearts and clear eyes to stop and see the dandelion in all its glory. Not as a naive escape from the world, but with a mature knowing that attention to the ordinary ‘little way’ grounds us and gives us strength to face the world with extraordinary love. And couldn’t the world use a little more love right about now? Imagine what could be possible if we let love lead us.

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Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider subscribing. It also helps a lot if you share it or like it or comment on what you liked. You know, those things that allow my work to get out there into the big, wide world. I don’t love asking, but it really does help. And if you don’t like it, well hey, thanks for reading this far and please come back. Maybe you will like the next post!

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One more little thing - I write because these words need to find a home; the grief an outlet; the hope a community. Yet, does take time to pull these ideas together to share with others. If you feel so moved to pledge a little to support my work, I would be so grateful. But also, I am happy to have you here no matter what. I hope to keep it free as long as I can! Thank you for being here and walking with me on this wild ride of being alive right now.

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What else is growing?

• has a book on the brink of being born (a suitable metaphor about a book on maternal images of God) and pre-orders are available now. Check out chapter one of her book in this post .

• Did you know that it is still Easter! Yup, another month to bask in the glory of new life. And another month to read ’s book Living Easter from Ave Maria Press.

• This episode of America Media’s podcast The Spiritual life with one of my favorite poets, . I could listen to him talk about poetry and language all day and still be endlessly enthralled by it.

• This Earth Month the song Stand like an Oak is on repeat. Really needing these words right now (and always needing music from these beautiful souls). Thank you, Rising Appalachia, for being the soundtrack of my days.

I hope this helps orient you a bit about what you might expect to see here. And I also invite you to share a little about what you might like to hear more of from me. And what excites you about spring and life at this moment in time. If you were at my home, I would pour you a cup of tea (probably nettle because it is spring and that beautifully abundant and nourishing plant is emerging everywhere!) and we could chat. But since community is formed in so many varied ways in 2026, grab a cup of tea and please drop a note in the little digital box below and we can chat there.

Welcome to Growing Peas and Justice

Yes, it’s a play on words! I am a mother who is raising humans on a planet that desperately needs peace. And peas! Food for the journey. Sustainably grown in practices that are regenerative for the planet and all life. And growth that is not for infinite wealth but for building life-sustaining societies. I dream of sowing seeds in the ground, in my children’s lives and hopefully in the world that bring about peace, hope and care for our common home and for one another.

I write about faith and spirituality in our everyday lives. You will definitely hear me talking about my love of the earth, my deep appreciation for Pope Francis’ writing on Care for Creation, and my commitment fighting for this planet we call home. I write about saints and mystics as models of transformation whose lives and actions speak to us and can inspire us in these times. I write about plants as medicine for the people. You will also find me talking about the importance of living as people of hope, speaking up about injustice and showing up for people on the margins. While my writing comes from a place rooted in my Catholic faith, I do aim to write for everyone. I very much value interfaith connections and contributions. The world is a garden of so many different beautiful flowers! And all are welcome to visit this little patch of earth.

I hope my writing both inspires and challenges readers. I hope my work touches your heart and invites you to ask hard questions. Consider it an invitation to go deeper in this wild and precious life we are given.

If this sounds like something up your ally, I would be honored if you would subscribe! My goal is to get my writing to you once a week on Fridays. But because life is very full and I do this work for free - well, and also because I can no longer not write, but that’s a story for another day - I don’t have a lot of time to dedicate to it in this season of life, so it may be come to you twice a month. If you subscribe you won’t miss a new piece of writing! It will come straight to your email inbox.

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And if you like what I write, please share it with others! That is the best gift a writer can receive - knowing that you liked something so much you wanted your friends to pause and take some time out of their day to read it.

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About the author

I live in a rural area in Upstate NY with my husband and rapidly growing kids. (Two of whom are impossibly adults already. When the sweet older ladies in the grocery store used to say to me with my brood of babies and toddlers that they grow up so quickly and that it all goes so fast, I should have believed them.) We wrangle a barnful of goats, sheep, chickens and ducks everyday. We tend our vegetable gardens, medicinal gardens and orchard from March to October. After that you can catch us cozied up by the woodstove the remainder of the year mending, making, creating and learning. Anytime of the year you can find us at our state capitol speaking up for the poor, the planet and the powerless.

We also love trad Irish music and any evening after dinner, you might find us making our own little Irish session - playing tunes with fiddles, tin whistles, bodhrans and guitars. It’s a blessing to share the journey of life with these amazing humans.

In addition to finding my work in this space:

You can connect with me on Instagram. Social media and I have a love/hate relationship. But I do see its value and it can be a beautiful source of unexpected community and inspiration.

I invite you to check out this published poem of mine in the Deep Times Journal. I have also written for the Albany Catholic Worker newsletter and for Servant Song, a quarterly newspaper of Agape Community , a Christian eco-community nestled in the forest of central Massachusetts near the Quabbin Reservoir.

Thank you for stopping by. I am so glad you are here!

Peace and all good to you!

Meg

Peace gains ground... word by word, deed by deed, just as a rock is hollowed out drop by drop, or fabric woven stitch by stitch”
Pope Leo XIV at the Prayer Vigil for Peace, April 11, 2026

Making coffee
All Hell will reign down
What did the president say?
Completely obliterate
Scrambling eggs for the kids
The next attack will be far worse
We are almost out of butter.
Blown to hell
Can someone let the dog in?
A whole civilization will die tonight
I need new shoes, mom. And my pajamas are too small.
Punishable by DEATH
Add it to the list on the fridge, honey.
He’s weak
In weakness we are made strong.1
I thought it was me as the doctor
The cat just threw up.
Nut jobs, low IQ, losers
Please use kind words with your siblings.
Blasting Iran into oblivion
Talk about how you feel and what you need.
Excessive strength and force
Get some fresh air, take some quiet time with God.
Poisoning the blood of our country
We’re late, don’t forget your water bottle.
If you go after me, I am going after you
Revenge is not the answer, please apologize to your sister.
Back to the stone ages
Why is the maintenance light flashing on my dashboard?
Enemy from within
Can I make these groceries last the week?
Death, Fire, and Fury will reign upon them.
Can I add some extra groceries to give to the food pantry?
Fake news
I need to call my congresspeople.
Complete demolition
Mom, the doctor’s office is calling your phone.
The next attack will be far worse
Do I have time this weekend to make a meal for that new mom?
There will be nothing like it!!!
Mom, I think the roof is leaking in the bathroom.
Annihilating the terrorists
Can you help me with this math problem?
Totally exonerated, nothing to hide
Can we make it to that peace rally later?
Weak on crime
Maybe write a letter to the editor?
End of a civilization
Am I doing enough?
Day of reckoning
I saw how you showed kindness to that new friend today.
Time is running out2
Blessed are the peacemakers.

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“A rainbow makes a promise, that life is here to stay, a promise means
there’s more to life, than what we know today.”
-The Dameans3

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider subscribing. It also helps a lot if you share it or like it or comment on what you liked. You know, those things that allow my work to get out there into the big, wide world. I don’t love asking, but it really does help. And if you don’t like it, well hey, thanks for reading this far and please come back. Maybe you will like the next post!

Share

One more little thing - I write because these words need to find a home; the grief an outlet; the hope a community. Yet, does take time to pull these ideas together to share with others. If you feel so moved to pledge a little to support my work, I would be so grateful. But also, I am happy to have you here no matter what. I hope to keep it free as long as I can! Thank you for being here and walking with me on this wild ride of being alive right now.

