2025 by Margaret King Zacharias

Rocky Times

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Rocky Times

Taxi drivers shook their fists at each other as I stared out the tour bus window. Blaring horns assaulted my ears. Sunset turned to twilight, and still we sat motionless in Tel Aviv traffic gridlock.
My heart was breaking for my fellow travelers. Although I’d been looking forward to visiting the Carmelite monastery’s public areas for a second time, I’d already been blessed with indelible memories of a daylight Mass in the gardens, followed by a tour that included rooftop views of the fertile valleys below. (See https://www.catholicwritersguild.org/2023/06/mount-carmel/). For the passengers with me on this trip, their visit here was meant to be the pinnacle of a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The bus driver’s scowl mirrored my own frustration, but only an air of resigned disappointment filled the bus.
By the time we had navigated a winding road to the top of Mount Carmel, full darkness had descended. The harried greeter who’d waited for us outside made humble apologies. Unfortunately, no tour would be possible. The brothers had already prayed Vespers, and the vowed community was cloistered for the night. But our host said he’d given the lay oblates permission to reopen the gift shop. This announcement immediately cheered the ladies. At least they could still bring rosaries to their loved ones back home. They trooped off together toward the few still-lighted windows, smiling.
Dominick, a public elementary school principal, quietly pulled his carryon suitcase from the bin above his seat and got off the bus behind them. I’d learned that in his traditional Italian neighborhood, parishioners had sacrificed for years to buy a small triangular lot adjacent to their
church. Dominick was building there, a shrine for Our Lady of Mount Carmel. I watched him engage our greeter in animated conversation.
The other pilgrims eventually returned, with full souvenir bags in hand. But where was Dominick? Finally, he appeared again at the bus door, grinning. A middle-aged but muscular man from a contractor family, Dominick did not seem daunted by the weight he now carried. He climbed right up the bus stairs, and raised his suitcase with both hands, in a victory stance, as soon as he reached the aisle.
“That brother was so kind. He took me all the way back to the mountain!” Dominick’s voice resonated through the bus without benefit of the microphone. “He said I could have as many rocks as I wanted! He found me a spade, and held the flashlight while I pried the stones
free.”
Whoops, whistles, and cheers from every seat greeted his enthusiastic news.

***

I found myself behind Dominick in the El Al security lines for our departure flight back to the United States. He patted his suitcase, and whispered with a wink. “Don’t worry. I’ve got them all right here.”
I heard the uniformed Israeli guards ask, as Dominick slowly wheeled his suitcase to the counter, “What’s in there? Rocks?”
Uh, oh, I thought, looking around. Is this even legal? Archeological artifacts, and all that? Where’s our guide!  Dominick just nodded. “Gifts for Our Lady’s new grotto, from our Holy Land pilgrimage,” he said. Seeing the stern looks on their faces, he hastened to assure them.
“Everyone gave me permission. Those monks at Mount Carmel were really helpful.” Dominick pulled a paper from his vest pocket. Apparently, he’d somehow managed to wangle a document from the Carmelite brother who’d assisted with the excavation. Dominick handed his paper to one of the security men.
The first guard examined it and showed it to his partner. Then he refolded it carefully, and gave it back to Dominick. These officials, who now appeared a bit bemused, heaved Dominick’s suitcase up to the metal counter themselves. After looking inside, they exchanged a humorous glance, and waved our hero through, with his suitcase, to the gate. As I placed my own tote on the counter, I couldn’t help wondering how Dominick could have fit in all the stones I’d seen him collect, at the shore of the Sea of Galilee, and other sacred sites we’d visited.

But from the glimpse I’d just garnered, they did look– tightly packed.

***

Dominick engraved each stone from the Holy Land with its place of origin. He mortared them in where they fit, like puzzle pieces, among larger local boulders. Pilgrimage memories endure in a curved rock wall that shelters the consecrated granite altar in the new grotto dedicated to Our Lady of Mount Carmel.
Today, Mass can be celebrated at the grotto as well as the church, often in both English and Spanish. The parish maintains its long and faithful tradition of Corpus Christi processions with the Blessed Sacrament, visiting and blessing individual family homes throughout the old neighborhood. The parish school pioneered for our diocese the first cohort in an optional Spanish immersion curriculum for grades K-8.
Dominick’s spirit of humility, simplicity, and faith lives on.

