A Pilgrim's Platen

Pilgrimage begins with departure, but its true work is reserved for the return. The road outward gathers attention, yet the road home demands interpretation. The pilgrim may think that he seeks novelty of place, but what he truly will find is estrangement from the familiar. He leaves so that he might come back and see. What changes most decisively is not the landscape but the pilgrim’s posture toward it. Walking long distances among strangers, one becomes aware of how much of daily life is navigated by habit alone. The body moves without attention. The mind skims. On pilgrimage, this skimming is no longer possible. Each step must be placed. Each hour must be endured. Attention is reclaimed through inconvenience.

The sea has always unsettled the human imagination because it refuses to be mastered. It stretches beyond the horizon and descends into depths still unseen. Even now, much of it remains unexplored, unmapped, untouched by light. It carries a spirit of infinite mystery. Its surface may appear calm, but beneath it lie unseen currents, sudden drops, and hidden leviathans waiting to devour what dares descend too far. The sea reminds man how little he knows and how little control he truly has. Its waves rise and fall without consulting human plans. Its storms arrive without warning. Entire lives can be undone in a single night, swallowed without explanation. Yet even this vast and terrifying thing behaves according to a kind of order. The sea does not lie about what it is. It does not pretend to be safe while plotting destruction. Its danger is open, its violence sincere. The madness of the world goes further. The world cultivates confusion. It invents chaos and then calls it freedom. It inv...

In a cave in Bethlehem, the child is born. Not merely a child, but the Child. The one promised to a waiting world. The one who carries every hope ever spoken and every prayer ever whispered into the dark. He is the Child who was foretold, the Child who Himself is promise, the Child who fulfills all promises. The world does not stop to take notice. No gates open. No thrones are disturbed. The night continues as it always has, indifferent and quiet. Yet everything has changed. What was distant has drawn near. What was hoped for has arrived. The Omnipresent chooses a single place. The Infinite accepts measure and boundary. God steps into finitude and does not crush it. He inhabits it. Eternity folds itself into flesh. The Creator must be fed and warmed and protected from the cold. The One who sustains all things allows Himself to be sustained. The hands that shaped the heavens are held still, clenched softly in sleep.

I meet him on the road where the stones thin and the town begins to loosen its grip. He stands near the place where travelers slow their pace, where the day hesitates for a moment before moving on. His cloak is worn past intention, his hands open not in demand but in exposure, as though he has learned that asking is itself a kind of endurance. I feel the weight of the purse at my side, heavier than its contents ought to allow. Coin has a way of gathering meaning. Each piece carries the future folded inside it. Bread yet to be bought. Roof yet to be kept. The quiet hope that my children might grow without learning the sharp vocabulary of want. I am a young father, and the road now runs not only forward but ahead of me, into years I am trying, clumsily, to prepare.

The kingdoms of this earth rise like great tides, swelling with pride and noise, only to slip back into the dirt from which they came. Their banners fade, their monuments crumble, and their rulers are carried away as swiftly as autumn leaves upon a restless wind. History is lined with the remnants of such powers, each once convinced of its permanence; each now reduced to scattered stones and forgotten names. Yet above this ceaseless procession of rising and falling stands a reign that does not weaken, a sovereignty untouched by time. Christ the King endures when all else is spent.

There is abroad in our age a singular fascination with progress. It sweeps through laboratories, workshops, universities, and even quiet parlors where the latest marvel is praised as though it were a herald of some approaching golden dawn. So called "Great Men" speak of advancement as if it were an unquestionable good, a river that must be followed wherever it may flow. They hurry after it with an almost religious zeal, convinced that all increase in power must lead to some increase in human happiness. The word progress has become a charm that soothes unease and silences hesitating voices. Yet beneath this glittering pursuit there lies a troubling forgetfulness. For the very ones who promise to open new worlds often fail to reflect upon the world that already exists. Their attention is fixed so fiercely upon what may be accomplished next that they scarcely pause to consider whether the accomplishment should be pursued. They are absorbed by the thrill of possibility and the pr...