Oh, sir, how long do you have? Those were not Mary Magdalene’s words in response to Jesus’ question in John’s Gospel. But they easily could have been, as they could also be our response to that question. Why are we weeping? Why aren’t we weeping?? Nonstop. All day, everyday. The pain of this experience. This time in history. This.

Mary!

Then the moment, the turning, the rush of joy returning to her grief-stricken body. The recognition of being called by name. And called by the One. This elation. This relief. Also this.

Do you love me?

Three times, Peter is asked, “Do you love me?” But can you imagine Peter’s guilt? ‘I pretended I didn’t know you. Fear kept me from showing my loyalty, and my love. I said I would stand by you and I didn’t.’ This shame. This remorse. This.

Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep.

Jesus directs Peter after the three times that Peter gets to say yes. Yes, Lord, you know that I love you. Three times professing love after insisting denial. Three times Jesus frees his bound heart. As if that release wasn’t enough, Jesus proves his trust in Peter is restored when he is tasked with carrying on the work. Feeding and tending. Preaching and loving. This forgiveness. This commission. Also this.

These resurrection encounters, and others we have been reading this week in the Catholic lectionary, never fail to stop me in my tracks. Jesus first appearing to women. Every single Gospel, he appeared first to women. The lack of recognition of Jesus by all of his disciples. The locked doors and the fear.1 Jesus’ rebuke of the men for not believing the women.2 The greetings of peace be with you3 or do not be afraid.4 Jesus resurrected and still wounded.5 Every one of these passages is worthy of a weeklong retreat reflecting on how profound and life-altering these words and actions are, but, alas, most of us only have a few minutes a day to do that.

Just as last week we entered into the sorrow of the garden and the suffering of the cross, this week (and for fifty whole days, more days than in Lent!) we are invited into the joy of the Risen Christ. This suffering and also this joy.

Life presents us with a lot of practice of this and also this. The co-mingling of sorrow and joy. We can become accustomed to sorrow. It can become a very familiar coat we put on. Afterall, sorrow and suffering are everywhere we look, never really out of sight.

But so is joy! And if we take seriously the Gospel (or any teaching of any of the world’s major religions) we also have to take seriously that joy is woven into the very fabric of what it means to be alive. In Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism (and I am sure more), we find joy as - a fruit of the Spirit, an immeasurable virtue, a vital spiritual state, a quality of the divine self, or found in the goodness of life created by God.

Yet it can feel like a betrayal to the suffering around us to feel joy. And indeed, we can’t rush pain away and force joy. We can’t say to the friend whose cancer treatment is no longer working, ‘But hey, cheer up! There’s the promise of eternal life!’ Ack! No! We all know that would be cruel. (Though it does make me think of Kate Bowler’s book Everything Happens for a Reason and Other Lies I’ve loved. All the things not to say to someone suffering.)6 Instead we walk with them in their sorrow. We enter into it with them as we entered into the pain of Holy Week.

This week, however, teaches about joy. It doesn’t erase the pain. But it reminds us that we can train ourselves to see joy, and allow it to wash over us. We can make space for it, become attuned to its presence even in the heartache.

This - (from the minutia of daily life with kids) noticing that one day no one needs that bathroom stool to reach the sink anymore and hasn’t for a while. Some of us (raises hand) may shed unexpected tears that the long forgotten stool serves as a reminder of just how quickly time passes and how fleeting their littleness is.

Also this - we get to see their eyes light up as they pass the next milestone, lose the last baby tooth, ride that once wobbly bike with ease or make the team.

This - we watch as the elder that we love loses abilities one by one, and fumbles over their medications, eyes straining to make out the too-small writing on the prescription bottles.

Also this - we catch them looking up a gift online, ‘just a little something for Christmas’ for the little girl of the home health aide that visits once a week. A reminder that even with declining sight or mobility, the heart still holds so much love.

This - having your phone light up with a new email that says, ‘your test results are ready’ and feeling your stomach drop as a hundred scenes flash before you of what might come next if the outcome is what you feared.

Also this - your blissfully unaware child places a bright and colorful paper on your lap and says, ‘Mama, do you like it? I made it for you.’ And in that moment, it is the most gorgeous painting that you have ever laid your eyes on. And you smile and hug that precious soul.

Sorrow and joy - walking together, weaving together, existing together.

The Easter Vigil is without a doubt one of my favorite Masses of the church year. We begin at sunset. In darkness. Outside. The Pascal candle is lit. We process into the very dark church and one by one, the face each beloved child of God becomes awash with light. Looking at the familiar faces around me, and knowing many of their stories, their sorrows, their losses, I can’t help but feel tears filling my eyes. Each person in this church (and our world) carries so much. Some of the pain very fresh, some haunts them from years past. Some have lost children. Some are facing serious illness. Some are alone. Some live in fear of ICE. Some struggle with depression. Some, too, are celebrating joys - the new grandbaby, the excitement of getting into the college they wanted, the new driver’s license, the new relationship. Whatever their heart holds this night, each person comes as they are and gives what they have as they gently tip their candle to light the candle of the person next to them, illuminating the next face and the next and the next. This and also this.

Each face, each life - shining with the light of the Compassionate, the Merciful, the God-with us, existing in each of them, in whatever chapter of life they are living. All of that light now flooding the once dark church as a procession of the lofty and luminous Pascal candle is blessed and ushered forth by the rising incense. Rising like our prayers and pleas for peace, for healing, for hope. From darkness to light. (Can you see why I cry every time? Do we even need words? Why am I still talking?! The rich meaning of this night speaks for itself.)

This Easter season, which coincides with coming of spring, may each of us adjust our screen-scorched eyes to see glimpses of joy in the tangible world around us. In the same way our winter weary selves seek out sprigs of budding green as signs of new life. It may be hidden, tucked away, buried under the next brutal headline. But it is there. Can we allow it to exist with the hard and ever-present heartache of life today? My prayer for you and for me is that we can. That in the this there is also this.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider subscribing. It also helps a lot if you share it or like it or comment on what you liked. You know, those things that allow my work to get out there into the big, wide world. I don’t love asking, but it really does help. And if you don’t like it, well hey, thanks for reading this far and please come back. Maybe you will like the next post!

Share

One more little thing - I write because these words need to find a home; the grief an outlet; the hope a community. Yet, does take time to pull these ideas together to share with others. If you feel so moved to pledge a little to support my work, I would be so grateful. But also, I am happy to have you here no matter what. I hope to keep it free as long as I can! Thank you for being here and walking with me on this wild ride of being alive right now.

Subscribe now

21,915 days
you held the pain
the secret,
the story that says
‘You should be ignored.’

Protect the movement, protect the man,
deny that your insides
are churning,
the burning memory seared upon your soul.

No escape, no way to explain
what the pain does to you
every
single
one
of those days
of betrayal.

Your mind and your body
hold the scars that
hide
inside your heart.
You feel the acid rising
in your mouth
as you want to yell out,
but you know, you know,
you know,
the words you utter won’t be received.

Dismissed. Disparaged. Denied.
‘They are all beguiling lies.
It’s your word against mine.’
And the gripping truth in the crevices
of their defenses
is laid bare,
‘Why should we believe
a woman?’