May we all be blessed this Lent with trust and grace to find joy in whatever God sends.

 

© Copyright 2025 Margaret King Zacharias

Feature photo by Margaret King Zacharias. Used with Permission.

 

Sign that says: Fear Not I am the one that helps you

Vital Sign

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Vital Sign

 

The LORD will give you a sign. – Isaiah 38:7 (GNT)

 

It was a September Sunday morning at 2 a.m. when I descended the hospital elevator and stepped out through sliding glass doors. Walking to the nearby corner, I bought coffee at the 24-hour convenience store. The warm cup soothed my palm as I continued around the block, taking comforting sips of the hot liquid. It seemed surreal that only a week ago Dad had been living his full, active life.

A woman stood on the opposite sidewalk tossing pebbles up against a second story window, trying to awaken the sleeper inside.There was a sleeper inside of me resisting all this change. What was I going to do with Mom and how could I manage everything on top of my own full life? I told Dad years ago that if he went first, I’d keep Mom at home where she was comfortable. But was that truly possible?

I rounded the corner and started up Main Street, lined with silent boutiques and artisan coffee shops. Suddenly ahead of me appeared a sign, brightly lit. In bold black letters were the words, FEAR NOT, I AM THE ONE WHO HELPS YOU. Was I dreaming, seeing this sign in the middle of the night? No doubt it was a message from God that He saw me and would help in the coming days. I took a picture, found courage in the moment, and headed back towards the hospital.

Thank you, Lord, for giving us signs–especially in times of desperate need. 

Reflect: What signs of encouragement has the Lord given you along your caregiving road?  Keep a watch this week for evidence of his loving care.

 

The above selection is Entry #8 in Part I: Unexpected Fall of Minding Mom: A Caregiver’s Devotional Story by Lisa Livezey (© 2024, En Route Books and Media)

Minding Mom: A Caregiver’s Devotional Story by Lisa Livezey | En Route Books and Media

Pierre Toussaint: NYC’s OG Black Hairdresser and Future Saint

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Pierre Toussaint: NYC’s OG Black Hairdresser and Future Saint 

By Janet Tamez 

Before he was declared venerable by St. John Paul II, Pierre Toussaint was an OG New Yorker, a master hairstylist to the rich and a quiet godfather to the poor. He arrived in New York City in 1796, when George Washington had just stepped down from the presidency, the United States was a young blood, and NYC was the place to be. 

Born into slavery in Haiti, Pierre came to America with his owners, who fled the Haitian Revolution. Hoping to maintain their way of life, Pierre’s owner brought him and the other slaves to America. Far from being abolitionists, they were progressive in one key way: they allowed Pierre to be trained as a hairdresser and keep his earnings. This came in clutch as NYC was filled with rich aristocrats like the Schuyler sisters who needed their hair did for social events. Pierre soon built a reputation as one of the city’s most sought-after stylists. 

Then came an unexpected twist of fate. His owner, Jean Jacques Bérard, died, leaving behind a widowed wife who struggled to support herself. Rather than turn his back on her, Pierre used his earnings to financially sustain her until her death. In gratitude, she granted him freedom on her deathbed. He was over 40 years old at the time. 

Pierre wasted no time securing the freedom of those he loved. He purchased his fiancée Juliette’s freedom, as well as his sister’s. He and Juliette settled in a modest home on Reade Street, where they opened their doors to orphaned children, feeding them and teaching them valuable trade skills. They also raised his niece, Euphemia, as their own after his sister’s passing. 

Pierre wasn’t just a talented hairstylist, he was a hustler in the best sense. He invested in real estate and banks, building wealth not for himself but for the people around him. What makes him a saint is not how he started from the bottom but how generous he was with his wealth. He donated heavily to charities across New York, including Elizabeth Seton’s orphanage (which, at the time, only served white children). Most notably, he was one of the first benefactors of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral, where he is buried today, the only layperson granted that honor. 

Rumor has it that when a friend pointed out that he could retire early, Pierre replied, “Pierre loves the kids.” Okay, just kidding. What he actually said was, “Madam, I have enough for myself, but if I stop work, I have not enough for others.” And he lived by that philosophy.

Even when the Great Fire of 1835 destroyed his real estate investments, costing him what would be equivalent to $900,000 today, he continued to fund orphanages and charities, laying the foundation for what is now Catholic Charities in New York. He also started the first Black Catholic school in the city. 