On my pilgrimage, I have sometimes seen moments of real goodness. They come quietly and without much notice. I have seen someone give without reward. I have seen a man who forgave when revenge would have been easier. These acts do not demand attention. They shine with their own light. There was no need for explanation. Their goodness was apparent. When I witness cruelty or injustice, I feel something within me draw back. That reaction is not a matter of taste. It reveals my belief that there is a difference between what ought to be and what ought not. I have heard people who do not believe in God speak with passion against evil. I have felt that same passion in myself. It reveals a truth one cannot escape. Good and evil are not inventions. They are real. They reflect a law that was not made by man. I have not learned this through study. More often it has reached me through the lives of others. When someone loves with patience, suffers with dignity, or serves without being seen, somethi...

The water glimmers in silence, as if holding a secret too vast to be spoken. Baptism is a descent into mystery, a plunge into the life of God. To stand before the font is to come to the edge of an ocean, to feel the air thicken with awe, and to sense that here, in this simple element, eternity waits. There is something fierce and tender in this sacrament. The infant, or the pilgrim grown weary from life’s long road, is carried to the water, and there he is claimed. The surface ripples, but what takes place is no surface thing. Beneath the gesture lies a glory too great for the eye: a death and a rising, an immersion into a life not his own. He enters the vast mercy of God, an expanse that stretches farther than horizon and deeper than any depth charted by man.

In the hush of a world newly awoken, the first breath is taken: a fragile exhale of life that whispers to the cosmos. The birth of a baby is a little miracle, a soft stirring, a new addition to creation. Like the timid bloom of a flower beneath morning’s pale light, the newborn enters the garden of existence, tender and unspoiled. There is something profoundly sacred in this first arrival. The infant knows nothing of time, of history, of joy, or of sorrow. His heart beats with the rhythm of the infinite, unmarked by fear or regret. In those early moments, he is as pure as dew upon the petals, a gentle vessel fashioned by the hand of the divine. The air itself seems charged with possibility, as if the whole earth holds its breath to witness the delicate unfolding of a new story.

Many imagine that to be a leader is to command every motion and to direct every outcome, yet such control is a brittle thing, easily broken when life refuses to bend to one’s will. The truer mastery is quieter, for it does not require the subduing of others, but rather the attentive tending of what has been entrusted. The one who would be master in this way begins by listening, not by asserting himself. He studies the temper of those in his care, the needs of the hour, the subtle rhythm by which each part moves in harmony with the whole. He does not claim possession over people, nor over the fruits of their labor, for he knows that each has a life and dignity of their own. His authority rests upon the trust he has earned. It does not rest upon fear.

There are hours in the pilgrimage of life when the soul, pausing from its common tasks, becomes aware of a thread that has never snapped nor frayed. It has been there from the earliest memories, running quietly through the seasons of growth, through joy and sorrow, through stretches of calm and through sudden upheavals. It is seldom recognized at the time. A chance meeting on a crowded street, a book picked up in idleness, a word spoken by one who had no thought of its weight, these appear, at first, to be isolated events. Yet in the stillness of reflection they reveal themselves as links, each shining with a light that is not its own but comes from the chain to which it belongs.

Simplicity has always unsettled the complicated mind. Not the simplicity that comes from carelessness or neglect, but the kind that arises from a heart directed entirely toward God. Such a person is not shallow. They are not ignorant. They have merely learned to live without excess, and this makes them difficult to understand in a world that delights in noise and novelty. A young man who walks to class with his hand in his pocket, fingers quietly moving over a rosary, is not seeking admiration. He is not filling his thoughts with idle diversions. He chooses silence over clamor, prayer over distraction, and in doing so, keeps his soul attentive to the presence of God.