You forge ahead
the secret held.
Maybe it’s better this way
you try to explain
to the voice you keep quiet.
The voice in you
who knows
the truth.

It’s too much, it’s too late,
maybe you’ll go to your grave
holding the lie that says,
‘It was all fine. And so am I.’

Yet sometimes,
in the darkness of night
you let go of the resistance
and loosen the grip
and listen to the you
who yearns to be heard.

“Enough,” you hear the voice say,
“It’s time to speak,
and break through
the raucous din that insists,
‘The ones
who abuse
are immune.’”

And then, sixty years and a day
and you know,
you awake,
sip your tea, inhale sharply,
and brace your heart.
It’s time.

With each voice that rises,
with each shattered silence
another wounded one
stands straighter
and inches closer to
saying, I will not be afraid.
Six days or sixty years,
the silence ends here.

This poem is dedicated to Dolores Huerta, and all survivors of sexual violence. Read her statement here. El silencio acaba aquí.

https://medium.com/@dolores_huerta/march-18-2026-e74c20430555

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider subscribing. It also helps a lot if you share it or like it or comment on what you liked. You know, those things that allow my work to get out there into the big, wide world. I don’t love asking, but it really does help. And if you don’t like it, well hey, thanks for reading this far and please come back. Maybe you will like the next post!

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As nature-based homeschoolers, we have collected many wonderful storybooks over the years. One that allowed the children to sit with the dual realities of ‘Jack Frost and Mrs. Thaw’ both trying to forge ahead, but being tripped up by the other, was Ollie’s Ski Trip by Elsa Beskow. The time of year the kids read the book (January vs. March) determined who they were rooting for and whether they would be sighs or cheers. Right about now, we are all rooting for Mrs. Thaw.

The promise of warmer temperatures and thawing brings the much needed glimmer of hope. And even if the nights are cold, these freeze/thaw cycles are wonderful for some things, like the running of the maple sap. The sound of the drip, drip, drip in the bucket on warm sunny days and watching the kids rush to taste the sap is an occasion of joy that can momentarily banish the winter weariness. On a homestead, the daytime thaws and nighttime freezes also bring frustrations like chipping away thick layers of ice that formed when water melted near the entrance to the barn. This makes the already beat-up barn door impossible to open without a morning workout of digging and chipping first. Looking longingly out the barn window toward the goat and sheep pasture, it is hard to imagine there will be chickweed and nettles for them to munch on anytime soon.

It is precisely this time of year, a time of seasonal transition in both hemispheres, that we find ourselves entering the liturgical season of Lent. A time when those who walk the path of Lenten observance in preparation for the holiest week of the church year are called upon to enter deeper into prayer and to fast and give alms. A time to journey with an awareness of the reality of death but also a profound faith in the promise of new life. It is not a time of easy answers, but a time to grapple with the hard questions, the paradoxes, the seemingly impossible becoming possible. It is a time of almost and not yet. Like March. Like our lives. Like the work of peacemaking.

The day Pope Leo XIV was elected and stepped out onto the central balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica, his first words were about peace. “Peace be with you! It is the peace of the risen Christ. A peace that is unarmed and disarming, humble and persevering. A peace that comes from God, the God who loves us all, unconditionally.”

The last ten months he has continued his message of peace and asked us this Lent to begin by “… disarming our language, avoiding harsh words and rash judgement, refraining from slander” and instead to “…measure our words and cultivate kindness and respect in our families, among our friends, at work, on social media, in political debates, in the media and in Christian communities.”1

Wouldn’t that be incredible? He doesn’t stop there. His March prayer intention is for disarmament and peace. He invites all people of goodwill to pray this prayer during the month. (The full prayer can be found here .)

Imagine that world. Imagine if we could disarm our hearts of hatred and division and become ‘instruments of reconciliation’?

Imagine if we steeped ourselves more in the study of the lives of the peacemakers instead of the war wagers?

How about some examples? Like St. Oscar Romero, Archbishop of San Salvador who became a vocal critic of the abusive treatment of the people of El Salvador, who defended the poor, became a voice for the voiceless, and was assassinated while celebrating Mass on March 24, 1980.

Or Blessed Rutilio Grande, friend to Romero who was martyred three years earlier. It was Grande who has been credited as being the catalyst for Romero’s shift toward speaking publicly about the plight of the campesinos by El Salvador’s oppressive military dictatorship. A quote attributed to Grande is, “The Gospel has to grow little feet.”

Or Hildegard Goss-Mayr, an Austrian Catholic that had her first experience of civil disobedience when she was 12 and Hitler came to Vienna and passed by her school in a convoy of cars. He stood in the car, looking out to the crowds and everyone was expected to salute, and she refused. She said it was the ‘first time that I felt that there really is a strength of evil.” She later joined the International Fellowship of Reconciliation and trained people in nonviolent resistance in Latin America, the Philippines and Africa. Thomas Merton said of her, “Hildegard Goss-Mayr is my candidate for sainthood.”2

In our experience of the natural world, it requires imagination to move us from the dark of winter into the light of spring. We can close our eyes and imagine the vibrant flowers blooming, the newly migrated birds singing, the tips of tender green leaves bursting forth.

So, too, an imagination is required for how peace is to become the dominant narrative of our time. How it is not fear but solidarity and trust that binds people together. No longer power-over but power-with. It begins in the imagination and moves, like Rutilio Grande says, into our feet. War is not the answer. It never has been. These remaining days of winter, when it is hard to trust in spring, may we find the courage to be disarmed and ready to walk the path of peace.

And a bit of news — a poem I wrote is in the latest issue of The Deep Times Journal! The journal is inspired by Joanna Macy and The Work that Reconnects. In their words, The Deep Times Journal “provides brain-food, heart-food, and methods for those of us who are working to co-create life-sustaining, equitable cultures for all.” The latest issue is about harvesting the gifts of our ancestors. Check it out and my poem, Connemara Dawn, here.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider subscribing. It also helps a lot if you share it or like it or comment on what you liked. You know, those things that allow my work to get out there into the big, wide world. I don’t love asking, but it really does help. And if you don’t like it, well hey, thanks for reading this far and please come back. Maybe you will like the next post!

One more little thing - I write because these words need to find a home; the grief an outlet; the hope a community. Yet, does take time to pull these ideas together to share with others. If you feel so moved to pledge a little to support my work, I would be so grateful. But also, I am happy to have you here no matter what. I hope to keep it free as long as I can! Thank you for being here and walking with me on this wild ride of being alive right now.

Lent began last week, and I have been making a conscious decision to practice presence and notice the easy-to-miss moments of life during these solemn 40 days. With the remnants of a small smudge of ashes still on my forehead from Ash Wednesday, the morning after I found myself walking right into a metaphor as I cranked open the woodstove door to scoop out yesterday’s ashes. (Maybe not just one but a whole host of metaphors! Scooping out yesterday’s ashes.) Fresh from reflecting on the fact that I am from dust and to dust I shall return, I can’t help but pause and ponder the ashes before me.

What is left behind? The wood, stacked carefully into neat rows in the late summer. The wood split and brought in by armfuls all winter. The wood that warmed us, and had given its last to us, is now a heap of ash. Cold and dark. It will find its way to our garden, to nourish the soil, adding nutrients like potassium, calcium and magnesium, reducing acidity and improving soil fertility. But in this moment of seeing its nothingness I am not thinking of what is to be gained by the ashes. I am allowing them to teach me. To remind me, as Mass did the day before, of my origin and my destination. How quickly ashes emerge as the wood is consumed by the flame. How brief is this precious gift of time on earth.