To the Haitian immigrants who arrived in New York, Pierre was a lifeline, offering them jobs, financial assistance, and guidance. When yellow fever devastated the city, he was one of the few who entered quarantined neighborhoods to care for the sick. Pierre was able to mingle with both the elites of NYC and the poor of New York, earning the love and respect of both. 

When he died in 1853, the entire neighborhood turned out to honor him, the rich, the poor, Black and White, all recognizing the life of a man who gave everything to his community. 

This Black History Month, we remember Venerable Pierre Toussaint—not just as a philanthropist or entrepreneur, but as a man of the people. Respected in the streets, honored in the church, and hopefully, one day, celebrated as a saint by the global Church.

 

Copyright 2025 by Janet Tamez

Edited by Angela Lano

statue of angel

Memento Mori

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Teach us to count our days aright,
that we may gain wisdom of heart.
(Psalm 90:12). (1)

Memento Mori

When I was growing up, “Remember your death” was an almost universal expression of Christian practice during Lent.

Parents taught their children that we are “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” My own mother, and a variety of other mature women I knew then, quipped their excuses for not mopping under beds with the old joke, “My friends might be down there, visiting me today.”

It’s human nature to fantasize that we are the exceptions, that we will never wrinkle and decline, that we ourselves will never die. The elders then were offering us as children an essential grounding in reality.

Last September, I lost my beloved husband of almost 50 years

Although I recognized our advancing age, decreasing energy, and the burgeoning of necessary medical checkups, I shied away from his earnest attempts to provide me with important survival information.

My response was bright-eyed and cheery. “But we’re not going to die,” I kept telling him. “At least, not yet.”

I know he showed me where he was hiding the outdoor emergency house key … Five months later, the kids and I still haven’t been able to find it. Fortunately, we had other keys.

A massive heart attack, caused by blockage in the LAD, left artery descending, took Charles away from us far too soon. This silent and deadly killer is nicknamed “the widow maker” by medical professionals, for good reason.

I’m deeply thankful for the memory that last April, he raced me across the parking lot at St. Thomas the Apostle Church in Tucson, right after we had received Eucharist together on Easter Sunday. I’ll never forget his grin when he beat me to the car.

Despite my evasion, a spiritual call to prayer for the dying does run in my maternal family line. I experienced it even in my Methodist childhood, with elderly family members “checking in” as their time of passing neared.

Once I was confirmed in the Roman Catholic Church in 1989, insistent calls to pray for fellow parishioners, and even total strangers, drew me to the Adoration Chapel more and more often.

After a while, I began to notice that every time I felt a particular call to prayer, the same people were already there, or coming through the door right behind me; each of us always with a rosary in our hands.

At a Catholic Life in the Spirit conference held at Notre Dame University in 1998, I heard a speaker on the topic of charismatic gifts say, “Here’s a terrible one – knowing when people are going to die.”

I disagree. It’s a beautiful gift in the Body of Christ, a blessing that Our Lord pours through us, in the power of the Holy Spirit.

These calls to prayer mean that someone who loves us knows when we’re coming home; someone is lighting a candle in the window to guide us and welcome us; someone is calling companions together to support us. The transportation provided for that journey is prayer.

Every time any member of the Church prays a rosary, aren’t we asking the Blessed Mother for this very assistance at the time of our own deaths?

Catholics who respond to a felt call, to pray a rosary for others, are serving Mother Mary as her hands here on earth.

Has this understanding spared me any of the dreadful earthly experiences that follow the sudden death of a spouse — the incapacitating waves of grief, the hollow feeling of emptiness, the seemingly endless sleepless nights – the lawyers, bankers, and brokers, with their complicated rules and reams of paperwork – the daunting responsibilities to console grieving children and grandchildren, and to navigate the family through a disorienting new universe?

No. I have not been spared any of these.

But I’m grateful that, by mystical grace, I was granted the privilege to be with my husband, in prayer, at the time of his death; with God’s love swirling around us and through us both. That, for me, is everything.

T.S. Eliott wrote, in the concluding lines of his profoundly religious poem Ash Wednesday:

“When the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away,
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
… Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
… Spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.” (2)

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now, and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

Notes:
1. https://bible.usccb.org/bible/psalms/90
2. https://englishverse.com/poems/ash_wednesday © 2003-2025 English Verse

Copyright by Margaret King Zacharias, February 15, 2025.