It begins, as all pilgrimages do, with a longing. Theodore Judah was not born into greatness. He was born into a country still unraveling itself, still mapping its borders, still unsure whether its promise was true. He became an engineer not simply by talent but by hunger, for order, for clarity, for a purpose great enough to spend a life on. He dreamed of a railroad that would cross the entire continent. In an age when the Sierra Nevada was considered impassable, when the West was myth and danger and distance, Judah believed it could be joined to the East. He believed in bridges before there were timbers, in tunnels before there were tools. What he carried was more than a plan. It was a hope stitched together by mathematics and courage.

From a quiet meadow in Presque Isle, Maine, three men rose into the sky in a vessel as light as air and as brave as hope. Their balloon, named Double Eagle II , did not launch with the roar of engines or the flash of rockets. It lifted gently, almost silently, carried by hot air and the timeless pull of the wind. On the morning of August 11, 1978, Ben Abruzzo, Maxie Anderson, and Larry Newman left the ground behind. The sun rose with them, and the air was still as they drifted upward, watched by a handful of onlookers and followed by the hopes of many.

There is a teacher none of us choose, yet all of us encounter. She does not speak kindly or wait to be welcomed, but she is heard more clearly than any voice in the world. Her name is Necessity. She is not gentle, but she is honest. She does not flatter, but she never lies. And in her quiet, relentless way, she shapes who we become. Necessity does not teach in the comfort of a classroom. Her lessons come when the rent is due, when the road floods, when the answer is unclear and the deadline is near. She teaches through limitation, by stripping life down to what is truly pressing. In her presence, distractions fall away. The unnecessary becomes obvious. The essential becomes visible.

In every land, in every age, humankind has found itself bound to the mystery of memory. It is in the lighting of lanterns, the unfurling of banners, the gathering round of feasts, and the echoing voices that sing national songs or tell stories by firelight. These are not trifles nor mere repetitions. They are the quiet ceremonies by which a people says, We have lived. We have suffered. We remember . And in that remembering, we give shape to the future. To honor human traditions is to consent to this deep, enduring rhythm. It is to place one's hands upon the same plow held by countless others, and to feel the furrows of history beneath the fingers. Civic holidays, for instance, often appear modest: a parade here, a folded flag there, a politician’s speech met with polite applause. Yet beneath these modest forms lies a profound act. We take pause. We recall. We consecrate a moment not to utility but to meaning.

In this modern age, where time seems ever fleeting and the clamor of worldly concerns threatens to drown out the quieter, holier aspects of life, there exist certain timeless practices that have been the very foundation of Catholic family life for generations. Among these, the cherished customs of family prayer, the communal meal, and time around the hearth stand as pillars of faith, love, and familial unity. These humble yet sacred rituals, though often brief, possess the power to transform the home into a sanctuary, where the presence of God is felt most keenly. In an era gone by, Christian families were wont to gather each day to offer their prayers in unison, be it the venerable Rosary, the meditative recitation of scripture, or the silent meditation of hearts bound together in faith. Prayer, far from being a mere formality, was the very lifeblood of the home, the thread that wove the hearts of all its members. It was a practice both sacred and unassuming, a respite from the world’...

Not all that is foul repels. There exist certain evils that do not arrive with crude vulgarity, but rather with the sickly grace of a once beautiful swan now malformed, gliding upon dark waters that give back no reflection. This is not the coarse corruption of vice as one commonly imagines it. It is something more unsettling, more peculiar, a wickedness that carries not the stench of decay, but a strange refinement, a splendor that has turned inward upon itself. There is a kind of evil that entrances not despite its wrongness, but precisely because of it. One feels, upon encountering such a thing, an involuntary pause. It is not fear, nor exactly revulsion, but a stillness that descends like snowfall at dusk. It resembles the hush before a dying star, or the eerie silence around a fossil half-unearthed. It ought not to be, and yet it is. This evil does not shroud itself in shadows, but cloaks itself in order and symmetry, though both are tainted. It is not chaos, but something worse. I...