And what of the in-between? The flame of my life. And the lives of those I love. While the message that starts us on our Lenten journey is indeed intended to remind us of our mortality, it is also a call to get our attention. In our parish, as the ashes are marked on us, the words spoken to us in that intimate moment are, ‘Repent and believe in the Gospel.’ The word repent stems from the Greek word metanoia which means to turn around; a radical reorientation of perspective; a transformation of mind and heart. (That really changes the way one views the word repent! Often that word can hold negative connotations. But transform your heart? Turn around? That is easier to get behind.)

We are being asked, by the words ‘repent and believe in the Gospel,’ to reorient our lives. While the spark of life burns in me, what am I turning around to see? Am I letting the Gospel transform my heart? While yes, I will return to dust, what am I orienting myself toward while the fire is still burning?

My hands are cold now and a shiver pulls me from contemplating and into creating. With the shovel I reach into the woodstove to scrape the remaining ashes out and into the ash can. I rake over the larger coals with the metal poker to discover that there are still some hot embers. I place the kindling into the woodstove over the coals, use the bellows to breathe life back into those embers, and the spark of a new fire is born. A miracle, every time.

It’s still early. The days are getting longer and the sun is just up. But no one is stirring yet. I close the woodstove door, and though it may seem redundant, I place a beeswax candle on the hearth and strike a match to light it. Behind the glass of the woodstove door, the wood is catching fast and in the early minutes of a fire there is the roiling haze of smoky air as the turbulent flames seek oxygen and rush forth with a wild energy. It takes time before the fire is fully established and the wood is enveloped by slow moving, orange-red flames that seem to gently dance instead of frantically panic.

While waiting for the calm to settle in, the candle flame provides the steadiness that I am seeking. My mind so often feels like that young fire, almost frenetic and unceasing in its activity. Bouncing about, restless and distracted. And then I see it. In the reflection of the glass, I see the slow, steady, peaceful flame of the candle as it is surrounded by the hurried flames of fire. That is where God dwells. In me. In you. In the chaos of the world around us. In the hurting, the lonely, the grieving. In the rushed, the angry, the anxious.

The small, still presence of God. Not pushing, but inviting. If I am quiet, I can open my heart to hear the small, still voice of God. Not screaming, but whispering. Not clamoring for attention, but showing up peacefully in the clamor of life. Spiritual teacher and clinical psychologist James Finley often says, ‘the non-essential always imposes itself; the essential never imposes itself.’ And there it is. Right before me. A reminder of God’s non-imposing presence. And I almost missed it.

I sit back and breathe. The flame of life burns in me while the ashes are marked upon me. I attempt, in my weakness, to hold the tension1 of those two realities.

And so each day begins with scooping out yesterday’s ashes, letting go of what is no longer needed and composting it into something new. Summoning bright flames from the tiny sparks of life still remaining. Enkindling warmth into a cold and drafty house. Calling forth something from what seems to be nothing. All transformations.

This Lent, or this season of life, in whatever tradition you find home in, may you have moments where you are able to listen for that small, still voice of God in midst of the big, loud, non-essential noise of life. And may you experience a metanoia, a turning, a transformation that moves you closer to what is essential and ever-present.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider subscribing. It also helps a lot if you share it or like it or comment on what you liked. You know, those things that allow my work to get out there into the big, wide world. I don’t love asking, but it really does help. And if you don’t like it, well hey, thanks for reading this far and please come back. Maybe you will like the next post!

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From where I sit, close up I see the news feed on my laptop screen light up with yet another horrendous headline of the dehumanization of people by ICE. All across our country - in Minneapolis, in Maine, and in my home state of New York - what we are seeing televised before our eyes is nearly impossible to process and is so quickly followed by another horrifying abuse of power. I feel tears well up in my eyes as I am witness to the desecration of human life.

Author Tia Levings, who wrote a memoir about the abuses of Christian Fundamentalism, provides real time, raw and honest reflections for how we are to navigate theses time when our political leaders use the same tactics to manipulate and control people as her abusive church community once did. She recently used this term on social media to describe how so many of us are experiencing the horrors unfolding before us - disempowered witnesses. Yes! That is it. That so accurately describes how it feels to watch what is happening to the humans of this country right now. Those were the words that described how I felt standing out at a below 0 degrees Abolish ICE rally on a recent Friday night. Is this doing anything? Are any of the decision makers listening? Do they even care? BUT, Levings doesn’t stop there, she never could have saved her life and her children’s lives from the domestic violence that was sanctioned and condoned by her church if she let hopelessness win. She wrote, “We survive by being resilient. Engaged. Human. Kind and soft and enraged and active: ‘we contain multitudes.’ Cry with empathy, not fragility. Then square your shoulders and take a breath. Kiss your kids. Roll up your sleeves. We all have something we can do to share, say, write, amplify, and resist.”

St. Brigid of Kildare (ca 451-523), one of three patron saints of Ireland, is well known and deeply loved in Ireland and much of the world. Legends abound about her life abound and yet, due to the careful records and writing of a 6th century monk, Cogitosus, the earliest hagiography was written about her just over 100 years after her death, which leads us to understand her as a historical person. He writes of her natural gift of leadership in founding a ‘double monastery’ for men and women, her life of radical charity and compassion for the poor and her abundant generosity.1 These traits earned her saintly status while she was still living.

She has been called the ‘midwife to Christ’ based on legends of her presence at the birth of Jesus. And the ancient Celtic way of seeing seemed to have no issue with making that cognitive leap. That a woman born 400 years after Christ could be present at his birth. But some say that imagery is meant to evoke an understanding that Brigid birthed Christ by bringing the teachings of Jesus to life and putting them to practice.

There are innumerable stories of her miracles, which often mirror Gospel miracles, but with an Irish twist (turning water into beer and the multiplication of butter as two fantastic examples). She was also known to heal the deaf and the blind, cure the sick, and to give whatever she had to those in need, often to the anger and frustration of her Chieftain father. There is a story that her father, Dubthach, was taking her to the King of Leinster to be sold because of her excessive generosity (which often meant the giving away of his things). While waiting outside for her father, it is said that a beggar approached her and she reached over and gave him her father’s jewel encrusted sword. Apparently the King was so moved by this he declared her to be holy and commanded her father to set her free.

This brief piece of writing won’t do justice to the story and life and the countless compassionate actions of this remarkable saint.2 But here I do want to highlight Brigid’s understanding of hospitality. According to John Phillip Newell in his book Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul, he writes,

“…there is an ancient rune of hospitality attributed to Brigid, in which the welcoming of the stranger is viewed as the welcoming of Christ. Brigid inspires an expectation of finding the sacred beyond the bounds of one’s religion, culture, or nation. It is about being open to the heart of the other, ready to receive blessing from those on the other side of accentuated lines of division. It is about awakening to the holy in the other.”3

And the monk who first wrote about St. Brigid said that ‘no one was ever refused food, clothing, or sanctuary in Kildare.’4

For St. Brigid, hospitality was not an option. She saw Christ in every person, and welcomed them. It’s really not that complicated. For those who profess to be people of Christian faith, this is our call. To live and love as Christ did. To not decide who is worthy and unworthy. To instead open our hearts to those who are hurting, turned away, forgotten. Brigid showed us how to live out our faith. Not in judgement or exclusion but compassion and invitation.