Feature photo used by permission of the author.

Parent tossing child in the air on a beach at sunset.

God’s Got Our Back

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God’s Got Our Back

I went to Confession hungry—hungry for something I couldn’t articulate at the time, but God knew and satisfied that unnamed gnawing through one of His kind priests.  Monsignor Ignacio gave me the penance of learning Psalm 139.  He told me how much God loved me and that, if I prayed this psalm, I would know absolutely just how deeply God knows, accepts, and loves me. I think I cried all the way home, realizing that, despite my faults, imperfections, and self-doubts, someone—God—could love me so completely.

I went on to memorize excerpts from that psalm and prayed it every morning for a while. I shared copies with friends and family.  I even wrote it down on scratch paper during a plane ride to visit my daughter and gave it to a misty-eyed young man sitting next to me. He cried.

Eventually, I stopped the daily morning recitation and drifted into a rhythm of aimless newly retired life. But I was hungry again. I was preparing to offer a workshop at our local Catholic Writers Guild meeting. “Writing with Intent” aimed at sharing tips and tools to kick-start or rejuvenate the writing life. At that time, chapter members ranged from new writers to seasoned authors. What could I possibly offer that would appeal to and encompass such a range of needs?  I began to worry and stress over the presentation.

That’s when Psalm 139 surfaced again. When we are hungry, God’s words speak to our hearts. Whether new to the pen and unsure of intent or seasoned with countless pages and seeking fresh perspectives, as Catholic writers, we need to know, without a doubt, that God loves us and has got our back. It is He Who guides our writing and satiates our hunger when we ask.

“Probe me, God, know my heart;

try me, know my concern.

See if my way is crooked,

then lead me in the ancient paths.”—Psalm 139: 23–24

The reading and meditation on excerpts from Psalm 139 set the introductory tone for the workshop, which was well received by all.  God was right there for me and them. Then and now.

Excerpts from Psalm 139

 

Lord, You have probed me, You know me:

You know when I sit and stand;

You understand my thoughts from afar.

My travels and my rest You mark;

with all my ways You are familiar.

Even before a word is on my tongue,

Lord, You know it all.

Behind and before, You encircle me

and rest Your hand upon me.

. . . 

If I fly with the wings of dawn

and alight beyond the sea,

even there Your hand will guide me,

Your right hand hold me fast.

. . .

You formed my inmost being;

You knit me in my mother’s womb.

I praise You, so wonderfully You made me;

wonderful are Your works!

. . .

How precious to me are Your designs, O God;

how vast the sum of them!

Were I to count, they would outnumber the sands;

to finish, I would need eternity.

. . .

Probe me, God, know my heart;

try me, know my concern.

See if my way is crooked,

then lead me in the ancient paths.

 

—Psalm 139: 1–5, 9–10, 13–14, 17–18, 23–24

St. Joseph Edition of The New American Bible

 

© Paula Veloso Babadi 2025

Edited by Gabriella Batel

When not playing pickleball or “Nana,” Paula Veloso Babadi cooks, gardens, and writes poetry and short personal essays. You can find her first book-length collection, Everywhere Hope, at amazon.com.

black and white photo of soldiers cautiously walking with guns through a field Image by Rozbooy from Pixabay

A Christmas Wish

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A Christmas Wish

I am writing to tell you about a story about an old veteran that I knew. He was a Vietnam veteran. I was assigned to the VA to be a counselor to these old warriors. There was one in particular that I remember that had it really hard. He had gone to jail under strange circumstances, and had some psychotic breaks, so I took an interest in him. This was about Christmastime.

I interviewed him one day about his life. He was born in Portland, OR. He had an uneventful childhood but his parents were middle class. He enlisted and was sent to Vietnam. He believed in the cause and wanted to prove himself.

When he went to combat it was nothing he expected.

“All the bombs, all the bullets, the Agent Orange, and the other chemical warfare,” he recalled.

“Are those memories troubling you?”

“No. That’s not all of it,” he said. “I ran. I was a coward.”

“So then,” I said, “how is it that you got convicted of aggravated assault?”