There is a hush upon the earth in the early hours prior to the rising of the sun. The air is cool and sweet with the scent of spring’s first full breath, and the sky trembles with the promise of dawn. All creation holds its breath in reverent stillness, waiting to rejoice in the wonder that will forever change the world. For in a garden once marked by death and sorrow, the stone has been rolled away. The tomb, once sealed in silence, stands empty. And from its shadows steps forth the Light of the world, risen in glory, bearing not the marks of defeat, but the wounds of love triumphant.

When we contemplate the two sons in the familiar parable of the Prodigal Son , we see, not merely two men of different inclinations, but two souls alike in their failure to trust. The younger son, restless and ambitious, casts himself into the world in pursuit of pleasure, believing that fulfillment lies beyond the boundaries of his Father’s house. The elder son, steadfast and dutiful, remained, but not with the spirit of a cherished son. He dwelled in his Father’s house as one who labors for a wage, not as one who basks in the generosity of an inheritance freely given. Both were lost. One wandered far and was starved by his folly, the other remained close yet lived in the famine of a hardened heart.

There is a distinctive delight in the sending and receiving of physical mail, a charm untouched by the passage of time. A letter, carefully penned and sealed, is not merely a message, but a vessel of sentiment, a tangible fragment of the human experience. The crisp fold of paper, the gentle curve of ink, the weight of an envelope resting in one's hands, each element contributes to the sacred ritual of correspondence. To send a letter is to craft a moment of sincerity, a token of thoughtfulness entrusted to the winds of destiny, carried forth by unseen hands to its awaiting recipient.

In our modern world, a subtle yet insidious transformation has overtaken the very essence of human connection. What was once the deep and selfless attitude of charity, born from the wellspring of a loving and sacrificial heart, has been replaced by a weaker, more superficial manifestation: friendliness. This is no mere shift in semantics, but a profound change in the spirit of human relationships. Friendliness, though not without its merits, is a poor substitute for the rich and unyielding charity that Christ, in His infinite mercy, has commanded of us. The latter is a lofty virtue, demanding, all-encompassing, and untiring, while the former is a more genial, convenient form of interaction, rooted more in societal expectation than in the true service of others.

When we attempt to conjure in our minds the image of a prison, we see iron bars, looming walls of ancient stone, the clinking of rusted chains, and the oppressive weight of confinement. We think primarily of the physical and visible restrictions. Yet the most treacherous prison is not hewn from cold rock, nor locked with iron keys, nor guarded by vigilant sentinels. No, the most insidious form of imprisonment is one so deceptively gentle, so beguilingly adorned, that its captives do not recognize their bondage. It is not a place of darkness, but a world of ceaseless diversion, where the mind, ever occupied with trifles, drifts further and further from the divine embrace.

In this supposedly ever advancing age of glittering devices, where the brilliant hum of electronic apparatus resonates through every room like the ceaseless beat of some invisible, all encompassing drum, there is something ineffably enchanting about the gentle flicker of candlelight or the soft crackle of a fireplace. These humble illuminations, which hark from a simpler time, exist in a bold contrast to the blaring fluorescence that often governs our existence. Oh, how wondrous it is to consider how the delicate dance of a flame can calm the soul, the way a weary traveler might find solace in the embrace of a familiar hearth. The fluorescent light, that modern monstrosity, is a curious creation. Its pale, sickly gleam is akin to the cold gaze of an unfeeling spectre, always present, never fading, yet incapable of nurturing a flicker of beauty. There it stands, hanging above our heads in sterile rebellion against warmth, offering no more than an antiseptic glare that can only pretend t...