In these days of unremitting pain coming in the form of headlines that reveal unconscionable actions done to humans of this world, we can in fact be led to feel like disempowered witnesses. But we are not. We, like St. Brigid of Kildare, contain multitudes. We can respond to injustice through action. It might be out on the streets action lifting our voices in protest. It might be much more subtle and hard to see as action, at first. Perhaps it is pausing the scroll to notice the joy of children at play. Maybe it is that pause that leads to a prayer that expands the heart to a creative next step that we could not see before. A prayer that moved us from helpless overwhelm to compassionate clarity.

February 1st marked La Féile Bríde, Brigid’s Feast day. As we move toward springtime (yes, even in the northeast where it is below zero, we are still moving closer to spring!), let’s remember Brigid. Her perseverance, her standing up to powerful leaders, her faith, her radical hospitality to the stranger.

St. Brigid, in this harsh winter of 2026, pray for us.

hold my heart

tired and unsure

not knowing

and not beholding

the unknown

with grace.

//

In these times

even the Love

that sustains

and remains

can seem

out of reach,

beyond the hand

that wants to

grasp,

and the feet that need

the steady ground

of trust.

//

Holy Mary,

Mother of Love,

cradle the hurting,

the broken

the afraid.

Whisper a

Psalm of hope

to those

running

for their lives.

//

Sing to me your

song, again and again

What was it you said?

God will lift up the lowly?

And tell me about how

the mighty will be cast

down.

//

After a moment of rest

and your tender

caress,

I can remember

that you, too,

held all these things

in your heart,

your tired, hurting

heart.

Send me forth

renewed.

//

What’s next is

hardly clear.

Yet I know that

Divine love

is revealed

in a kaleidoscope

of lives

rising up before

our eyes.

//

In the brilliant sunrise,

before me

I can see

a glorious garment,

sheltering us all.

And my hands can

touch the tattered

strands of hope

that are not broken

bur rewoven

stronger

with hands

working together.

//

Hail Mary,

Hold our hearts.

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If you are looking for a way to rise up against the horrors happening in Minneapolis right now, Laura Kelly Fanucci just shared this link. Laura is from Minnesota and if she put out this link, I trust it. (She is an absolutely amazing writer and an incredible human, check out her work.)

How to help:

https://www.standwithminnesota.com/

But then what? Alone in her room, possibly sitting on the edge of her bed as Henry Ossawa Tanner so magnificently depicts in his painting titled, “The Annunciation.” (It’s worth spending a minute or two gazing at this painting, taking in the imagined scene.) The emotions that may have filled her - the confusion, the worry, the apprehension. Perhaps some amount of excitement was in there too. In this painting, her face reflects almost a sense of gentle curiosity.

And the angel told her news of her kinswoman, Elizabeth. She, too, was pregnant and would have a son. Elizabeth, after years of infertility, was experiencing something that seemed unlikely at her age. (Though many scripture scholars consider that she may have been between 40-50, so it was not out of the question.) I can imagine Mary, confused about her own situation but filled with joy for dear Elizabeth who so longed for a child of her own.

This Advent, Mary has been so present to me. A near constant companion. In calling her to mind in prayer and in going about my daily life, I have quite specifically been reflecting on her humanity. Too often, Marian prayers and images and so very much of the artwork through the ages - paintings and statues - tend to portray a version of Mary that emphasizes her sanctity, but not her humanity. In doing this, it can deprive us of an experience of Mary that was human, and growing, and learning, and changing. We are given images of her meekness, and sereneness and humility. So many people I know have not felt a connection to that depiction of Mary and because of that, have not developed a relationship with her. She felt too distant, too elevated, too removed.

In forming my own relationship with Mary, and seeing her as a living, breathing human with a full spectrum of emotions, I have found it important to understand the world she grew up in. Consider this an invitation to pause and imagine a young Jewish Mary in ancient Galilee over 2000 years ago.

When Mary received the news that she was to bear the son of God, the world in which she lived was not serene and calm and peaceful. She lived in the small, poor town of Nazareth, considered by many to be an insignificant place off the beaten path. All of Galilee and Judea were under Roman rule and Roman soldiers could pass through at any time and demand anything they wanted. They could order the Jewish people to give them lodging and provisions or to carry their military packs. It was a time of oppression and heartache as women could be sexually assaulted, threatened and intimidated and heavy taxation pushed farmers into debt, driving families to lose their land and pushing them further into poverty. Herod Antipas ruled Galilee and he was a paranoid and ruthless ruler who sought to eliminate any perceived threat to his power through any force necessary.

Mary was coming of age in an age of empire.

Raised in a devout Jewish home, she would have had kept the laws and customs of her tradition, had the readings of the Hebrew scriptures read to her at home, attended synagogue, and likely sung many of the canticles of the prophets. These canticles were not just songs to sing to pass the time. They were songs of liberation. They were born of suffering, pain and affliction. They were written by prophets who themselves lived in ages of empire, long before Roman rule. They knew of the weight of oppression. Of exile. Of loss.

Yet their songs were songs of hope and deliverance, and of God’s presence and protection, renewal and restoration, guidance and light in the darkness.

These canticles and passages from scripture were part of Mary. Now under a new empire, being deeply connected to the teachings of her ancestors was not a matter of duty but of survival. I would imagine there were times these verses were prayed silently in her heart while stepping aside as angry soldiers passed through Nazareth, as she sought shelter away from them in the market, frightened eyes looking up from under her headscarf, fearful of what may happen next. The familiar prayers were also a part of her daily life, as she carried water, tended to a sick relative, and brought food to someone who was grieving. She knew the teachings of her faith in her bones. And she knew and believed that a wise leader would come, would rise up and establish justice and usher in an age of universal and lasting peace.

Then an angel visits Mary. Then she has to figure out a way to explain the unexplainable. Can you imagine that conversation with her parents? Really, you are pregnant by the Holy Spirit?? And then to tell her betrothed, Joseph. The strength that must have taken. (And to bring some humanity to Joseph, feeling betrayed, distressed, heartbroken, we know he offers to silently divorce her so as not to publicly shame her. The tenderness in that decision. The humility to carry forth after his dream, lovingly standing by her side.)

There must have been moments of doubt in the days after she was visited by the angel. Knowing well what the fluctuations of hormones do to a body and mind in the early days of pregnancy, I can imagine Mary, sitting on her bed alone, tear-stained face, trusting God but also feeling the weight of loneliness. And then comes the decision, “I must go to Elizabeth.”

The power of the visit to Elizabeth is not to be underestimated. We know Elizabeth lived in ‘a town in the hill country of Judea.’ I always imagined Elizabeth lived a few miles away. A morning’s walk. Not at all. Scholars say the distance would have been about 80 to 100 miles. Mary was not just dropping in, as I always imagined it. It would have taken about three to four days to walk that far. This was a decision that was not without great risk. A dangerous journey for a young Jewish girl, roughly one month into her pregnancy. This tells us that her relationship with Elizabeth would have been a powerful one, and that there must have been a strong enough bond between them that it drew Mary to travel ‘in haste’ such a long way. (Thus far, I am not seeing much meekness or smallness in Mary. I am seeing courage, strength, determination and conviction.)