He said, “Well, when I got back home, I got a job as a mailman, but I drank heavily to cope. Maybe 5-6 drinks at night. One night I had the worst dream I was running away from the Viet Cong. And I heard my commander say, ‘Attack!’ and I didn’t want to fail again. So I went to my bar with my gun and I was going to shoot the Viet Cong. Well, it ended up I shot up the bar and injured some people.”

“Did you mean to kill anyone,” I asked.

He said, “I don’t remember because I blacked out. But I am a good shot, so if I meant to kill anyone, I would have done it. After that, I got sent to Oklahoma for jail for 6 years. It was the worst time of my life. I was there with people who meant to do harm and I was worried I might turn out like them.”

I said, “Well, it’s Christmastime, so I imagine if you had a Christmas wish, it would be you didn’t run from the Viet Cong.”

He said, “No, I wish I could meet my granddaughter. I had a brief relationship in Oregon, and in jail I found out she got pregnant with a girl and then recently she told me her daughter had a daughter. So that’s my Christmas wish to meet her.”

I asked permission to try to contact his daughter and he said yes. I was able to find her and asked if she would like to contact him and she did. After a few months I arranged a meeting but I found out our veteran was in the hospital with liver disease, so I thought about a short meeting and showing the child some military pictures and got one of Vietnam. The woman and her daughter came to the hospital.

“What’s your name,” he asked the little girl.

“Melanie,” she told him.

“What grade are you in?”

“Fifth.”  They talked about his life and her time in school and friends for a while. Then it was time to go.

Later, I got an email from the mother saying the child wanted to know what her grandfather did in the war. I emailed back the picture I had found. She asked if it was her grandad in the picture.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m sure it was him.”

Copyright 2025 Cecile Bianco

Edited by Mary McWilliams

Image by Rozbooy from Pixabay

clutterwordcollage

Spiritual Clutter…Is There Such A Thing?

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There are many instances when I feel obligated to clean outside my normal daily housework. Some of the most popular reasons people do a deep clean are to welcome spring, prepare for a guest, entertain during the holidays, and declutter. 

At least twice a year, I feel the urge to purge. Sometimes, I focus on one home area, such as a closet or cabinet, while other times, I focus on an entire room. Emotions such as stress, anxiety, and sadness also trigger a massive cleaning response in me. These emotions often set me into a cleaning mode. 

Usually, a deep clean involves deciding whether to keep various unnecessary items, loading up the car, and delivering to a local donation center. I breathe a sigh of relief, and when I finish, I can sit back and enjoy the freshness of my home. 

I recently set my sights on cleaning my home office, which doubles as my prayer space. I worked from one end of the small room to the other, quickly realizing I had a lot of clutter. Sitting down in my rocker to pray and setting my coffee cup on the table beside me was a chore, as I had to move many items just to set the cup down.  

As a spiritual director, I have quite a collection of spiritual books, journals, prayer cards, etc., all of which hold special meanings. Some were gifts; others contained wisdom and reflections necessary to me and those I accompany on their spiritual journey. It is much easier for me to donate an old sweater than to let go of items related to my faith. 

 

“It is much easier for me to donate an old sweater than to let go of items related to my faith.”

 

I organized my items so that I didn’t need to donate them. When the Holy Spirit calls me to pass an item along to someone else, I set aside a pile for “gifting.” As I admired the newly decluttered room, I wondered if we could have so much physical clutter in our lives that it is possible to have spiritual clutter.

I considered what I gather when I sit down for prayer time: a Bible, journal, devotional, sometimes a candle and rosary, coffee or tea, a prayer card or two, a pen, and a highlighter. Oh, let’s not forget the holding cross or personal memento that brings me into focus. Then, I often use a prayer app or reflective music. 

After thinking about the many things I have considered as prayer time must-haves, I asked myself, did Jesus need all this when he prayed? Am I bringing spiritual clutter into my sacred space and personal time with God, and are these things impeding my connection to Him?

Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying these prayer items are bad or unnecessary, but perhaps they have their time and place. If we look at that list again, it almost reads like someone conducting a Bible study class, not someone about to enter a sacred space with the Lord. 

So, how can we incorporate spiritual accessories in a way that does not interfere with our moments of prayer? The process will look different for everyone, as our styles are different. If you aim to use many or all of the items mentioned and it works for you, go for it. However, if you feel a prayerful connection is lacking, consider how to enter prayer and what external items you are taking along. 