Communication, in its essence, is a far more intricate affair than the mere exchange of words. It is often fraught with subtle misinterpretations, where the response one receives is shaped not so much by the literal question posed but by the subjective lens through which it is viewed. In this delicate dance of conversation, we seldom reply with strict adherence to the words spoken; rather, we answer what we believe the other means, or, more frequently still, what we expect them to mean. The result is that the conversation, though conducted with the best of intentions, often fails to achieve the clarity it purports to offer. Consider, if you will, the simplest of inquiries: “What time is it?” Should this question be asked in a bustling marketplace, the answer might be brief and factual: “It is three o’clock.” However, if one were to pose the same question in the parlour of a grand estate, the response might take a more conversational tone: “Why, it is precisely three o’clock, but surely...

Trains, those noble and regal conveyances, stand as moving monuments to human ingenuity and ambition. To board a train is to step into a world apart, where one is transported not only across miles of landscape but also through time itself. In an age that often forgets the value of true craftsmanship, trains remain a rare blend of opulence and inspiration, infused with the grace and charm of a simpler and more dignified time. When one steps aboard a train, the sensation is that of entering another realm. Each carriage is a self-contained universe, full of its own rhythm and mystery. The sound of the tracks and the gentle sway of the carriages evoke a bygone era of refinement. One can easily imagine the tables to be draped with fine cloths, and a gleaming bar car inviting one to enjoy conversation and a warm meal, offering a touch of sophistication akin to the parlors of the past. Here, one is treated not simply as a passenger, but as a guest in a moving house of grandeur, where each de...

New beginnings possess a magnetic and irresistible charm, drawing us in with their promise of hope, renewal, and divine possibility. They are sacred opportunities that invite us to step into the unknown with joy and faith, offering us a fresh start that is filled with potential. For the Christian, these moments are more than just temporal changes, they are graced occasions to embrace God’s unfathomable mercy and transformative love. At the heart of new beginnings is a sense of hopeful optimism, an exhilarating blank slate that beckons us toward growth and change. They carry with them the sublime reminder that God, in His infinite mercy, allows us to begin again at each moment, free from the weight of past mistakes and forgiven by His boundless grace. Every new beginning is a reminder that God’s love is eternal, offering us an unending chance to start anew, to grow in holiness, and to reflect His light.

It is an ancient paradox, as quiet and soft as snow itself: we do not love winter for its bitter winds or frostbitten days. Rather, we treasure it for the way it teaches us to cherish warmth. Like a traveler who has braved icy roads and numbing gusts of air, we come to adore winter not for its chill, but for the embrace of hearth and home that follows. It is not the cold itself, but the contrast, the firelight against the darkness, the warmth within set against the frozen without, that awakens our spirits and softens our hearts. Christmas, then, is like a warm cup of coffee, held tenderly between our hands as we sit beside a frosted windowpane. The chill outside presses against the glass, but within, there is a kind of sanctuary, a refuge born of light and love. The steam rises softly from the rim of the cup, carrying with it the rich, earthy aroma of comfort. This simple cup, much like the Christmas season itself, reminds us that joy is often found in the simplest, most-regular pleasu...

And in the fourth watch of the night, he came to them walking upon the sea. And they seeing him walk upon the sea, were troubled, saying: It is an apparition. And they cried out for fear. And immediately Jesus spoke to them, saying: Be of good heart: it is I, fear ye not. And Peter making answer, said: Lord, if it be thou, bid me come to thee upon the waters. And he said: Come. And Peter going down out of the boat, walked upon the water to come to Jesus. But seeing the wind strong, he was afraid: and when he began to sink, he cried out, saying: Lord, save me. And immediately Jesus stretching forth his hand took hold of him, and said to him: O thou of little faith, why didst thou doubt? And when they were come up into the boat, the wind ceased. And they that were in the boat came and adored him, saying: Indeed thou art the Son of God. (St. Matthew 14:25-30)

Death is the ultimate and final unifying human experience. All die. Even God incarnate had to die. Death is an inescapable reality that all humans have to go through. It seems to me that most facts are disputed in the world. People dispute the existence of God. People dispute the shape of the earth. People dispute the health benefits of a certain diet. People dispute the existence of objective truth. There are always some people who dispute things that many people would take as facts. However, nobody disputes death. Every human seems to agree that people have died and that they will die one day as well. There is a large variety of understandings about what happens after you die, but everyone seems to agree that everyone dies. Humanity as we experience it seems to be designed to pass away.