I imagine Mary, on this journey, singing the canticles of the prophets. And slowly, thoughtfully, and prayerfully transforming their words into her own words. Singing the the verses of Isaiah (61:10), Habakkuk (3:18), and various Psalms about God’s justice and faithfulness and care for the poor and covenant with his people. Then weaving that together the Song of Hannah (1 Samuel 2:1-10) which was a song praising God for the miracle of new life and of changing course and lifting up the lowly. I think of the smile that may have lit up Mary’s face as the warm sun shone down and she finally found the words to express all that had been wrapped up in her heart since the angel’s visit. And she hummed them over and over on her journey, excited to share her words with Elizabeth. But perhaps also with a touch of worry. Will Elizabeth believe me? Will she believe the impossible has become possible?

Upon finally reaching her dear loved one’s home, her doubts and fears are immediately lifted as Elizabeth not only believed her, but already knew. Elizabeth, met her at the door and greeted her with great joy and “exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb! And why is this granted to me that the mother of my Lord should come to me?”2

I can almost feel the immense relief that must have washed over Mary at that moment. The enormous exhale. The warmth of the embrace into arms of a beloved friend who knew. In that moment, Mary was seen. She was heard. She was believed. A friend didn’t turn in doubt or fright but opened her arms to welcome her in great joy.

It is from there, from that moment of safety and love, preceded by so very many moments of preparation and formation and heartache and celebration and oppression and hope that we are blessed to hear Mary’s song.

“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;

my spirit rejoices in God my savior.

For he has looked upon his handmaid’s lowliness;

behold, from now on will all ages call me blessed.

The Mighty One has done great things for me,

and holy is his name.

His mercy is from age to age

to those who fear him.

He has shown might with his arm,

dispersed the arrogant of mind and heart.

He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones

but lifted up the lowly.

The hungry he has filled with good things;

the rich he has sent away empty.

He has helped Israel his servant,

remembering his mercy,

according to his promise to our fathers,

to Abraham and to his descendants forever.”3

These are words of praise but also of transformation and of hope. These are words about turning things upside down. What once was won’t always be. These words call us to pay attention. To draw from the wisdom of the prophets. To know in our hearts that just because this is they way things have been done does not mean they still need to be done that way.

German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer understood there was something revolutionary about Mary’s song. In a sermon he gave in Advent of 1933 he said:

“The song of Mary is the oldest Advent hymn. It is also the most passionate, the wildest, and one might almost say the most revolutionary Advent hymn that has ever been sung. This is not the gentle, tender, dreamy Mary as we often see her portrayed in paintings… There is none of the sweet, wistful, or even playful tone of many of our Christmas carols, but instead a hard, strong, relentless hymn about the toppling of the thrones and the humiliation of the lords of this world, about the power of God and the powerlessness of humankind. This is the sound of the prophetic women of the Old Testament — Deborah, Judith, Miriam — coming to life in the mouth of Mary.

Mary, who was seized by the power of the Holy Spirit, who humbly and obediently lets it be done unto her as the Spirit commands her, who lets the Spirit blow where it wills [John 3:8] — she speaks, by the power of this Spirit, about God’s coming into the world, about the Advent of Jesus Christ.”4

Bonhoeffer could see Mary. He felt the power of her canticle and could portray the meaning and weight of her words to the world almost two millennia later as Hitler was gaining power. He was later arrested, imprisoned and killed by the Nazis.

And to underscore the significance of Mary’s canticle as more than simple prayer by a meek and humble woman, we learn that her words were actually banned from an entire country because of the power contained within. Dominican sister, Patricia Bruno writes,

In the 1980s the Magnificat was banned from public worship in Guatemala because the government of Guatemala recognized its subversive message. The Peruvian theologian Gustavo Guiterrez, O.P. reminds us that this song of praise underlines God’s preferential love of the lowly and the abused. God is on the side of the poor and lowly not because they are holier than other people, but because no one else will stand with them or speak on their behalf. God is on the side of the poor because God desires everyone to be justly treated. 5

Understanding the turbulent times and oppressive world that Mary was born into gives us new eyes to see the full weight of her ‘yes’. Mary’s yes to the God when the angel came to visit her now holds a deeper meaning. Mary’s yes came to a world that knew suffering. Mary’s yes, for me, no longer seems lofty and distant and unrelatable.

Saying yes does not mean there’s no anxiety, fear, trepidation even.

Saying yes does not remove the trembling, the lying awake, the ‘what ifs'?’

Saying yes does not mean there’s not anger or doubt or loneliness.

One can be convicted and also be afraid.

One can be sure but also wonder if one has the strength.

One can know what’s right but still need to call on others to be reminded, to feel God presence in the form of loving friendships.

To know Mary through this lens is both a comfort and a challenge. It asks us to have a personal relationship with a strong and brave and faith-filled Mary and that our relationship to her is evolving and developing and expanding as we grow older. It is also asking us to look beyond ourselves. To look with the eyes of a mother who is bringing her son into a world of suffering and heartache and wanting a world that is safe for him and for all children. To look at the systems of power and abuse and control that exist all around us. To look at the systemic root of injustice. And to speak up about it. To see the threatening use of power over those who are powerless and to ‘lift up the lowly’.

What do Mary’s words have to say to us in the final week of Advent in 2025. We know today so many people are hurting, distressed and possibly despairing. War and famine and the brutal treatment of those who are deemed ‘other’ are as present now as they were 2000 years ago. We know that for many people in places of political conflict and strife that the war doesn’t stop just because a holiday arrives. We know people are holding so much inside while trying hard to find the merriness and cheer. We know that for many people, the grief they are wearing is like a weighted vest that they didn’t put on for exercise and can never take off. It is important to be present to that pain. In ourselves and in others. To take time to pause and pray, and then to do what work we can do to alleviate that suffering.

We are weary.

And yet, to return to the promises of God given to us by the prophets, and felt in corners of our own lives, that there is a light that will cast out the darkness, that sorrow will turn to joy, that Jesus’ coming is the source of hope and rejoicing for a burdened world.

As we close this Advent, may we pray Mary’s words with a new understanding of what God, through Mary, is calling us to do. In the quiet stillness of our hearts, may we be moved to respond, in love and in joy, to a weary world in need of Mary’s hope.

Opened doors
 
A gesture offered 
to a stranger
a gift freely given
without merit
or calculations 
of political persuasions
 
Extended arm
an opening
no time to question 
or scroll the comments 
to know whether to behold
one as worthy
 
Moving past
no time to ask  
about candidates chosen
a disarming smile and then 
a pause
an act of gratitude
 
A fleeting glimpse 
that makes one forget
the divisions that are devised 
in lives lived online 
on phones that feed the fears
and stoke the fires of dissent
 
Words uttered 
an exchange
that catches one’s breath and reveals
in a precipitous point-in-time,
compassionate presence 
opens hearts

A little background if you want it. Or you can sit with the poem and make with it what you wish, in whatever space this moment finds you.

I was driving across New York state on a very rainy November night recently. I had a few stops to make before I reached my destination and in my weary state of mind, balancing a lot of heavy emotional weight, I was particularly sensitive to and aware of the simple act of opening a door for a stranger. That kindness was offered to me several times that night. One encounter that stood out was when someone held the door for me while standing in the pouring rain as I dashed in from my car. His unsolicited kindness in that moment brought tears to my eyes. Nothing to be gained for him other than soggy clothes on that cold night. He could have let it close in my face. And indeed, there are moments in life where that happens. But not always.