When we enter prayer, already feeling cluttered, we bring these emotions with us, which can detract from completely opening our hearts to God. As we settle into this new year, take some time to evaluate your prayer space and routine. Take note of anything that brings you unease, feeling closed in, or frustration.  

You may be surprised to learn that to reach a deep prayerful connection, all God wants from you is you!  The accessories can be used to journal your emotions after your prayer time or for additional prayers aside from your meditations with scripture.  Be honest and only use what makes you feel connected to God. Make your prayer time with God count, have fun, and enjoy your moments of God’s Grace.  

_______________________________________________

Kimberly Novak is a wife, mother, author, and spiritual director. Her passion for inspiring and motivating those on a spiritual journey has bloomed into various ministries. Kimberly’s mission is to enhance each journey by guiding others where the light of strength is…God’s love. Find out more about Kimberly’s life and work at www.kimberlynovak.com. Additionally, Kimberly welcomes prayer requests at A Little God Time.

 

©️ copyright 2025 Kimberly Novak

Edited by Janet Tamez

Cup of Tears, Cup of Joy

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Cup of Tears, Cup of Joy

 

Twelve years ago, I was in the hospital, recovering from an atypical total knee replacement, and feeling sorry for myself because I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time. My tears could have filled a cup, even though I was in a comfortable room, getting great medical care, and had plenty to eat and drink. What did I have to cry about? The pain? The dependency on others? The embarrassment?

When I caught sight of the TV screen just inches away from the crucifix, I stopped crying: I watched a commercial with an emaciated woman clinging to her skeleton-like baby as she reached forward with an old tin cup in her hand. Dehydrated and dying, this woman was holding out hope and joy that her cup would be filled with milk for her child.  

Fast-forward to a month ago when I joined my cousins in one of many shanty towns in Cebu, Philippines, to distribute school supplies, clothing, and treats for the children. As we navigated leaving along the narrow pathway, I spotted a little girl with toothpick limbs as she stopped to drizzle water over her bare feet from a makeshift spigot before she entered one of the shacks. She smiled amid the stench and garbage, happily holding her “gifts.”

As I think of Christ on the Crucifix and the suffering He endured out of love for each of us, I remember the joy of a fragile mother and an impoverished child and feel somewhat ashamed of the tears I shed over so many seemingly trivial trials. God gets me, and I am consoled by the Psalmist’s conviction:

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” —Psalm 147:3

My prayer is to cultivate the strength to give up my cup of privileged tears and replace them with a cup full of joy and gratitude taught by a mother and a young child. As the new year progresses, may your cup of tears be filled also with hope, joy, and gratitude.

“…weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” —Psalm 30:5

© Paula Veloso Babadi 2025

Edited by Gabriella Batel

__________________________________________________________________________________

When she is not playing pickleball or “Nana,” Paula Veloso Babadi cooks, gardens, and writes poetry and short personal essays. You can find her first book-length collection, Everywhere Hope, on Amazon.

Earthly Acts of Spiritual Love

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Earthly Acts of Spiritual Love

‘Love bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things,
endures all things.’ (1 Cor. 13:7)

If everything we have known from personal experience and from knowledge of history tells us that all human lives are entwined with suffering, then why are we so surprised by the persistent presence of that pain, and why do we expect, even demand that it go away?

We have within our deepest hearts a hidden and vague knowledge that the way the world is now is not how it once was, nor how it ought to be. That secret knowledge stirs conflict within us.

As a psychotherapist working in medical settings, many of my clients experience suffering due to debilitating diseases, disabling conditions, chronic mental illnesses, substance use disorders, and, too often, the gradual erosion of close personal and family relationships. Psychotherapy can help foster fortitude and resilience in contending with all the things that can afflict a client. But the need for fortitude and resilience is not limited to persons in
psychotherapy. All persons experience loss, adversity, injustice, and painful events in life. How could it be anything else, considering we journey through a fallen world of sin, where sickness and death beset everyone?

Our modern inclination is to think of the presence of pain as a mistake, as something to blame someone else for, as something that can and should always be removed or remedied. Many of the difficulties of daily life can and ought to be corrected, and of course, we should strive to resolve our problems and give aid and comfort others who suffer. But the existence of pain represents more than simple error or misunderstanding. Some pain can be alleviated, and yet, sometimes pain must be borne – because it is an unavoidable element of life in a fallen world, not because we are morbid or weak or masochistic.