On principle, I believe I am against organ concerts occurring in Catholic churches. This stems from my fundamental belief that the sanctuary of a Catholic church should be exclusively reserved for the worship of God within the liturgy. However, I have historically participated in activities that contradict this belief. I have attended non-liturgical public prayer in churches, listened to orations by Catholic speakers, and even observed rehearsals of musicians. While organ concerts still contradict my initial fundamental belief, I have recently found myself excusing their presence in churches for three reasons. Firstly, I greatly enjoy organ music and have a deep desire to experience it played live. Secondly, I believe that when I and others listen to the organ played well, our souls are lifted to praise and adoration of God. Lastly, in my immediate area, I do not believe there is a single non-church venue within a 250-mile radius that houses a proper acoustic organ. This leaves limited...

As autumn envelops the landscape, nature undergoes a dramatic transformation. The leaves turn fiery hues of red, orange, and gold, creating a breathtaking spectacle that captivates the heart. Everyone I know seems so incredibly fascinated with this season of autumn. These dramatic changes in the world around us seem to be alluring to all of my peers, and I will admit they are alluring to me as well. Yet, beneath this beauty lies a poignant reminder of mortality and decay, a reflection of the profound consequences of original sin. In this season of falling leaves and fading life, we are compelled to confront the unsettling connection between the beauty of autumn and the reality of human frailty.

The Eucharist, resplendent in its simplicity, stands as a divine enigma wrapped in the most unassuming of veils. Beneath the humble appearance of bread and wine lies the inexhaustible wellspring of God’s boundless love: a love that transcends time and space, reaching from Heaven to earth with a tender, infinite embrace. In this sacred rite, time itself is suspended, collapsing into a singular moment where the eternal mingles with the temporal. Here, in this most holy sacrament, I am invited into the timeless drama of salvation, a mystery not simply to be remembered but to be entered, body and soul. The bread, seemingly common, and the wine, with its familiar crimson hue, are transformed before my very eyes. What my senses perceive as ordinary becomes, in truth, extraordinary. This is My Body, This is My Blood . Words so simple yet so profound they echo throughout the corridors of eternity.

I return, yet again, to my habitual tendency of making absolute statements and subjective rankings of the divine tapestry of God's complex creation. Among all of creation, the glory of the ocean is unquestionably beyond compare. I am aware that this is just an opinion, but I firmly doubt that it is mine alone. The majesty of the ocean in all its grandeur, whether viewed from a beach or from a water vessel, is truly incredible. However, the ocean, in its utter vastness, is more than just what it appears to be from above. There is also a profound splendor and a deep mystery that exists beneath the waves, and a radiant splendor in the waves themselves.

The Queenship of the Blessed Virgin Mary is a title that draws us into the profound mystery of her role in salvation history, yet it is also a title inseparable from her deep and abiding suffering. To honor Mary as Queen is to recognize not only her exalted status but also the sorrows she endured with a mother’s heart, sorrows that were inextricably linked to her reign as the Queen of Heaven and earth. Mary’s queenship, far from being a crown of mere glory, is intertwined with a crown of thorns. From the moment of her glorious fiat, her joyful acceptance of God’s will was shadowed by the knowledge that her Son was destined for the fall and rise of many in Israel. Her journey from the Annunciation to Calvary was marked by a profound union with Christ’s redemptive suffering, a union that sanctified her role as the Queen of Sorrows. Consider the prophecy of Simeon, who told Mary that a sword would pierce her soul. This prophetic image is a key to understanding her queenship. Unlike earthl...