We have so few ways to express random acts of kindness in our increasingly isolated worlds. But they exist! The northern hemisphere is entering the darkest part of the year, and as the news brings to our attention the worst of human behavior, it is tempting to believe that compassion, tenderness, and open-heartedness are endangered experiences, nearing extinction. And that hate and division define us.

That dark, rainy night, complete strangers showed me that, nope, hate doesn’t have the last word. Kindness still lives in us. In all of us. It’s really hard for hate to win when we see the world through that lens.

May we all find ways to open our hearts to show the best of ourselves to one another. And to seek the best in them.

The group, led by our local Catholic Worker community, Emmaus House, gathered on the feast day of St. Francis Xavier Cabrini, patron saint of immigrants. St. Francis Xavier Cabrini (not to be confused with St. Francis Xavier, the 16th century Spanish co-founder of Jesuits who led the first Christian mission to Japan) was born in Italy in 1850. Maria Francesca Cabrini did intentionally choose Francis Xavier’s name as hers when she took her vows as a religious sister because she longed to lead her sisters on a mission to Asia. After much perseverance, she did get approval from the previous Pope Leo (the XIII) to take a mission trip. But not to Asia, to America. Italians coming to this country in the late 1800’s were treated horribly. With disdain, disgust and abuse. Our very own country needed a missionary to be as Christ to the least of these. And in that time, it was the Italians in New York City.

Mother Cabrini, as she was known to her sisters and the community in which she served, ministered to the orphans of Italian immigrants. Many whose parents either died from horrible conditions, dangerous work environments or suicide. ‘Even the rats have it better’ was an accurate description of the living conditions and also the headline of an article in a NY paper that helped to bring some attention to the destitution of those trying to forge a future in this country at that time.

“I must work like a young woman, I must hold my own against strong and deceitful men, and this must be done; you must be attentive and also work very hard and not say that it is too much…”

“Work hard, my daughters, never tire, work with generosity, work with determination and integrity”

Mother Cabrini in writings to her sisters in 1900 and 1904 recorded in L’Osservatore Romano

On the evening of her feast day, the local Catholic Worker community held a bilingual prayer vigil in the Shrine Church of Our Lady of the Americas (the old St. Patrick’s Church). I was thinking of my Irish ancestors as I approached the church that cold night, and looked for the cornerstone and found it chiseled with the year 1867. In the years 1845-1852, 2.1 million Irish people left their homeland because of An Gorta Mór or The Great Hunger (often mistakenly called The Irish Potato Famine. It wasn’t just the blight of the potatoes that caused people to die. There was food to feed the people but they were not fed it by the British government. Over one million people died. Their deaths were caused by systemic injustice and starvation, not just a potato problem).

During that time, many Irish people seeking a better life came to settle in our city. And this church I was entering to honor and pray for families who are being brutalized by our very own government in 2025 was likely built by the tired hands of those escaping mass starvation and cruel treatment in the 1850s. I ran my hands along the bricks of the church and tried to imagine the faces of those who labored to construct this house of worship. Were their faces etched with hope? Fatigue? Grief? Anticipation? What were they imagining for themselves in this new land? What were they mourning from the land they left behind? How were they treated in this city? Was there any place they felt welcome? What were they hoping to carry forth from home into this new country filled with different customs and ringing with the sounds of a different language?

And now the church that once was home to Irish Catholic immigrants now offers a welcoming sanctuary to all, with a special ministry to Spanish speaking families, many of whom may be immigrants themselves. In the worship space, St. Brigid is now joined by Our Lady of Guadalupe, marking the importance of carrying cultural and ethnic legacies with us. And keeping devotions from home countries alive and bright. Shining like a beacon for believers and a sign of hope.

Mary said to Juan Diego,

“Here I will show and offer all my love, my compassion, my help and protection. I am your merciful Mother, the Mother of all who love me, of those who cry to me, of those who have confidence in me. I will hear their weeping and their sorrows …”

It is November of 2025 and here we are. Similar horrible story, different century. So much weeping and so many sorrows. Have humans grown or learned anything from the time of The Great Hunger, the treatment of Italians entering NYC in the late 1800s, or from any of the mass atrocities from human history where people are seen as ‘other’ and hated and harmed and killed because of it?

There is so much work to be done, to lift up the voices of and offer protection to those seeking refuge in our country. While there is indeed a need to reform our country’s immigration policies, people of goodwill must also remember, as Pope Leo XIV said recently, communities should not treat immigrants with ‘the coldness of indifference or the stigma of discrimination’ and should welcome them as “brothers and sisters”.

And it is a force to be reckoned with. I recently made the mistake of looking up some symptoms related to perimenopause and within seconds started receiving ads for how to ‘solve’ that problem (and more ‘problems’ I hadn’t even thought about!). I almost fell into the trap and probably sub-consciously absorbed some of the messages that I am not ok and need to be fixed up. But, I am not a machine that needs to be fixed. I am a human being that needs to love and be loved. That’s not something that can be bought. No expensive supplement regime can offer that.

I can’t retrieve youth, but I can remember that life is sacred, at every stage, and it is a blessing to be alive. Yes, now, in 2025. This is the time in the whole of the human story that I have been given life to walk on planet earth. I can offer tender care and love to a body that is changing. And I can also offer tender care and love to the life around me - in my home and community - that is also always changing. I can look beyond myself to others in need of care and love.

The beauty industry wants us to believe it is all me, me, me. The Gospel (and Pope Leo in his first Apostolic Exhortation, ‘I Have Loved You’) remind us that nope, it is not all about me. He writes, “I am convinced that the preferential choice for the poor is a source of extraordinary renewal both for the Church and for society, if we can only set ourselves free of our self-centeredness and open our ears to their cry.” If I could take the liberty of changing a word in that quote (or adding on to it), I might suggest we free ourselves from distraction ‘to open our ears to their cry.’ When we are distracted by who the algorithm is telling us we should be or how we should look, we are not able to listen to the small still voice of the Divine calling us into being. Calling us into the fullness of who were are to be and how we are called to love and to serve - as a human made in the image of an infinitely loving God, not as a reflection of the life-depleting and extracting corporate consumer culture.

Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt writes about the ‘great rewiring of childhood’ and has used research that he laid out in his book, The Anxious Generation, to explain how to rise of the use of smartphones has correlated with the rise in anxiety, depression, sleep loss, attention fragmentation and addiction. While the dire statistics won’t necessarily surprise anyone, this book is absolutely worth the read. It lays out the data and it calls us to pay attention to what unfettered access to devices is doing to us. All of us. Not just children and adolescents.

We all have different relationships (a peculiar word to use) with the devices in our lives. I was late to the smartphone world (less than a decade of having one) and have never had a ‘great’ phone. It’s functional and does what I need it to, mostly, and it was inexpensive (though how we got to thinking it is no big deal to walk around with machines over $100 - and up to many, many more dollars than that - with us everywhere we go is beyond me). But regardless of quality and cost, the ability to look down and get lost on these devices more often that not grips just about all of us.

In the process of looking down, we are not just missing so much of what is happening in the present moment around us, we are, too often, comparing ourselves to others. And seeing only our flaws, and imperfections. We are getting trapped in someone else’s story and missing out on our own. And our own role to play at this time in history.

What if we looked up more? What if we put down these devices dividing us from the lives in front of us. It starts with eye contact. And a smile to the faces that grace our daily lives.

