Have you ever had a cancer scare? Or any sort of brush with death? Are you, perhaps even now, facing a sentence of only so many more months or weeks left to live on this bright earth?
Once upon a time I had a tattoo. I got it in 1977, long before tattoos were chic.
In November of 2016 Bob Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.
(A meditation by Barbara Cawthorne Crafton)
We didn’t even know what moderation was. What it felt like. We didn’t just work: we inhaled our jobs, sucked them in, became them. Stayed late, brought work home—it was never enough, though, no matter how much time we put in.
As we enter this new year, I’d like to give you a glimpse of what to expect on this blog page.
This year, once again, the Lord cut down a Christmas tree for us with His own hand. It’s the tipmost top of a splendid mugo pine from across the street, which blew down in last week’s big wind.
In my family we traditionally refer to the day before Christmas Eve as Christmas Adam. Similarly, Boxing day is Christmas Cain (or sometimes Christmas Candy Cane) and the day after is Christmas Abel, and so on.
On a terrifically windy day last August, I watched the trees rock and bounce as if shaken by giant hands.
“You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:12)
A manger is a feed trough for animals. The word is related to the French manger, to eat. If you were to attend a French-speaking eucharistic service, as the priest or minister placed the morsel of bread in your hands he would say, “Prenez, mangez.” Take, eat.
The name Bethlehem means House of Bread.
On the night before He died Jesus told His disciples, “I will not speak with you much longer, for the prince of this world is coming” (Jn 14:30).
Last week the world was shocked to learn that the co-pilot of a German airliner had deliberately crashed his plane into the French Alps, killing all 150 people aboard.