In moments of high stress and high stakes, it always seems that I must find something to do to relieve the pressure. If there is nothing I can do to ease the tension, then I must find something to occupy myself with, so that I feel as though I am alleviating the burden. One could argue that when there is nothing for me to accomplish, I act as what Saint Paul calls a mere busybody . After minimal reflection, one can quickly come to the conclusion that keeping oneself busy in times of stress allows one to feel as if they are solving problems. This is certainly the case with me. What happens when one cannot actually resolve the issues that are causing the stress? Once again, the instinct to stay busy often kicks in. It is clear that in these scenarios, what I must do is slow down and use the time I cannot spend solving problems to rest, despite the urge to act. I must rest, and I know I must rest because action is not possible.

For thousands and thousands of years of human history the vast majority of the population never once saw what a cloud looks like from above. They never saw what the earth looked like eight miles above the ground. These sights are ones that are now made available to a large portion of the human population and have only been available for the past one hundred years or so.  Many people today see these sights quite often, some only once every few years, but most people in today's society have flown on an aircraft and most people I encounter on aircrafts do not seem to care much for the sights at hand.

I have had the unique opportunity of attending a couple of weddings and a couple of ordinations in the past month or so. I have done much reflecting on weddings and marriage. I think I am due for a reflection on the priesthood. The first ordination I attended was the ordination of a diocesan bishop. This was a wonderfully glorious occasion and one that does not occur very often in any given diocese. It is rare enough for a diocese to receive a new bishop. It is even rarer for that bishop to be new to the office of bishop.  The mass for the ordination of our new bishop was one of the most incredible and grand masses I have ever attended. Each detail was perfectly planned and the weight of the task this humble man was being called to hung heavy in every moment. Each prayer and song was filled with emotion, not just because they were beautiful, but because the reality of what was happening was so beautiful. The new bishop addressed the people at the conclusion of mass with confidence,...

I am a man who often does not like new and exciting things. I often avoid variables in my life at all costs. I quite often prefer sitting in silence at home to spending time with a group of people. Some may label this as a virtue, but I think it more frequently manifests itself as a vice.  As a child, I, like most children, was excited by the concept of adventure. I enjoyed pretending I was a sailor searching for burying treasure and avoiding pirates or that I was an explorer of outer space investigating alien planets. As I matured, I grew comfortable with the mundane. I allowed myself to believe that life was not full of adventures and I convinced myself to accept the truth as a reality that needs to be accepted in order to "grow up". Recently I have been questioning if this is true. Do I really have to accept the fact that my life will not be full of adventures in order to grow up? Will my life be mundane if I live it correctly? 

Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. These few lines sit at the very beginning of T.S. Elliot’s famous Four Quartets: a great work that I do not pretend to understand or appreciate to the level it deserves.  If it were not that a man who is considered to be a great writer wrote these words, my instincts would be to interpret this first stanza from Elliot as foolish, repetitive and unproductive ramblings. If time is relative and its significance constantly reconnects to itself, then time as a linear existence does not seem to make sense, or at least it is significant. Today's events can be significant to me because of the way they relate to events that happened to me twenty years ago. That does not mean that this point in time is the same as the point in time twenty years ago, but it does mean that in a way, through my memory, my imagination, and the...

I recently traveled to Houlton, Maine, to participate in a seemingly national cultural event: the viewing of the total annular eclipse. It was not a journey that I had really planned out beforehand. The decision to go at all was in question up until the hour before I left. I made the trek up to the northern half of the state that I have learned to call home with a close friend of mine who had also awoken that morning, unsure of his participation in the journey. As we drove up with plenty of time to spare we could not help but notice the immense amount of traffic on a hundred-mile section of the interstate which rarely sees more than three cars at a time. It was clear to us that people wanted to see this eclipse. As rather lukewarm astronomers, we were unprepared for the mass of people we would encounter when we reached our viewing destination.