In the beginning, God and the human person walked together in harmony. Yet, since the cataclysmic events in Eden, we are heavily hampered by hardship. The entire story of the Bible is the tale of how God has responded to the consequences of what occurred in Eden. The Bible would not exist if Adam and Eve had not fallen. All of sacred Scripture relates the story of God’s actions to guide and rescue his children who are dwelling in darkness
and shadowed by death.

Jesus took upon himself the abominable scope of pain in this sin-filled world, to show us how to bear it, while still keeping faith beyond sight, while simultaneously bearing with every other person compassionately, because they, like ourselves, are caught in this web of painful sin-tainted darkness,
and we are each on the way in search of His kingdom. Some might say, “Why doesn’t God bring this messed up world to an end, and just sweep
away all the pain and bring lasting joy in its place? If He really was good, that’s what he would do now!”

But, when were you hoping for him to replace His plan with yours? His timing with yours? Sometime long ago, before you were born, perhaps? Or before your children, or grandchildren, or great, great grandchildren have had the chance to come into this world? Do you know what part the people yet to be born might play in His greater plan? Maybe we can shoulder the situation as it is and strive to do our part to bring goodness into the world.

God pointed out to St. Paul that humble and courageous acts of faith and love will light the path of our feet through the rubble and the trouble of life.
In his first letter to the Corinthians, St. Paul shines a light on deeper dimensions of love. He surprises his readers with the suggestion that it is love that bears, believes, hopes, and endures all of the challenging things of life on earth. Quite often, love is considered to be movements of emotions, yet St. Paul shows how love engages the activities of will. Through all the hard and the cold and the unfair and unknown things of this life, it is these willful acts
of love that will guide our way.

Bearing, believing, hoping, and enduring are not simply aspects of love. They are the key actions of love. Yet these particular acts of love are limited to our time on earth and are not elements of how love will be known in heaven. One will no longer need to bear or to endure pain, anguish, or injustice in heaven, because those things don’t exist there. One will not need to believe in what is invisible, or to hope for what is beyond the known, because all the things hoped for and believed in will be fully known and revealed in heaven.

But here, now, while we still live in a body and are under the sway of concupiscence, we have available to us the essential tools of spiritual love: bearing, believing, hoping, and enduring. Jesus, and our blessed Mother, and the saints, have shown us by their example how to practice earthly acts of love.

copyright 2025 Tom Medlar

Announcing Alzheimer’s

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Announcing Alzheimer’s

By Lisa Livezey

Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what any day may bring forth.

– Proverbs 27:1 (NAB)

I stopped by my parents’ split-level suburban home for a quick visit and Mom met me at the door. “Lisa, I have ALZHEIMERS!!!!” she pronounced with angst. Dad stood in the background smiling tenderly.

The news was no surprise. In fact, Mom had announced her diagnosis to me three times already.

In a flash moment, I considered Mom’s exemplary life. She was a faithful wife, mother and grandmother, a registered nurse, volunteer librarian, had taken in foster children, kept an immaculate, organized home, and even led Bible studies.  She doted on her grandchildren, who hold happy memories of time spent at “Gigi and Pop’s” house along with weekends camping in the mountains.

Now at age 82, Mom was descending from the mountains and gazing despairingly upon the wilderness of Alzheimer’s disease.  For one so capable, no doubt the future appeared bleak and scary.

Giving her a hug, I said, “Don’t worry, Mom. It’ll be okay.”  Surely God would provide the daily help she needed, just as He had during her more productive years.

I knew Mom was in good hands with Dad’s stabilizing presence beside her. He capably handled Mom’s health issues and certainly would be her continued comfort and guide amidst the changing landscape of her brain.

Lord, Thank you for today. I know not what tomorrow holds, so help me to trust You with the future.

Reflect: Think about loved ones in your life who are experiencing change due to age or illness and offer up a prayer for each one.

 

The author’s parents, Christmas 2016, six months
before “Announcing Alzheimer’s” took place

___________________________________________________________

The above blog piece is the Prologue in Minding Mom: A Caregiver’s Devotional Story by Lisa Livezey (© 2024, En Route Books and Media)

Minding Mom: A Caregiver’s Devotional Story by Lisa Livezey | En Route Books and Media

Listen to the audio version of “Announcing Alzheiemer’s” read by the author.

 

Copyright 2025 Lisa Livezey

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