Recently, I was waiting in the car as my kids ran into the library to return books and pick up books on hold. While waiting, several cars around me sat parked with engines on and the drivers were sitting in the driver’s seat leaning down over their phones. It has become such a common sight that it is not even notable anymore. Just another day. But this is not a calling out (well, except for the leaving the cars running part. We need this planet, people. Turn the cars off!) but a call to attention. I have no interest in policing phone use for strangers. They may have been checking in on a family member or logging into their patient portal to see an important update from their doctor or doing work or who knows what?! No judgment about the action. I do it too.

But what struck me (and brought tears to my eyes) as I made an intention to keep my phone in my purse and to look up is when my kids came running back to the car, arms piled high with books, they saw me… and they smiled. I could have missed that. I could have missed a precious moment of their fleeting childhood by looking down. I could have missed a chance to look straight into their eyes and smile back. They could have missed seeing me light up as they approached. One thing is for certain, I do not want to miss those moments.

So, in this next decade, I am choosing to look up. I am choosing carefully how I spend my time. Choosing which stories are mine to hold and mine to let go of; which apps need to go; which timers need to be set; what books should be on my nightstand; choosing to let my eyes rest more on the horizon than on a screen; choosing what I want to or need to hear to help shape my next decade; how I can best be of service to those in need; how I can love better; how I can sink into forgiveness more and resentment less; when to act, when to reflect, and when to let go; meeting life as it arrives, fully present to what is; choosing to slow down and breathe deeply. And most importantly, choosing to find more time to sit in sacred silence with God. Nourishment for the soul so I can do the work I am called to do.

I look forward to this next decade and embrace the gift of another year on this planet. One thing I am sure of is that there will be writing involved. So, stay tuned, faithful readers! I hope that you will join me on the journey.

The chipping paint here, the peeling wallpaper there, the plumbing issues that never end in an old house, the drawer that lost a handle, the storm window with a crack that needs replacing before the cold winds blow, the too-small kitchen that really was never meant to feed 7 people three meals a day, the dishwasher that doesn’t really wash. And that doesn’t even begin to address all that is outside the doors of this house on this homestead that need to be repaired! Shall I go on? Are you even still reading?

All I could see was what was broken. There were moments my heart tried to reel it in and spin this into a positive outlook. But my tired brain would have none of that. Turns out negativity is an easier path. (Negativity bias and survival instincts and all that). Positivity requires conscious effort. Something that’s hard to muster when sleep loss or sickness or stress put us straight into our brain’s default mode. Scanning for danger (or in this case, broken stuff).

I’d love to say there was a grand moment of awakening to all my blessings or a quintessentially adorable moment with a child or a delightful moment in nature that pulled me out of that space. Sorry to inform you, it didn’t happen. Not that day. Trudging through and meeting the next task and trying to be somewhat kind/at least not too mean was the work of that day. (It continued to be lousy with a fallen tree limb knocking down part of the goat fence and a broken knob on the stove that has been repaired more times than the years it has been owned).

Bad days come. Thankfully bad days pass. Sleep helps. For introverted me, quiet time alone helps. But I am not here to tell you what helps, but just to say, bad days/weeks happen. They don’t all have to be analyzed or dissected or seen as a deficit. No new subscription to some flashy ad selling ‘10 days to a happier you.’ No new supplement promising to balance all the imbalances. No positivity app that pledges joy and harmony if you do these three things everyday. Nope, bad days just happen. To everyone. To the perfect Instagram mom and the always put together person at work. We all know this. But, I think, it’s good to be reminded.

Why state the obvious? Because after the bad day, the negative and grumpy week, ‘the does anything in this house work or should we just throw it all away” state of mind passes, it’s good to breathe that out. To accept that lousy days are part of this ride we call being human. And they are bound to come again. There’s no way to bad-day-bad-mood-proof ourselves. As my mom often says about so many confounding things in life, it is what it is. And then feel the release that comes with that. It’s ok. This too shall pass. (She also says that one a lot. Wise words).

And then, when once again, the light coming through the window shines brighter than the coating of dirt on it; or the homemade food laid out for breakfast is seen with eyes of gratitude instead of with the eyes of disdain at the decrepit cabinets that held the ingredients. The partially working stove as seen as a miracle of modern inventions that provides me with hot water for morning coffee and soothing soup for my family’s dinner rather than seeing it as yet another short-lived broken appliance. That’s when I know my heart is ready to make room for God who was always there, patiently waiting, and loving me - even in my foul mood, even in my half-hearted prayers through gritted teeth, even amid all the broken stuff.

After the bad day is allowed to just exist, it is time to make room for the light. It DOES take conscious effort to look for the light. When I have exhaled the frustration of the fairly small and trivial trials, and the pain of the bigger trials of life that aren’t as easily repaired, it seems nearly imperative to breathe in the good and beautiful. With dire global circumstances that far surpass peeling wallpaper, we face a broken world. Headlines that grip our hearts. Leaders that fail to lead. While I am not in the business of pushing comparative suffering, which, in my opinion, often just leads to inducing shame and guilt which doesn’t usually motivate, I do believe that it is important to look beyond our woes as often as is possible. To not get bogged down in the day to day. To acknowledge it, vent, call on others for help and then, to look up. To look outside of oneself to see others in need.

It doesn’t have to be an either/or - either I am only aware of and involved in alleviating global suffering or I am only challenged by the struggles of the day to day in the life I am living. These realities can live side by side. I think it is important to make that explicit. We live our lives in the here and now. Sometimes the here and now is hard. Sometimes incredibly hard. AND we are global citizens. The pressure some of us place on ourselves to be either/or is not serving anyone in the end. I think we do ourselves a disservice in attempting to bring about justice by elevating one and negating the other. We can’t be champions for peace if we don’t tune into the hurt in our own hearts.

“The older I get, the more I meet people, the more convinced I am that we must only work on ourselves, to grow in grace. The only thing we can do about people is to love them, to find things to love in them.”

Dorothy Day, in a letter dated February 11, 1958 from All the Way to Heaven: The Selected Letters of Dorothy Day, edited by Robert Ellsberg.

and

“There is plenty to do, for each one of us, working on our own hearts, changing our own attitudes, in our own neighborhoods”.

Dorothy Day, January 1967, Catholic Worker Newspaper

(You knew I’d end up coming back to Dorothy Day, didn’t you? One of the very many reasons her life’s work and writing speak to me so much is that not only was she was a profoundly holy person committed to living with and loving the poor, she was also a lay person (non-ordained member of the church) and a mother, neither of which, combined, are easy to find among the saints of the church (Technically, Dorothy is not yet officially saint. She’s still at the ‘servant of God’ stage. But to those of us who know and love her, she’s already there.)

Both of the above quotes of hers are taken from selections of her writing where they are couched in a call to work for peace (in this case through demonstrations and protests) and about her grief concerning the war in Vietnam.

The work of our hearts and the work of the world coexisting.

The take-away here is, let the bad days be bad days. Not judging or putting oneself down for it. And, when fresh eyes are ready to see it, look for the light, and bring that light out into the world. There are so very many broken things right now. From what is in our direct path each day to what is happening in our world. In these times of darkness, the world is searching for light. And the beautiful thing is, the sunlight will shine through the window whether it has smudges or not.

Let’s train our eyes to see, and our lives to be, the light that breaks though all that is broken.