Morning exists for prayer, Daytime Exists for production, Evening exists for thought. This is a line that I laid out on my typewriter a month or so ago with little awareness of what I was writing. The framing of the sentence seems like it could be a profound one, however, when you actually read it and take two seconds to think about it, it is clear that it is far from profound. In fact, it may be utter nonsense. With that being stated, I will now try to defend the statement as true, at least in my personal experience. Morning is for prayer. I pray the best in the mornings. There is something uniquely peaceful and fruitful about offering your day to God before the day has begun. There is something about spending time reflecting on His word and listening for His voice in the morning that is different than any other time of day. It may simply be that it is the first thing and, therefore, it feels the most important. Or perhaps it is the other way around: it is the most important thing, so...

But Mary stayed outside the tomb weeping. And as she wept, she bent over into the tomb and saw two angels in white sitting there, one at the head and one at the feet where the body of Jesus had been. And they said to her, 'Woman, why are you weeping?' She said to them, 'They have taken my Lord, and I don’t know where they laid him.' When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus there, but did not know it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, 'Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?' She thought it was the gardener and said to him, 'Sir, if you carried him away, tell me where you laid him, and I will take him.' Jesus said to her, 'Mary!' She turned and said to him in Hebrew, 'Rabbouni,'  (St. John 20:11-15) Death is not the end. In many ways, it is the beginning of true Life. Jesus approaches a mourning woman with words of intimacy. He seeks for her to share her heart. For her to share why she weeps. She weeps because of de...

Christ's incarnation is an invitation from God to share in His life in a more full way. God stoops down to become man. In this way He invites me to become a man in the way he became a man. The Christian life of virtue flows from this concept. This is why people for thousands of years have devoted their life to understanding how Christ lived and how to imitate Him. In the same way, the Christian would point to pain and suffering as salvific if only because Christ shows us that it is. Christ suffered pain and died for the sins of all. If suffering was not salvific before Christ's incarnation, it certainly is now. Christ invites us to accept the pains of this world, just or unjust, in the same way that he did: as a means to sanctify and purify.

For many years I have avoided alcohol. I was of age for quite some time and not particularly concerned about addiction or scandal, but I never chose to drink. I would tell people it was because I really didn't want to. Which I think was true. The way I saw it, most alcohol is an acquired taste, meaning I would only enjoy it after much exposure. If that is the case, why would I acquire the taste? For social comfort? What I am drinking will never make me comfortable socially. Relatively recently, I have taken up the bottle. Not in an unhealthy way, but with some regularity. I began and have almost exclusively continued with whiskey. I have had many a bourbon, some scotch, some Irish whisky, and an American whiskey blend.

About two years ago I was sitting in my grandmother's living room, and we were discussing the books that we were reading. I do not remember what books we were discussing, but I remember her interrupting our discussion of a certain book to ask me if I had ever read The Way of a Pilgrim , I said that I had not, and she proceeded to tell me that it was her favorite book. She pointed it out to me on the shelf and told me that I should have it. I asked her if she was sure she wanted to give it away because it was her favorite book. She said to me that she had read it ten times already, and she figured that she would not need to read it again in her lifetime. Fast forward to last month, and I am presenting this book to my newly formed book club. We read it together in a month and spent a few hours discussing the book over wine, cheese, and crackers. My brief thoughts on the book are as follows.

It is a weird feeling being employment-free when everyone is working. It is especially weird living in a house with three other people that do have day jobs. I often will sit alone in my chair reading. I will more often sit alone in my chair thinking. When I, in the past, have had a job, I often tell myself that I do not have enough time to sit in solitude to pray, read and just think. Now that I have all the time in the world, I still feel as if I do not have enough time to think. Sitting and thinking is a funny thing because it never produces any real tangible fruit. At least when I read and when I pray, I at the bare minimum, get the satisfaction of knowing that I have done those things which I firmly believe are good for my mental and spiritual health. I can also say that I have read a certain number of chapters or a certain number of books. I can say that I have successfully prayed x amount of rosaries, or I have prayed with the entire Gospel of Matthew this month.